Pray for Silence (26 page)

Aaron hurls the wineglass to the floor, inches from Tomasetti’s foot. Glass shatters, shards flying against the wood cabinets. Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.” Rob steps between Tomasetti and Aaron, like a referee stopping a fight after a particularly devastating blow. “Come on, you guys. This has gone far enough.”

“Going to go a lot farther if we get lied to again.” Tomasetti jabs a finger at Aaron. “You listening?”

Aaron lunges at Tomasetti. I step forward, ready to intervene. But Rob catches Aaron by the arms, hauls him back. “This conversation is over,” he snaps.

Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “You might want to watch that temper of yours, Aaron. You don’t want the cops thinking you’re capable of violence.”

“Fuck you!” Aaron screams the words.

“Enough.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I step closer, turn to face Aaron. “You need to calm down.” Then to Tomasetti. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Scowling, Tomasetti walks away. Bad cop. Time for me to move in. I turn back to Aaron. Something I see in this troubled young man’s eyes touches me in a place I don’t want to acknowledge. Maybe because Aaron Plank and I have more in common than he could ever know. Those parallels have been floating around in my subconscious since I learned of his excommunication.

“Come here.” I motion toward the kitchen.

Feeling Tomasetti’s and Rob Lane’s eyes on me, I walk into the kitchen,
aware that Aaron follows a few feet behind me. Once in the kitchen, I turn to face him. “You’re not helping your cause.”

He sneers. “You must be the good cop.”

“You’re not a suspect.”

“Then why are you hassling me?” Crossing to the counter, he snags another wineglass and pours more merlot into it.

“Because you withheld information that might have been helpful.” I return evenly. “What else aren’t you telling us?”

He looks away, raises the glass to his lips, takes a too-big gulp of wine. “I heard you used to be Amish,” he says. “Is that true?”

“I was. A long time ago.”

“Then you know gossip is one of their favorite pastimes,” he says. “You know they can be a bunch of judgmental pricks.”

“Who are you protecting?” I ask point-blank.

“No one.”

“Is it Mary? Was she into something she shouldn’t have been? Are you trying to protect her reputation? Her memory? What?”

He looks down at the wineglass in his hand.

“Aaron, you need to talk to me. We’re trying to find out who killed your family. If you know something, now is the time to open up.”

After a moment, he raises his eyes to mine. “I know in the scope of things it doesn’t seem important, Chief Burkholder, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m about to tell you, especially the Amish community. Mary cared about her reputation. It mattered to her. She wouldn’t want them gossiping about her. About
Mamm
and
Datt
.”

I give him the most honest answer I can. “I’ll do my best to keep whatever you tell me out of the public eye.”

His hand trembles when he sets down the glass. “I received a letter from Mary. About a month ago.”

The revelation sends a jolt through me. “What did it say?”

“She wanted to leave the Amish lifestyle. She asked for my help.”

“Why did she want to leave?”

“She said she didn’t fit in, couldn’t conform.”

I know there’s more. “Did she mention a boyfriend?”

He eyes me warily. “You know about him?”

“She kept a journal. I found it in her room. I’ve read it.”

“A journal?” Emotion swells in his eyes. “Can I see it?”

“You can when I close this case. For now, it’s evidence.” I move closer to him. “What did she say about the boyfriend?”

“Just that he wasn’t Amish, but she was crazy about him.
Really
crazy. Made it sound all romantic. You know, teenaged girl stuff. She wanted to marry him. Have his kids. Shit like that. She was sneaking out at night to be with him.”

“Did she mention a name?”

“No.”

I hold his gaze. “Do you still have the letter?”

“I tossed it.” He looks away. “I didn’t know it would be the last time I heard from her.”

“What was the tone of the letter?” I ask.

“I swear to God she seemed fine. Just . . . confused. In love for the first time.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I wish I’d dropped everything and driven down. I might’ve been able to do something.” He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. “Mary always looked up to me. I was her big brother. She watched me leave the Amish way of life, and she wanted the same for herself.” He sighs. “I had Rob to help me through it. She didn’t have anyone. I wish I could have been there for her.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the letter?” I ask. “Anything that worried you?”

He shakes his head. “God, I don’t remember all the details. She kind of caught me up on family stuff. How fast little Amos was growing. She said everything was fine. I do recall that she talked a lot about the guy. She was definitely into him.”

“Did she say anything that made you concerned for her safety?”

“No.”

Disappointment digs into me. “Did you write her back? Call her?”

“I wrote her a letter.” His face screws up. He brings his fist down on the counter. “I wish to
God
I’d had the courage to drive down.”

“What did you say in your letter?”

He blows out a breath, composes himself. “I hooked her up with an
Amish guy near Millersburg. He runs a sort of . . . underground railroad for young Amish men who want to leave the Plain life.” He gives me a sage look. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you about this, Chief Burkholder. The man is Amish. He’s married to an Amish woman and they have six children. If anyone finds out what he does, he’ll be excommunicated.”

For the first time, Aaron’s reticence makes a certain amount of sense. “What’s his name?”

“Ed Beachey.

I’ve never met Ed, but I know of him. “He owns a small cattle operation down the road from Miller’s Pond.”

Aaron nods. “Ed gives these kids a place to stay. He gives them food. Counsels them. I told Mary to contact him.”

“Did she?”

“I checked. Ed says she never did.”

“You know I’ve got to verify all this with Ed,” I say.

“No one knows he helps young men leave the Amish way of life. If it gets out, he’s going to think I betrayed him.”

“I’ll let him know you didn’t have a choice.” I sigh, feeling deflated. “If you remember anything else that might be important, call me.” I turn to leave. I’m midway to the living room when Aaron stops me.

“Chief Burkholder?”

I turn back to him.

“I just remembered something that might help.” He looks more animated as he crosses to me. “She mentioned something about meeting her guy out at Miller’s Pond.”

“She wrote about it. In the diary.”

“Well, then you probably already know that one day when she was waiting for him, she carved their initials in a tree.”

I stare at him, aware that my pulse is spiking. Initials won’t solve the case, but they might help identify the boyfriend. “Do you know where the tree is? Near the water? The path? Parking area?”

He grimaces, shakes his head. “She didn’t say. Just a tree. That’s all I know.”

I stare at him a moment longer. I’m still not sure if I like him, but one
thing that’s clear to me is that he loved his sister. “This would have been a lot easier if you’d just come clean from the start.”

He closes his eyes briefly and in that instant I know he blames himself, at least in part, for his sister’s death. Maybe for the deaths of his entire family.

“Nothing’s going to bring them back,” he says.

“No, but sometimes telling the truth helps you sleep at night.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Miller’s Pond, and I always forget how pretty it is. The dam is on the east side. Below the dam, a greenbelt thick with trees runs along Painters Creek. To the west is a cornfield. On the north side, a hay field is hip high with alfalfa. To the south, the yellow-green carpet of a soybean field stretches as far as the eye can see.

The pond itself is a good-size body of water. People swim here in the summer. They ice-skate in winter. Lovers park here at night. Teenagers drink and smoke dope. The area is secluded with no official parking area. The only thing that keeps the place from getting crowded is that you have to walk half a mile down a wooded path to get to the water.

Ed Beachey’s place was on the way, so Tomasetti and I stopped by to ask him if Mary Plank had sought his help. The Amish man claimed she never contacted him. I believed him. I wanted to assure him his secret was safe with me, but I’ve learned the hard way not to make promises I might not be able to keep. Another dead end.

I told Tomasetti about my conversation with Aaron on the drive over. Neither of us is very optimistic about finding the tree with the initials. But with the case stalled and the clock ticking, he wasn’t opposed to a quick look-see.

“Pretty heavily wooded area.” He parks in front of the guardrail.

“I thought we could walk the path, see if anything pops out at us.” I slide out of the SUV. It’s so quiet I can hear the bees buzzing around the goldenrod and dandelions in the bar ditch.

Tomasetti gets out and slides on his sunglasses. “If you’re thinking foot-wear impressions or tire treads, we’re a month too late.”

Our gazes meet over the hood of the vehicle. “I know it’s a long shot, but if we can find the initials, it could help.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s not sold on the idea. “If we don’t find the initials, at least we have a good supply of trees to bang our heads against.”

“Pragmatist.”

The Tahoe is parked in gravel. The asphalt ended about a quarter mile back. There’s not much room for parking, but I can tell by the amount of trash on the ground that plenty of people come here. Where the weeds meet the gravel, broken glass shimmers like hot diamonds beneath the sun. I see dozens of tire tread imprints. Candy bar wrappers. A used condom. Most people are pretty good about picking up after themselves. But not the slobs. I’ve been standing in the sun for less than a minute and already I’m sweating beneath my uniform.

“Okay. So we’ve got a few thousand trees to check.” He opens the Tahoe door, digs around for a moment, emerges with two Wal-Mart bags, passes one to me. “Here’s your evidence bag.”

“You’re pretty resourceful, Tomasetti.” I take the bag. “You a Boy Scout?”

“Got kicked out for smoking when I was nine.”

“Figures.” But I smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have gloves, would you?”

He ducks back into the Tahoe and comes out with a handful of tissues. “These’ll have to do.”

“You BCI guys are high tech all the way.” I take a couple of the tissues, tuck them into my back pocket.

Sighing, he works off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the front seat. He is wearing a light blue shirt beneath the jacket. The armpits and back are wet with sweat. He takes a moment to loosen his tie. I see chest hair peeking out of his collar and it reminds me he’s got just the right amount of it.

“Anything else we should be looking for while we’re here?” he asks.

I shake my head. “They came here several times. They drank wine, had sex.”

“The boyfriend smoke?”

“She didn’t mention it, but Evelyn Steinkruger said Mary came back to work once smelling of cigarettes.”

“Even if we find a butt, chances are there won’t be any DNA. Even if there was, it isn’t against the law to smoke out here. Won’t do us any good in terms of the case.”

“Unless the DNA matches the DNA found inside her body.”

“Good point.” He rolls up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s see if they left us anything to work with.”

We begin in the gravel parking area. I walk the perimeter where flying insects swarm in hip-high weeds. It’s late in the season so everything is yellow and dry and coated with a thin layer of gravel dust. Tomasetti walks the dirt track that leads back to the main road, checking the bigger trees along the way. I use one of the tissues to pick up a candy wrapper and place it in the Wal-Mart bag. All the while my brain chants the word
futile
.

It takes us fifteen minutes to scour the area. I’ve netted a handful of candy and gum wrappers, a plastic water bottle and a crushed Skoal can. Wiping a drop of sweat from my temple, I look around, trying to put myself in Mary’s head. Ten feet away, Tomasetti looks the way I feel: hot and discouraged.

“She was breaking the rules by being here,” I say. “She would have wanted privacy.”

“He probably wouldn’t want to be seen with her.” He walks over to me. “Let’s check the woods.”

We head down the dirt path cut into the woods. The trees offer shade, but the mosquitoes have decided we’re fair game. No one officially maintains the path; it stays open due to the amount of foot traffic. Once or twice a year, one of the local farmers cuts down any overgrown saplings or bushes with his tractor and Bush Hog.

As we trudge into the woods, I try to put myself in Mary’s shoes. She was young, Amish and involved in an illicit love affair. Where did they walk? What did they touch? Did they leave anything behind?

“They drank a bottle of wine,” I say after a few minutes. “He brought her lunch once. They watched the stars.”

“Something concrete would be nice,” Tomasetti grumbles.

“Initials would be a great start.”

“A lot of damn trees.”

“A lot of damn bugs.”

Midway to the pond, I find a lone sock and toss it into my bag. Ahead of me, I hear Tomasetti slapping at mosquitoes and I smile. We don’t speak as we work. The only sounds come from the chatter of sparrows, the high-pitched
whoit-whoit-whoit
of a cardinal and the occasional call of a bobwhite
quail. We don’t pass anyone, and I realize Miller’s Pond is quiet this time of day, this time of year. The kids are in school. Most adults are working. Come four o’clock, the elementary age kids will invade the place like a swarm of ants. The high school kids will park their muscle cars in the gravel lot and spend the afternoon smoking cigarettes, stealing kisses and flirting. Later, Dad might walk down to toss in a line and hope for a bass. Where would have Mary and her illicit lover gone?