The Dead Will Tell (29 page)

“Hoch!” I run to him, drop to my knees beside him. He’s lying in a supine position. I know instantly he’s dead. His left arm is over his head, his right is bent at the elbow with his hand near his shoulder. His head is twisted to one side. I force myself to look at his face. His flesh is that terrible color of blue gray. His staring eyes are sticky-looking and beginning to cloud. Still, I reach out and press my finger against his carotid artery. His skin is cold to the touch, like rubber. There’s no pulse.

“Oh … Hoch.”

A .22-caliber revolver lies on the dirt floor a few inches from his right hand. Rising, I turn away from the sight and grapple for my cell phone. Even though we use the ten code system here in Painters Mill, there are certain situations that are best handled off the radio. A lot of people in the area have police scanners. It’s never a good thing for them to find out about a death before the next of kin.

“Mona.”

“Hey, Chief.”

“I’m out here at the Yoder Apple Farm. I found Hoch Yoder. He’s DOA. Possible suicide.”

“Do you want me to send the coroner?”

“Yeah.” I look at Hoch and, in light of the murders, I’m reminded that not every scene is as it appears at first glance. “Give BCI a call, too, will you? See if we can get a CSU out here.”

“Got it.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “You sound kind of funny, Chief. Are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m not okay. I feel sucker-punched because this decent man saw death as a better alternative than life—and his only escape from the truth and the agony of his past. I can’t help but wonder if our conversation the night before was the final straw.

But this isn’t about me or the way I feel. It’s about hatred and revenge and stopping a killer.

CHAPTER 29

According to a poll I read in a magazine a while back, something like 71 percent of people hate their jobs. I’m lucky because I’m one of the minority. In fact, most days I love my job. I love being a police officer. I enjoy my duties as chief and the people I work with on a daily basis. I take pride in what I do, and I take seriously my oath to serve and protect the citizens of Painters Mill. But no job is perfect, including mine. Tonight, I hate my job with a passion.

T.J. is the first to arrive. We spend a few minutes walking the scene, and then I help him mark the perimeter with yellow caution tape. All the while the knowledge that Hannah Yoder is back at the house, frightened and wondering why a second police unit has arrived, beats at the back of my brain. I know that in a few minutes I’m going to bring her world crashing down around her.

I wait until I see the flashing lights of the ambulance coming through the gate before I trudge through the mud toward the house. Usually, when I have to notify an Amish person that their next of kin has died, I’ll pick up Bishop Troyer for counsel. This morning, I don’t have that option; I can’t keep Hannah waiting that long. And I realize with some surprise that the bishop is probably as much help to me as he is to the grieving loved ones.

I hit my lapel mike as I leave the orchard and pass through the gate. “Mona?”

“I’m here, Chief.”

“Will you have someone from the sheriff’s office pick up Bishop Troyer and bring him to the Yoder farm?”

“Will do.”

I find Hannah standing on the sidewalk a few yards from her back porch, watching the ambulance make its way toward the mill house. I take a shortcut through the side yard and traverse the distance between us. “Hannah?”

“Did you find Hoch?” she asks. “Is he all right? Why is that ambulance here?” She pelts me with rapid-fire questions as she rushes toward me, her eyes never leaving the orchard behind me, where the flashing lights of the ambulance are still visible through the trees. “Is he hurt?”

“Hannah, I’m sorry but Hoch is dead.”

“What?”
She coughs out a strangled sound. “That’s not possible. He just went for a walk…”

Around us a steady rain pours down from the predawn sky, but neither of us notices the cold or wet. She keeps craning her neck to look around me, trying to see past me, past the trees, as if expecting Hoch to emerge from the orchard and tell us all of this is some big misunderstanding.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“No.” Her eyes find mine, but I can see there’s a part of her that isn’t there. There’s a blankness on her face, as if she’s gone inside herself, where the pain of this can’t reach her. Shock, I think, and I find myself hoping the sheriff’s office gets Bishop Troyer here quickly, because I’m not sure I can handle this alone.

“But how?” Her eyes search mine. “Did that woman do something to him? Hurt him?”

From where I’m standing, I can see her entire body shaking. Her shawl is soaked and sagging against her. I reach out and touch her arm. “Let’s get out of the rain so we can talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.” She shakes off my hand. “I want to see Hoch.”

“Hannah, that’s not a good idea.”

“Please. I want to see him.”

“Bishop Troyer’s on his way,” I tell her. “We need to be here to meet him.” I motion toward the door. “Let’s go inside and wait for him, okay?”

She blinks rain from her eyes, looking at me as if I’m speaking some language she doesn’t understand.

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her.

“That’s what Hoch always says,” she whispers. “Only it’s not, is it?”

“No,” I tell her. “It’s not.”

Looping my arm around hers, I guide her to the house.

*   *   *

It’s past noon when I leave the Yoder place, and I’m so exhausted, I can barely see straight as I drive home. I park in my usual spot and drag myself to the door. Inside, I drape my mud-spattered slicker on the coatrack. My boots and slacks are caked with mud, so I take them off at the door and carry both to the laundry room. In the bedroom, I drop my holster and .38 onto the night table next to the bed. I lose the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower and spend fifteen minutes washing away the remnants of a day I’d like nothing more than to forget. I stumble to the bedroom naked and crawl between sheets that smell like Tomasetti. I curl up in the essence of him and tumble into a hard, troubled sleep.

I dream of Hoch Yoder. I’m Amish and my
datt
has brought Jacob and Sarah and me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm for apple butter, cider, and a bushel of McIntosh apples. I’m happy to be there, looking forward to playing hide-and-seek. The three of us run into the orchard, calling out to each other, hiding among the trees. I’ve found the perfect hiding place when the orchard goes silent and dark. I can no longer hear my siblings. Frightened, I leave my spot, but no matter how hard I search, I can’t find them. Thunder rumbles and the wind picks up, warning me of a storm. When I look up, the sun is black and the rain is red, falling onto me like blood from the sky.

“Kate. Hey. Kate.”

I wake to find Tomasetti leaning over me. One hand braced on the headboard, the other warm against my shoulder. Disoriented, unnerved by the dream still so vivid in my mind, I sit up quickly. Hazy light slants in through the windows and I realize with some surprise I don’t know if it’s morning or afternoon or somewhere in between.

“Hey.” My voice is clogged, so I clear it.

“You were thrashing around.” Tomasetti tilts his head as if to get a better look at my face. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.” Not making eye contact with him, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and scrub my hand over my face. “What time is it?”

“After six.”

I look at him over the tops of my fingertips and smile. “
A.M.
or
P.M
.?”

He smiles back. “
P.M
.”

“I have to go.” I start to rise.

But he presses me back. “Whoa.”

“I didn’t intend to sleep this long.”

“That’s what you get for staying up all night.”

He’s wearing an exquisitely cut charcoal suit with a light gray shirt and the tie I bought him for Father’s Day last summer. I know he hates that tie; I have the fashion sense of a toad, especially when it comes to dressing a man. But I know he wears it because he loves me.

Lowering himself onto the bed next to me, he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “I tried to wake you for dinner, but you were out cold.”

“You know that’s no reflection on your cooking, right?”

He smiles. “I picked up a sandwich at Leo’s for you.”

I make an exaggerated sound of disappointment, wondering if he has any idea how comforted I am by his presence. “You know we’re putting Leo’s kids through college, don’t you?”

“You know his name isn’t really Leo, right?”

That makes me laugh.

“That’s better.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner with the brass.” He smoothes a strand of hair from my face. “Do you want to talk? I have a few minutes.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“I heard what happened to Hoch Yoder. It was on the news.” He leans close and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”

“Are they calling it a suicide?”

“Yeah.”

Talk of the case reminds me that I lost half a day and how much I have to do. I try to rise again, but he stops me.

“Wait.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around my biceps and turns me to him.

I look up at him. “Tomasetti, I have morning breath.”

“Do I look even remotely concerned about that?”

He sets his mouth against mine and I melt into him. My arms go around his neck and I pull him closer. I kiss him hard, using my tongue, wanting more. He kisses me back in kind, and in an instant I’m swept away. It’s crazy, but even as he holds me, I feel an inexplicable rise of desperation, of wanting that has nothing to do with physical needs, and I wonder how it is that my love for him can be so all-encompassing.

After a moment, he pulls away. His face is scant inches from mine. His pupils are dilated, his mouth wet. “I have to tell you something.” His voice is low and rough, his nostrils flaring, but he isn’t smiling. “Before you hear it on the news.”

Something cold skitters up my back. “What?”

“Joey Ferguson is dead.”

I hear the words as if I’m standing in some vast canyon, and they echo off rocky cliffs. I’m so shocked that it takes a moment for the words to register. “Dead? How?”

“He was shot outside a bar in Cleveland. Execution style. Passerby found his body a few hours ago.”

I stare at him, stunned, not sure what to make of it. The silence is deafening. “Did the cops get the shooter?”

“No.”

I’m suspicious by nature, and no matter how much I love him, I know him. I know what he’s capable of. And I have no choice but to ask the one question I fear most. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

He takes the question in stride, as if knowing I would ask. “No.”

A sense of relief unravels the knot of tension at the back of my neck. Still, I know there’s a possibility that he’s lying. To protect me. To protect himself.

“All right,” I hear myself say.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“Cleveland PD.”

“Are they looking at you?”

“Probably. They won’t find anything.” He looks down at our clasped hands and then makes eye contact with me. “Are we all right?”

“Yes,” I say.

As he walks out the door, all I can think is that they didn’t find anything the last time the police looked at him, and Tomasetti had been guilty as sin.

CHAPTER 30

I arrive at the station a little after seven. I’m preoccupied by my conversation with Tomasetti and operating in a fog as I go through the front door. Mona greets me with her usual cheery, “Hey Chief,” as I make a beeline for the coffee station.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Jodie’s flooded in, so I told her I’d cover her shift.” She rises and crosses to me, her hand extended with a dozen or so pink slips. “I hate to hit you with this with everything else that’s going on, but I just took a 911 from Randy Trask. He says the water’s up over the Tuscarawas Bridge.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter.

The Tuscarawas Bridge is a covered bridge of historical significance and a Painters Mill icon that spans Painters Creek and part of a floodplain. “Get T.J. out there to set up flares. Notify the sheriff’s department.” I take the messages and glance through them. “I want the road blocked and a detour set up.” I pour coffee into my cup, knowing there’s always some motorist who’s in a hurry and takes a chance by driving through high water. “Give the mayor a call and put in a call to ODOT.”

“Will do.” I can tell by the way she’s fidgeting that she’s got something else on her mind. Before I can ask, she blurts, “Chief, I think I found something on Ruth Weaver.”

I set the coffeepot back on the burner and give her my full attention. “Let’s see it.”

I follow her to the dispatch station. She slides behind her computer and deftly runs her fingers over the keyboard. An instant later, a photo of an Amish woman appears on the screen. I guess her to be about twenty-five to thirty years old. Plain gray dress. Dark bonnet.
Swartzentruber,
I think.

“I found it on a blog site,” she tells me. “A blogger posted it eight years ago on a site called
A Lid for Every Pot
.”

“That’s an old Amish saying,” I murmur.

“I was just messing around and did a search for Nanty Glo, Pennsylvania, and the blog came up. I started reading, and the blogger, a lady by the name of Gwen Malcolm, had driven across Pennsylvania while on vacation and ran across this Amish woman on the roadside selling handwoven baskets. She bought a basket and started talking to the woman and somehow ended up taking the photo, which she used in her blog.”

“That’s surprising,” I say. “That dress and bonnet are Swartzentruber.”

“According to the blogger, the Amish woman’s name is Ruth Weaver.”

I lean closer to the monitor. “Can you enlarge it?”

“Yeah, but we lose resolution.” She taps a menu tab, and a larger but grainier photo augments.

I stare at the woman’s face, and a vague sense of familiarity grips me. I know it’s impossible; I’ve never met Ruth Weaver. Still, staring at the photo is like having a word on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite conjure. “Mona, I think I’ve seen her before.”