A Prayer for the Night (4 page)

Friday, July 23
9:30 A.M.

 

 

BRANDEN darted a few yards down the lane and stopped. In the bright sun, he punched numbers on his cell phone, and got no signal. He shook his head and called back to Cal, “You got anything on yours?”

Cal flipped his phone open, and said, “Nothing. Hills block the signals down in here.”

“Where’s our best bet around here, Cal?”

“If we run up 129, that will put us up on that high ridge at Saltillo.”

“We need to make two calls, Cal. Fast. One to Bruce Robertson down at the jail, and one to Abe Yoder’s cell phone in that Pontiac. If she hasn’t turned it off.”

Cal shaded his eyes and said, “I’ll stay back and wait for Robertson. You’ll have a signal up in Saltillo, I’m sure of it.”

Branden backed his truck around in front of the sliding doors of the barn, shot Cal a look and gunned back down the lane to Holmes County 58. He turned right and then right again on Township 129, and raced his light truck up the long, steep gravel road, in deep shade, beside Lower Sand Run, spraying gravel. At the top of the hill, he cranked north onto County 407 and sped into Saltillo, a ridgetop community of less than a dozen homes, a town so peaceful that morning that Branden found it surreal.

Over the high ridge, the sky was a deep and cloudless blue. The hills fell away in layers, receding in fading shades of green to the west. Small Amish children in denim trousers and cotton dresses played, laughing, on a swing set in a yard just downslope from the road. A woman was out hanging splashes of deep Amish colors on a clothesline beside a sturdy brick house.

With the image of a denim cuff in a shallow grave fresh in his mind, Branden parked on the blacktop at the north point of the triangle, got out, and keyed his cell phone. He called Abe Yoder’s cell number first, hoping to raise Sara Yoder. The call went through and rang several times, but no one answered. Next, he jabbed out the number of the jail switchboard and got Ellie Troyer-Niell, Robertson’s dispatcher-secretary.

When she answered, Branden said, “Ellie, it’s Mike Branden. We’ve found a body.”

Ellie said, “Whoa there, Doc. Let me get the sheriff.”

Brusquely, Bruce Robertson’s voice came over the line. “Where are you, Mike?”

“Saltillo. The body’s in a barn off of 58. Cal is down there now. I had to come up the hill to Saltillo to make the call.”

“My guys are out there, too,” Robertson said. “At old Spits Wallace’s place on the north side of 129.”

“I just drove by there,” Branden said, dabbing with a white handkerchief at the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“There’s blood on the kitchen wall out there,” Robertson said. “And nobody can remember seeing Wallace for the last week or so.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you do, don’t let any of your guys go into his house,” Branden said.

“They’re in the kitchen now,” Robertson said.

“Get them out!” Branden barked.

“Good grief, Mike, why?”

“Spits Wallace’s house is booby-trapped,” Branden shouted. “You’re gonna get your people all shot up.”

Robertson said, “Ellie,” and Branden heard Ellie in the background, saying, “Already on it, Bruce.”

“How do you know anything about booby traps?” Robertson asked Branden over the speaker phone.

“Don’t you remember those stories I used to tell you when we were kids? About the old guy who collected gold coins?”

“Yeah?” Robertson said, sounding skeptical.

“That was Spits Wallace’s father, old Earl Wallace. The house was booby-trapped then, and I’d bet it still is.”

“Why?”

“Because old man Wallace had about a million bucks’ worth of old gold coins stuffed into dozens of canvas moneybags under the furniture. Didn’t trust the banks.”

“Like I said, I’ve got blood splatter on Wallace’s kitchen wall,” Robertson growled. “There’s also blood smeared on the linoleum. Is that gonna be from one of his booby traps?”

“Can’t say, but he’s got something rigged in nearly every room. Down in the basement, too. Don’t let your guys back in that house until I can make it down there. His daddy, old Earl, showed me once where the traps were. Maybe they’re still the same.”

Ellie came over the phone, saying, “I’ve relayed that message to Ricky, Professor. He’s pulling his men out of the house now.”

“OK,” Branden said, calmer by a fraction. “Let’s try to keep it at one homicide a day.”

“What have you got, Mike?” Robertson said. “Give.”

“I think there’s an Amish kid buried in a barn back up a little drive off of 58.”

“You think?” Bruce asked.

“There’s a body out here, Bruce. Cal is watching the place so nobody disturbs the scene any more.”

“Any more than what?” Robertson asked.

“We kind of tracked the place up with an Amish girl just now, before we found the body,” Branden said. “We didn’t know there was a body until we started digging. There was some stuff belonging to a John Schlabaugh in a plastic bag buried on top of the body.”

“I’m gonna want you to voucher all of that when I get out there. I’ll want to talk to that girl, too.”

“OK, Bruce, but our Amish girl has fled already.”

“Mike!”

“We didn’t know it was a crime scene until later, when we found the body. Then, she bolted. Took off in a red Firebird belonging to John Schlabaugh. Couldn’t stop her. Left her horse and buggy behind.”

“OK, look,” Robertson said, “just don’t disturb anything until I get Missy out there.”

“I’ll have to show you where it is.”

“So meet us somewhere.”

“OK, meet me at the intersection where 129 comes down off the ridge and tees into 58. The barn’s not far from there.”

Robertson said, “Give us ten minutes,” and switched off.

 

BRANDEN tried the number for Abe Yoder’s cell phone again. This time the phone was not in service. He turned his truck around, waited for a pair of Amish women on bicycles to clear the intersection, and drove halfway back down 129. At the end of the long drive up to the Wallace place, he spotted Sergeant Ricky Niell on the right berm.

Niell got in with the professor and waved for one of the sheriff’s cruisers to follow. A second cruiser stayed parked at the end of the Wallace drive, blocking the way in.

Branden pushed hard down the long stretch of 129 to the T-intersection with 58 and pulled off to the right, under a stand of hickory trees, to wait for Robertson. The cruiser with two of Niell’s deputies pulled off the road behind him.

“You ever heard of a murdered Amish kid?” Niell asked.

“No,” Branden said. He pounded the steering wheel and groaned, “I let her get away. Sara Yoder.”

Ricky pointed down the road and said, “Here they come.”

Branden pulled out onto 58 ahead of Robertson’s cruiser, and led two squad cars, with lights flashing and sirens blaring, to the red barn where Cal waited.

Inside the sliding doors, Robertson studied the shallow grave and then the dirt on the floor of the barn and said, “You really tracked it up good, Mike.”

The coroner, Melissa Taggert, maneuvered the big sheriff off to the side and said, “This is my crime scene, now, boys, so give me some room to work.”

Robertson lumbered back outside, gathered Branden, Troyer, and Niell together, and said, “Missy’s going to go over things in there, and then she’s going to want to take the body in to the morgue.” To Niell he said, “Ricky, get Dan Wilsher on the radio and have him bring out Missy’s wagon.”

To Branden, Robertson said, “I need that girl’s name, Professor.”

Branden said, “Sara Yoder. Cal can tell you where she lives.”

Robertson turned to Cal, who said, “It’s one of several houses in a compound over on Mechanic Township 110. You go out through Saltillo and take the first right. That puts you on 68. Then another right puts you on T-110. She lives down in a little valley opposite the old Salem Cemetery. It’s a large collection of houses, relatives living close together. If you’re sending someone over there, I should go along, make sure we get the right house.”

When Ricky Niell came back from making his radio call, Robertson said, “Ricky, I want you to take Cal out there and see if you can find this girl. Take Armbruster’s cruiser, there.”

Niell nodded, said, “Right. What kind of car was she driving?”

Branden said, “A red ’77 or ’78 Pontiac Firebird. Has that long hood. And aluminum racing wheels.”

“It ought to stick out like a sore thumb around here,” Ricky said.

As Niell and Cal got into the cruiser, Robertson said, “Find her fast, Ricky. If she bolted like that, she knows something. Or she’s running scared because she did this. Or knows who did.”

Niell leaned out the window and said, “I’ve still got men at the Wallace place.”

“You saw the blood in his kitchen?” Robertson asked.

Niell nodded.

“I want them looking for Wallace. Blood in his kitchen and a murdered kid here, so close, it can’t be a coincidence.”

“Good luck,” Branden said. “If Spits Wallace is dug in back there in the woods, it’ll take a commando team to force him out.”

Friday, July 23
10:15 A.M.

 

 

WHILE Coroner Taggert uncovered the body inside the barn with the help of Ricky Niell’s two deputies, Robertson paced in the heat of the barn’s doorway, dabbed at the back of his neck with a red checkered bandanna, and listened to Branden. Branden gave the sheriff an account of his conversation with Sara Yoder that morning.

Branden finished with, “I suppose you’ll consider her a witness to something, Bruce, but I can’t believe she’d bring us out here if she had anything to do with murder.”

“It’s not just Sara Yoder,” Robertson said. He folded the bandanna and pushed it into his hip pocket. “By her account, there are seven to nine Amish kids running together, and one of them is apparently dead.”

“We don’t know who the dead one is at this point. It wouldn’t necessarily have to be anyone of her group.”

“Yeah, but she has a pretty good idea who it is, taking off the way she did.”

“Bruce, she’d have fled no matter who was in that grave. Just seeing a body would be enough to send her off, and if she has an idea who it is, then that’s immeasurably worse.”

“Why didn’t you just keep her here, Mike?”

“How? Tell me that. What was I supposed to do, run her off the road with my truck? Look, Cal knows where she lives, and she has a cell phone. One way or another, she’s going to turn up. But, she brought us out here, and that means she’s not involved in a murder.”

“I wouldn’t expect an Amish girl to be mixed up in murder, Mike, under any circumstances. But Amish kids out on the Rumschpringe get into trouble all the time. You know they do. All kinds of stupid trouble.”

Missy Taggert walked over from the grave and said, “Trouble, yes. But they don’t as a rule get themselves shot, Bruce.”

Robertson and the professor stepped toward the grave, and Missy warded them off with an outstretched palm. “I’m not done.”

“Shot how?” Robertson asked.

“Shot in the side of the head, with a large-caliber pistol, and at short range,” Missy said. “First I’ve ever heard of an Amish kid who got murdered.”

“How long’s he been dead?” Robertson asked.

“Several days,” Missy said. “Maybe a week. I’ll be able to tell you more once I get him up to the lab.”

Branden asked, “Did you find any identification on the body, Missy? Driver’s license or credit cards?”

“Nothing.”

“Who do you think it is?” Robertson asked the professor.

“John Schlabaugh. Abe Yoder, maybe.”

“That’s whose cell phone you found?” Robertson asked.

“It was Abe Yoder’s phone, but it was in a bag with John Schlabaugh’s things.”

“Who is that?” Missy asked.

Branden frowned. “John Schlabaugh is the leader of a little band of Amish kids who’ve taken the Rumschpringe much too far.”

Missy studied the professor a moment, shook her head sadly, and said, “I’m going to finish up in here, now, so how’s about you two giving us some room to work? I’ll want to load the body and get a series of pictures all around. I’d like the state crime lab to go over the barn for trace evidence. That OK?”

Robertson said, “Sure, Missy. We’ll clear out. Call in who you need,” and he led Branden out into the sun.

In front of the barn, Deputy Stan Armbruster and Captain Dan Wilsher were waiting with the coroner’s station wagon. Wilsher lifted his chin toward the barn and said, “Dead Amish kid in there?”

“Yeah,” Robertson said. “Missy has the body about ready to go. Gunshot wound to the side of the head.”

Wilsher whistled. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Robertson said, “We’re looking for Sara Yoder, Dan. She ran with a group. John Schlabaugh was the leader, it seems, and that might be him in the barn. There is also evidently an Abe Yoder involved.”

Wilsher wrote the names in a spiral notebook, and said, “If that’s John Schlabaugh, then I think we’d better bring the Drug Enforcement Administration in on this.”

“DEA?” Branden said, surprised.

Robertson said, “They’ve had a quiet investigation going on in the Saltillo area for the last ten months. Saltillo, Charm, and thereabouts, anyway. It’s more than just a little marijuana from time to time. Kids have been scoring Ecstasy from a dealer down in Columbus. Dan’s been my liaison with the DEA for several months now.”

Wilsher added, “John Schlabaugh’s name has appeared in reports I’ve read on drug activity here. The DEA is holding off on arrests until they can get the top people in the outfit that’s wholesaling the drugs. But John Schlabaugh will be a priority with them when they do finally decide to make some arrests. If he isn’t already dead.”

Branden nodded unhappily and said, “Then you should know that Sara Yoder intimated to Cal and me that some calamity was going to occur because of something Abe Yoder and John Schlabaugh had done down there in Columbus. I suspect she was talking about drugs.”