Breaking Silence (27 page)

In that moment, I know what it’s like to go crazy. It’s like a current running through my body, causing every emotional circuit to overload, until I can’t form a single coherent thought. It takes every bit of concentration I have, but I make myself go to the pit and look down.

He descends quickly, reaches the bottom within seconds. His feet disappear into the tarlike muck. He grasps the closest child by the coat, drags him through the muck and up onto his lap. So far so good.

“Bring me up!” he shouts.

I run to the Explorer, put it in gear, and ease the gas pedal down. I have to resist pulling too fast; I don’t want to topple him from the hose. I move forward ten feet, fifteen feet. Tomasetti emerges over the top of the pit. Jamming the Explorer into reverse, I back up to feed him a few feet of hose. Then I shove the shifter into park, get out, and run back to him.

He’s breathing hard. Above the fabric tied around his nose and mouth, his complexion is deathly pale. He shoves the unconscious child at me. “He’s breathing,” he croaks. “Get him outside.”

I take Samuel into my arms. His body feels cold and wet and utterly lifeless. I want to make sure Tomasetti is all right before he goes back down, but when I look back at him, he’s already dropping into the pit.

Choking out sobs, I carry Samuel through the barn door and outside to the fresh air. I stop on the sidewalk and place him on his side, in case he ingested some of the liquid into his lungs. The rain is coming down in earnest, so I remove my coat and drape it over him.

“Samuel?” I pick up his hand and rub it between mine. “Are you okay, kiddo? Can you open your eyes for me?”

Relief sweeps through me when I notice him shivering. That’s a good sign. Bending, I put my ear to his nose. His breathing is elevated but strong.

I don’t want to leave him like this—in the rain and all alone. But I have no choice. I’ve got to pull Tomasetti out of that pit. “Hang tight, baby. I’ll be back.” Giving his hand a final squeeze, I rush back to the barn, push myself through the rails, look down into the pit. Adrenaline punches me when I see Tomasetti struggling to lift Ike. Ike weighs less than Samuel. That tells me the lack of oxygen is already affecting him.

I scream his name. “John! Grab him and get out of there!”

Nodding, he signals for me to pull him up.

In an instant, I’m through the rails, sprinting to the Explorer, sliding behind the wheel. I take it easy pulling him out, thinking,
If he loses consciousness he could fall back in the pit.…

I check the rearview mirror. Relief sends a sob to my throat when I see their heads and shoulders emerge. As I pull them out, I notice the way Tomasetti’s clinging to the hose, and I realize he’s struggling. Ramming the Explorer into park, I rush back to the pit. Tomasetti is facedown on the filthy concrete. At some point, the fabric has come off his face. He’s covered with muck and shivering uncontrollably. Next to him, Ike is as still as death.

“Get up! Come on!” Nudging Tomasetti, I grab Ike beneath his arms. “John! Get up! Please!”

Gripping Ike beneath his arms, I drag him toward the door. But I don’t take my eyes off Tomasetti. Midway there, I see him struggle to his hands and knees. Head drooping, he disentangles himself from the hose with one hand, supports himself with the other. I place Ike on the sidewalk next to his brother, pull my coat partially over both boys. They’re shivering and wet. But they’re alive. Tomasetti’s alive. Right now, that’s all that matters.

I’m on my way back inside to help Tomasetti when I see him crawling toward me. Somehow he made it through the pen rails, and he’s trying to reach the door and fresh air.

Rushing to him, I kneel at his side. “Can you stand?”

“Just need some air,” he says.

“Come on.” Bending, I slip his arm over my shoulder, help him to his feet, and we stumble through the door. “Ambulance is on the way,” I tell him.

Tomasetti goes to his hands and knees, gulping air.

“Hang on.” Rising, I go back to the Explorer, pull a thermal blanket from the trunk. When I get back, Tomasetti is sitting beside the two boys. He’s conscious and aware, but his eyes are glazed. He’s looking down at the boys. Samuel is crying. Next to him, Ike is moaning, beginning to stir.

I kneel next to the children, reposition my coat so that both of them are covered. “You’re going to be okay,” I say.

Ike reaches for me, clings to my leg. “I’m scared.”

“Honey, can you tell me who did this to you?”

Sobbing, the boy presses his face against me. “He was going to come back and get us out.”

“Who?”

He hesitates.

“Was it Mose?” I ask. “Did he do this to you?”

Mouth open and trembling, he nods. “Don’t tell him I told.”

“I won’t. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.” I glance toward the barn door. “Honey, can you tell me where the Rabers are?”

“They took the buggy to town,” Ike tells me.

“What about Salome and Mose?”

“I dunno. They ran.”

I nod, relieved that no one else has been hurt. I hate to leave him like this, but I disconnect him from my leg. “I’ve got to go, honey.”

“Don’t leave us!” he cries, trying to hang on.

I squeeze his small shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay. Stay here with Agent Tomasetti, and I’ll be back. I promise.”

Inching closer to Tomasetti, Ike buries his face against his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Tomasetti’s face, and I know this moment is something I’m going to have to think about later. For now, I need to find Mose before he hurts someone else.

“You did good,” I say to Tomasetti.

“Go get that fuckin’ Mose,” he grinds out. Then I’m up and sprinting toward the house. Rain patters my face and shoulders as I run. I can’t stop thinking about how close those boys came to death. How in the name of God could anyone be cold-blooded enough to kill their younger siblings?

I’m midway to the house when I remember the truck and suitcases in the shed. Knowing Mose and Salome are going to make a run for it, I change direction, head toward it. Rain stings my face and streams into my eyes. The thought that I should pull my weapon flashes, but I resist the idea. Then I remind myself Mose tried to murder his two younger brothers. He may have killed his parents. Cursing, I pull out the .38, crank back the hammer.

I’m angling toward the shed when I realize someone has closed the overhead door, and I know Mose is inside. Salome probably is, too. They could have seen Tomasetti and me in the barn, gone out the back and circled around.…

The truck engine rumbles to life. I pick up speed, decide to approach through the small door on the side, as opposed to the overhead door in front. Before I can swing left, the big door explodes. Wood splinters and flies at me. Through sheets of rain, I see the grille of the old truck. The slash of a single headlight blinds me. The engine screaming like a beast. The vehicle is nearly on top of me. I catch a glimpse of Mose behind the wheel. Salome in the passenger seat. They’re ten feet away and closing fast.

I raise my weapon. “Stop!”

The vehicle is moving at a high rate of speed. Rear tires fishtailing, it comes at me. I dive left. The ground rushes up and slams into me. Breathless, I roll, trying to get out of the way. Glancing up, I see the red smear of taillights, wheels slinging gravel and mud. He’s heading toward the road.

“Son of a bitch!”

Gripping my pistol, I scramble to my feet, sprint toward the Explorer parked in the barn. My boots pound through puddles and mud, but I don’t slow down. Vaguely, I wonder where the hell my backup is.

I’m aware of Tomasetti getting to his feet, shouting at me as I blow past. Inside the barn, I yank open the driver’s door, slide behind the wheel, hit the ignition. The wheels spin and grab. I hear the hose snap, then I’m bumping down the lane. I see the red blur of the truck’s taillights ahead. Mose is driving erratically, veering toward the bar ditch, then back onto the gravel. It’s a dangerous game; he’s an inexperienced driver, scared and out of control. But I find myself worrying more about Salome and her unborn child.

He decapitates the mailbox at the end of the lane and whips left onto the township road. Sludge from the truck’s tires spatters my windshield. I hit the wipers and emergency strobes. A hundred yards down the road and I’m nearly on top of him. I’m lining up for a PIT maneuver in an effort to spin out his vehicle, when a hole the size of my fist explodes my windshield. A hollow
thunk
sounds; then a thousand diamond capillaries spread out like some bizarre road map. The son of a bitch is shooting at me.

Blind, covered with shards of glass, I cut the wheel right. The tree comes out of nowhere. I try to avoid it, but I’m on the muddy shoulder and the Explorer responds sluggishly. The impact knocks me so hard against the shoulder harness that I swear I can hear my clavicle snap. Simultaneously, the air bag punches me in the face and chest like a huge boxer’s glove.

Gasping in pain, I extricate myself from the air bag, reach down, and unlatch my safety belt. Steam spews from the engine. Looking through the shattered safety glass, I see the crinkled steel of my hood. Shoving away the deflating bag, I unlatch the door. When it sticks, I swivel and kick it open.

I slide from the vehicle, but my legs are like rubber and I go to my knees. I know I’m hurting, but there’s so much adrenaline, I can’t pinpoint where. Groaning, I force myself to my feet, look around. Mose’s truck is stopped fifty yards down the road, facing me. Ten feet away, the Explorer sits at a cockeyed angle, wrecked and useless.

That’s when my temper kicks in. Operating on instinct now, I hit my lapel mike, put out a 10-33. This is exactly the kind of situation that can spiral out of control and end very badly. I don’t know if Salome is a willing participant or a hostage. If Mose feels he has nothing left to lose, he might harm himself. He might harm Salome. Or both.

I should wait for backup, but I’m not going to follow protocol. Pulling my .38, I move to the bar ditch, where I have some measure of cover, and start toward the truck. “Mose!” I call out. “Put down the gun!”

No answer. I don’t stop walking. “Put it down, and come over here and talk to me!”

Dead silence.

I try another approach. “You’re frightening Salome! Come on! Talk to me! Is she okay?”

The passenger door opens. An instant later, Salome stumbles out. She’s wearing the blue dress and only one shoe. No
kapp,
her hair flying. “Chief Burkholder!” she screams. “Don’t hurt us!”

“Come here!” I shout. “Run! I’m not going to hurt you.”

She breaks into a run, arms outstretched, her eyes wild with terror. I continue toward her. The knowledge that I’m in plain sight should Mose start shooting never leaves my mind. I’m scared, more scared than I’ve been in a long time, but I don’t stop.
Don’t let me down, Mose,
I silently chant.

I’m twenty feet from Salome now. She’s hysterical, choking out sobs, her arms wrapped around her as if she’s holding herself together.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Take cover on the other side of the Explorer. You’ll be safe there.”

“Don’t hurt him,” she cries.

The truck’s engine revs. Adrenaline jolts me like electricity. Gravel shoots out from beneath the tires. Then the vehicle jumps toward me. I shove Salome toward the bar ditch. “Run!”

“Moses!” she screams. “Don’t!”

I face the truck, raise my hands. “Mose! Stop!” I scream the words, but it’s too late. I know he isn’t going to stop.

“Goddamn it!” Dropping into a shooter’s stance, I raise my .38. “Stop!
Stop!
”

The vehicle is ten yards away, engine screaming, gaining speed. I fire five rounds into the windshield. The glass splinters and spreads. The engine emits a final roar. The vehicle jerks right, slides sideways, and then nose-dives into the bar ditch and goes still.

“Moses!
Moses!
” Salome’s screams are bloodcurdling.

I spin, point at her. “Stay put!”

Covering her face with her hands, she drops to her knees and bends, her body racked with sobs.

I turn my attention to the vehicle. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the sirens. I can’t see the fire truck or ambulance yet, but they’re nearby, probably turning onto the township road from the highway. Just a few more minutes …

Hold on, Mose,
I think.
Don’t be dead.
My brain chants the words like a mantra as I approach the passenger door.
Dear God, let him be alive.
I don’t want the death of a seventeen-year-old boy on my conscience. The irony of that is almost too much to bear.

The truck is nose-down in the ditch. The driver’s side looks difficult to get to, so I approach from the other side. The first thing I see is blood spatter on the door window, and I know in my gut this isn’t going to have a good ending. I try the door, but it’s jammed, so I hold down the latch and yank it as hard as I can. Steel groans as I pry it open.

Mose is slumped against the driver’s door. I know immediately he’s dead. He’s suffered at least one gunshot to the face, probably two. There’s a lot of blood. Brain matter on the headrest. More blood on his shoulders. Blowback on the side window. A clawlike hand still grips the wheel.

“Aw, Mose. Aw, God. Mose.”

I barely recognize my own voice as I stumble away from the truck. I feel sick to my soul. Guilt is a swirling black hole inside me, and I’m barreling toward it, an Olympian sprinting toward a false finish. Or maybe the edge of a cliff. I’m already spinning into that awful free fall.

My hand shakes uncontrollably when I hit my lapel mike. My voice sounds foreign to me when I put out the call. I’m standing in the bar ditch. I can’t stop looking at Mose. Minutes ago, he was healthy and alive, with his entire life ahead of him. Now he’s dead. No matter how badly I want to jump in some time machine for a redo, it’s not going to happen. Death is forever. Some kinds of guilt are forever, too, and I’ll be feeling the killing edge of this day for the rest of my life.

I can hear Salome screaming, but I’m not sure if it’s real or inside my head. I should go to her. She’s been through hell, more than any fifteen-year-old should have to bear. The last thing she needs to see is her lover’s shattered body. But I can’t make myself move. I can’t do anything because I’m frozen in a hell of my own making, staring at the dead body of the seventeen-year-old Amish boy I just shot.