The Dead Will Tell (33 page)

“I don’t know whether to call you Hannah or Ruth,” I begin.

“You can call me Ruth.”

I look at her, searching for some semblance of Hannah Yoder, loving and supportive wife of Hoch Yoder. The Amish woman who’d comforted her husband and brought us cider and cookies. Tonight, there’s no trace of her. It’s as if in the last hours, she’s become another person. The familiar stranger I’ve never met. A stone-cold killer capable of marrying her own brother in order to carry out some twisted agenda.

“I know you murdered Dale Michaels,” I tell her. “I know you murdered the others, too. Jerrold McCullough and Jules Rutledge.”

She accepts my statement with a chilling calm and without defending herself. I hold her stare, and I realize that while she’s not foaming-at-the-mouth crazy, she is insane—and a sociopath. The lives she took—the suffering she caused—mean nothing to her. A mission to be achieved. An errand to be checked off her to-do list. There’s a vital part of her missing. The part that makes us human and sets us apart from the animals. Ruth Weaver isn’t human, at least not in any meaningful way. She’s an animal—the kind that kills and eats its young.

“We’ve got your DNA, Ruth. All the evidence we need to put you away for the rest of your life,” I tell her. “We’ve got you dead to rights on multiple charges. Do you understand that?”

I give the words time to sink in, but she doesn’t argue or deny or defend. She doesn’t try to make excuses. Her expression doesn’t alter. She doesn’t seem too concerned about any of it. “I understand.”

“Did you kill William, too?” I ask after a moment.

Her only reply is a cold stare and a slight curve of her mouth, and I can’t help but think that she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. This game that’s finally reached its climax. A lifetime of hatred come to fruition. Like a serial killer whose overriding desire is to get caught so she can confess her sins to the people who fully appreciate her special skill set.

“Why now?” I ask. “After all these years?”

“Because she died. It was time.”

“Your mother? Becky Weaver?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find them?”

“I kept tabs on them.” She shrugs. “I used the computer at the library. There were photos over the years. In the newspaper and such. The art gallery. The housing development. The church. It wasn’t easy, but I’m a patient woman and I had plenty of time.”

I nod. “Why did you kill them, Ruth? I’m trying to understand.”

For the first time, emotion flickers in her eyes. Hatred? Satisfaction? “I killed them because they deserved it. Because they got to live their lives. They were happy, with spouses and families. They got to have all the things they took away from her.” She tilts her head, her eyes gleaming with a cunning that raises the hairs on my arms. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“You could have gone to the police.” I nod toward Rasmussen and Jessup. “Myself and these other police officers would have worked around the clock to find them and bring them to justice. We would have done it for you. And for your mother.”

“The
Englischer
police?” Her laugh is a musical sound that defies any emotion. “Do you know what they did to her, Chief Burkholder? That night? After they killed her husband and children?”

“I want you to tell me.”

She leans forward, the cuffs at her wrists clanging softly against the tabletop, her eyes intent on mine. “There are no words to describe the things she endured. No words to convey the horror and agony and unbearable grief of that night.” Her voice falters. “She wasn’t a person to them. She was nothing. A rag to be used and tossed aside. Those men—those
boys
who had everything—they used her. For hours. They did things that broke her mind. Her body. Her faith. The spirit that lived inside her. They made her want to die.”

“Your mother told you this?”

“She told me everything. Every sordid, violent detail of how they used her. On the ground. In the mud. They beat her and kicked her. Spit on her. Urinated on her. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?” She tosses her head to get the hair out of her eyes. “They put her in the trunk and drove her to Pennsylvania. They strangled her. She played dead. But she was still conscious when they threw her into the well.”

Despite my efforts not to, I feel something for this woman. I feel more for Wanetta Hochstetler. Compassion. Pity. Empathy. A sense of outrage at what had been done.

I think of Blue Branson sitting in the jail cell, and I loathe him. “Why did you kill Jules Rutledge?” I ask. “The woman?”

“You think because she was a woman she isn’t guilty? Really, Chief Burkholder? Are you that naïve? Let me tell you about Jules Rutledge. She stood by, watching and laughing as the men took turns brutalizing my mother. She was no different, no better. Worse, perhaps, because she was a woman.” Her gaze meets mine with such intensity that I have the sense of being sucked down into a bottomless black pit, a vortex, and I know something terrible awaits me at the end of it. “They deserved what I did to them. All of them. I have no regrets. My mother always said God would mete out their punishment and that punishment would be just. But she was Amish. I listened to her, but I never believed it. I knew that one day, I would be the one to make things right.”

I think of my own past—the things that happened to me and the things I did about it—and I struggle not to draw parallels, however thin.

“The fall into the well broke her spine,” she tells me. “She had no idea how long she lay there, hours or days. But it wasn’t her day to die. Eventually a local Swartzentruber family came by.” Her mouth curves again. “Sent by God, according to her.” But she waves off the notion. “The Amish family heard her cries and pulled her out. They took her to the midwife. Of course, word got around. Eventually the
Englischer
police were called, but my mother couldn’t remember who she was or what happened to her. She couldn’t even remember her name. The police assumed she was a local and eventually forgot about her.

“The Swartzentruber family—the Weavers—took her in. Gave her food and clothing and a place to sleep. But there was no love lost between them. You see, my mother…” She lowers her voice as if she’s about to utter words best not spoken too loudly.
“Sie is weenich ad.” She was off in the head.

“Six weeks later, she found out she was with child.” The twisting of her lips is a grotesque mask in the glare of the fluorescent lights. She’s an attractive woman, but there’s something ugly beneath the surface of that pretty face, like a hideous scar camouflaged by makeup. “A few years after she gave birth to me, the Swartzentrubers began moving to New York. They were having some trouble with the government. Mamm didn’t go with them.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“By then she’d started to remember things.” Absently she raises her cuffed hands and touches her head. “Like who she was. Her family. What happened to her that night. She went to the bishop and told him everything. He’d heard about an Amish family in Ohio, the missing wife, the dead husband and children that perished in a fire. He called the bishop in Ohio. That was when she found out they were all dead. That … changed something inside her. And it wasn’t for the better. She left the Amish, became bitter and full of hate. I was only five years old—an innocent—but I knew she hated me, too. And I knew my life would never be the same.”

“What did she do?”

“Over the months and weeks, as her memories returned, she told me everything. The bedtime stories I heard at night weren’t about bunnies or bears or horses. They were about violent men and children burned alive. Every day I learned something new and terrible. About my
datt
. About my brothers and sisters. And about William.
Especially
William. The one who, because he was so very prideful, brought evil into their home.”

“You were only a child. You couldn’t have understood.”

“I understood enough. Later, when I was older, I understood more. I understood what I had to do to make things right.”

“Your mother wanted revenge?”

“She wanted justice. God’s justice.” A hint of a smile pulls at her mouth. “I wanted revenge.”

“Ruth, as an adult, surely you know she was mentally damaged, injured. She used you. Brainwashed you. An innocent child.”

“Not so innocent, Chief Burkholder. You see, my mother was never strong. I took care of her. She needed me more than I needed her. She made me strong because she knew I possessed what she did not. I had the strength to do what needed to be done.”

“Did you murder Hoch Yoder?”

She waves off the question. “I didn’t have to. He suffered with the melancholy. Had for years. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended it. One little push from me, and he was all too happy to oblige.”

“Ruth, he was your half brother. And yet you married him.”

“My mother blamed him for the deaths of her children. I did what needed to be done. I have no regrets.”

“Did he know?”

One side of her mouth trembles, as if she’s withholding a smile. “He knew enough.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to digest everything I’ve heard. It’s not easy. I’ve interrogated dozens of criminals over the years, and many of those interviews left me feeling unsettled and disturbed. But I can honestly say none of them ever made me feel as sick inside as I do at this moment.

“You have no idea which of them is your father, do you?” I ask.

A quiver goes through her body. Her hands slowly curl into fists. Only then do I realize I’ve found her weak spot. She was borne of violence, and the question of her paternity has left her twitching inside like a nerve exposed to air.

“My father is Willis Hochstetler.”

“You were born nine months after that night, Ruth. You don’t know who your father is. It could be any of them. Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough. Blue Branson.”

“I made them sorry for it, didn’t I?” she says.

“You’re going to be charged with three counts of first-degree murder and two counts of attempted murder of a police officer. You’re not going anywhere for a very long time.”

“So be it. My work is done.”

Needing to get out of there, I turn my attention to the detective. “We’re finished here.” I rise, round the table, and bend so that my mouth is just inches from her ear. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the spitting image of Blue Branson.”

She lunges at me, but I’m faster and dance out of reach. Before she can make contact, the detective is on his feet, moving between us. The corrections officer darts across the room and presses Weaver back into the chair.

I go through the door without looking back.

*   *   *

I find Tomasetti in the hall, waiting for me. “How did it go?” he asks.

“She confessed. To everything.” I’m not ready to talk about it; I need a few minutes to regroup and dislodge the unsettling sense of ugliness that clings to me.

“You’re shaking.”

I’m not very good at sharing my emotions, especially when they’re dark. It takes me a moment before I can look at him. “She married her half brother. They lived together as husband and wife for years.”

“That’s about as twisted as it gets.”

More than anything in that moment, I want to go to him, put my arms around him because I need to be held. Instead, because we’re in a public place surrounded by our peers, I touch his hand. “Tomasetti, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells me.

We start toward the elevator. “Any word on Pickles?” I ask.

“Glock sent a text ten minutes ago. He’s out of surgery. Prognosis is good. Spleen didn’t make it.”

I choke out a laugh, release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“You bet.”

The elevator doors slide open.

We ride to the ground floor in silence and start toward the exit. We’ve just reached the Tahoe when Tomasetti takes my hand, stopping me, and turns me to face him. “What about us, Kate?” he asks. “Are we going to get our happy ending?”

I look into his eyes, wishing I were a good enough communicator to put everything I’m feeling at this moment into words. “I think that depends on us.”

His gaze searches mine. “You were right when you told me I’ve been holding back. I haven’t been able to let them go. Nancy and the girls. All this time, I’ve been looking back instead of forward. I’m sorry for that.”

“They’ll always be in your heart.”

He nods. “I want you to know, I choose you. Not them. Not the past. You.”

The words make me unbearably happy. “You know, Tomasetti, there might just be hope for us yet.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says.

Raising my hands, I set my palms on either side of his face and pull his mouth to mine. “Me, too,” I whisper. “Me, too.”

ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO

Her Last Breath

Gone Missing

Breaking Silence

Pray for Silence

Sworn to Silence

About the Author

Linda Castillo
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Kate Burkholder novels, including
Sworn to Silence
, which was recently adapted into a Lifetime Original Movie titled
An Amish Murder
, starring Neve Campbell as Kate Burkholder. Castillo is the recipient of numerous industry awards, including the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence and the HOLT Medallion, and she received a nomination for the RITA. In addition to writing, Castillo’s other passion is horses. She lives in Texas with her husband and is currently at work on her next novel.