Separate from the World (21 page)

Branden interrupted, “He’s got a farm on Nisley Road, too.”

“Nisley Road, Ed. Put Armbruster on this. I want Hershberger in my office by morning.”

Branden said, “I believed Hershberger when he said he had burned the phone. I believed him! But he lied to me. He lied to everyone about that, and that’s what his confession will be on Sunday. That’s why he’s been called to repent—he lied about burning that phone.”

 

 

They were working on a list of first-search locations in Holmes County, places to start the hunt for Eddie, when the doorbell rang. Caroline went to answer it, while Branden, Robertson, and Taggert finished the list.

Caroline brought Nina Lobrelli to the back porch, saying, “Mike, you’re going to want to hear this.”

Lobrelli took off a light jacket, threw it over a chair, and sat down heavily. “I just came from Aidan Newhouse’s office,” she said, starting to shake. “Ben Capper is with him. He’s hung himself.”

Branden and Robertson stood up together, and Branden asked, “When, Nina? Just now?”

Professor Lobrelli nodded and sank further into the chair.

From somewhere near the center of town came the siren of a sheriff’s cruiser. At nearly the same time, Robertson’s phone squawked, and he took the call, listened, and said, “Yeah, Ed. We just got that.”

Branden said, “What?”

Robertson switched off, took a long look at Professor Lobrelli, and said, “Your Ben Capper just called it in. Professor Newhouse is hanging from a light fixture in his office.”

WITHIN THE HOUR, the sheriff had his whole investigative team in the office of Professor Aidan Newhouse. Newhouse was cut down, still wearing Ben Capper’s cuffs on one wrist. Deputy Pat Lance was dusting the office for prints, and Dan Wilsher had Lobrelli out in the hall, going over her account of finding Newhouse. Ben Capper stood down the hall, arms folded somberly over his chest.

Missy stood up beside the body and pulled off her blue nitrile gloves. “If this was suicide,” she said, “he changed his mind. He’s got deep gouges at his neck, where he tried to pull the noose off, and he’s got fingernails broken off in the rope.”

Robertson asked, “Can it also have been murder, Missy?”

“Yes. Either he kicked that chair over there and did it himself, or someone clever laid this scene out to look like that’s what he did.”

Robertson stepped out into the hall, made a call, and spoke into his phone, while waving for Branden to come forward in the hall. “Ricky? We’ve got a dead professor here. No, Newhouse. Right—protest marches at the courthouse—that guy. I’m going to operate on the assumption that he was murdered. So look, Niell, we need more people at those farms. OK, who? That’s a start. I want your roadblocks up again.
Now,
Sergeant. No. OK, call in Wayne County, then. This is all going down in their backyard. I know, so listen, lock them in a barn if you have to. Both families—all of the Erbs. I don’t care, just call me when it’s done.”

When the sheriff switched off, Branden asked, “Who’s out there, Bruce? That’s a lot of people to protect.”

“Five minutes, Mike, and we’re gonna have this covered.”

Branden started off toward home and called back over his shoulder, “I’m going out. Call Ricky.”

 

 

Ricky Niell’s first roadblock on 229 was set up in front of the old St. Genevieve Church at Calmoutier. Branden cleared inspection with the Wayne County deputies there by displaying his reserve deputy’s badge, just as Niell drove up from the other side of the barricade. Niell flipped his cruiser around in the cemetery driveway and took Branden back to the Erb farms.

There were no streetlights, and no lamps burned in either of the houses. The grocery store where Benny Erb had died was locked and dark. Niell parked on the road and led Branden down the driveway of Enos Erb’s place, saying, “We took Willa Banks out of here a half hour ago. She was cursing a blue streak, but she’s safe.”

Branden followed. He had armed himself with a shotgun from Niell’s trunk. Ricky had his pistol out. Taking careful steps in the dark, they made their way down the muddy drive to the dairy barn behind the house. Not a single light showed anywhere on the property. The only sounds were the low murmurs of dairy cows in the pasture.

At the barn, Niell pushed sideways on the tall wooden door, rolling it on its overhead casters. He squeezed through the opening, and Branden followed into the stillness.

Inside, the darkness was nearly complete. Some thin shafts of moonlight streaked down from holes in the old, high roof, but it was not enough to illuminate the interior.

In the black darkness, Niell said, “They’re all in here, toward the back.”

As Branden’s eyes adjusted to the night, he began to pick out the straw hat of an Amish man, or the white cap of an Amish woman. Ricky snapped the switch on a micro light, and Branden saw the front edge of the group, men standing closely together in front of women and children. Ricky’s light jumped briefly over their faces, and Branden saw wide, peaceful eyes watching him. There was little fear, here. What the professor saw was mostly resignation. And although some of the children’s faces communicated excitement or alarm, the faces of the men and women showed passivity, conviction, and peace.

Short Enos Erb pushed forward from the group and eyed the guns with animosity. He waved at the weapons as if he wanted them to vanish from the men’s hands and said, “Guns have no place here.”

Branden answered, “We have to assume he’ll come here, Enos.”

Enos shook his head. “This is a fearful way to live, Professor.”

“I know,” Branden said, “but it is necessary. We find it necessary to act.”

Sadly, Enos replied, “We know. We know about this, with you English, Professor. But, please, you must not kill on our account. We cannot cooperate with killing.”

Niell said, “If you’ll just stay here, Mr. Erb, we’ll catch this guy. You aren’t safe until we do.”

Enos nodded with profound sorrow. “We reject the English killing.”

Branden asked, “Can you just stay here a little longer, Enos? Can you stay here and let us work?”

The dwarf stepped silently back among his people.

 

 

By daybreak, the roadblocks had captured nothing. Branden and Niell had walked the farm roads, and that too had produced nothing. There was no sign that Eddie Hunt-Myers had been anywhere near Calmoutier. So, from the barn emerged first Enos and then Israel, followed slowly by the others.

Enos gathered his family at the back of his house, and Israel walked his family across the road. Unable to argue, Branden and Niell watched the children file back inside their houses, and soon life on the two farms resumed as if nothing in the world could harm them.

The Amish men and a few of the older boys went into the barns to milk cows and goats. Vera Erb brought out a basket of laundry to hang on the line. Israel Erb opened his store and lit the gas ceiling mantles. An older boy rode his bicycle out onto the road and turned east toward the feed store.

Branden said to Niell, “At least they’re keeping the youngest children inside.”

Sarcastically, Niell said, “Yeah, Mike, there’s that.”

THE PROFESSOR drove his truck toward home and was waved through the roadblock at St. Genevieve Church. In Mt. Hope, he stopped at Mrs. Yoder’s Kitchen and got a cup of coffee to go. He drank it as he drove. In Fryburg he called the jail and learned from Ellie that Sheriff Robertson had John Hershberger in an interview room with Bishop Andy Miller. Branden asked Ellie to tell Robertson he was headed into town.

When Branden walked down the pine-paneled hallway past Robertson’s office, he could hear the sheriff bellowing from Interview B, and when he entered the room, he found Robertson at the left head of the metal table, fists planted aggressively on the cold surface of the metal, chin jutting out like an angry boxer. Miller and Hershberger sat submissively at the other end of the table, eyes focused on the blank tabletop. Branden took a seat next to Miller.

Robertson took note of the professor’s position next to the Amish men and pushed off his fists to stand to his full height, his barrel chest communicating dominance like a fighting cock.

Branden made a show of sighing and said in a tone of long-suffering forbearance, “Bruce, what are you doing?” From years of experience conducting interviews together, he trusted that Robertson would play along, and he wasn’t disappointed.

The sheriff said in a rough tone, “Mr. Hershberger,
Professor,
admits that he lied about Benny Erb’s phone.”

Branden looked to Hershberger, and the preacher flicked his eyes up briefly to acknowledge the professor. Then he pointed them back at the tabletop.

Bishop Andy Miller argued, “Sheriff, the sin of this falsehood is obvious, but no one was hurt. The children are safe.”

Robertson flung his arms into the air and blew out exasperation. “You had no way to know that you’d get Albert back!”

Preacher Hershberger kept his eyes lowered and said, “He promised he’d send Albert home if I gave him the phone.”

“You can’t be serious!” Robertson spat.

Holding up his hand to ward off further outbursts from the sheriff, Branden asked Hershberger, “How did you make the exchange?”

Hershberger looked up briefly and said, “He told me to put the phone in the back of the St. Genevieve Cemetery, behind the Haas headstone. That’s what I did. Then, Albert came home.”

Robertson stepped to the door and yanked it open. It was obvious that he was through talking. He glowered at the two men. “You’re both being charged with interfering with a felony investigation !” he barked, and marched out of the room.

 

 

A half hour later, Branden sank into the low leather chair in front of Robertson’s desk. The sheriff had a pencil out, drumming the eraser against his cherry desktop as if he were pacing the oar strokes on a slave galley—cruising speed, battle speed, ramming speed.

Branden slumped in his chair, ankles crossed, as he always did when he needed to think in the sheriff’s big office. He listened to the drumbeat of the sheriff’s pencil awhile and said, “He never saw him. Hershberger, I mean. Hershberger never saw the kidnapper. I can’t get anything out of him to help us.”

Robertson barked, “They’re both going to jail!” and Branden shrugged his acquiescence.

“Mike, this is nuts,” Robertson said. “If we’re right about this kid Eddie, he killed Benny Erb, Cathy Billett, and maybe even Aidan Newhouse. And he terrorized two Amish children. What kind of a college are you guys running up there?”

Bitterly, Branden answered, “We can’t prove anyone was actually murdered, Sheriff.”

Robertson pounded his desk with the flat of his hand and said, “He did it all, Mike. Your Eddie Hunt-Myers
, the Almighty Third,
killed three people.”

“Probably,” the professor admitted.

“And you think he’s still here?”

“Not likely, Sheriff. Eddie’s probably headed home right now. He’ll probably be able to produce signed affidavits from his parents that he was home all along.”

Robertson’s phone rang, and he answered it, listened, and hung up. “Missy says your Professor Newhouse was a suicide. They found a note. You’re probably going to be able to identify the professor’s handwriting and verify that it was really suicide.”

“OK, how?” Branden asked.

“Because the note is addressed to you, Mike. You two had a bad argument?”

“I wouldn’t call it a
bad
argument,” Branden said.

“Well, he wrote in his suicide note that you did. He wrote that you’d understand better than anyone else why he had to do it.”

Branden closed his eyes and groaned.

 

 

On his way out, Branden stopped by the front counter to talk with Ellie, but she got a call, held up a finger, and answered it. As she listened to the call, Branden heard Robertson thumping down the hallway behind him. Ellie stood up beside her desk and held her phone out for the sheriff, saying, “Dan Wilsher, Bruce.”

As Robertson listened, the heat and anger in his features dissipated. He let Wilsher talk and concluded with, “OK, Dan. Give it another twenty-four hours to be safe. But go ahead and take down the roadblocks now.”

Switching off, Robertson said, “We’re going to guard the Erbs for another day.”

When he handed Ellie’s phone back to her, Robertson seemed tamed by failure. The aggression was gone from his posture, and the fire was gone from his eyes.

Behind him Andy Miller said, “Sheriff, we’d like to go home.”

Robertson turned slowly to the two Amish men and said, “I’m going to file charges.”

Miller said, “We’ll admit to what we did. You can find us at home.”

Robertson eyed the bishop with more curiosity than anger and asked, “Do you know the Erbs are making it nearly impossible for us to guard them? At least that’s what my chief deputy tells me.”

“We live our lives, Sheriff,” Miller replied. “What more can we do?”

“Right,” Robertson said, as if it were a revelation to him that Amish men could be so naive.

WHEN BRANDEN got home, he found Cal Troyer’s gray truck parked in the driveway and a horse and buggy parked at the curb. He pulled in beside the truck and was met at the front door by Daniel Erb. Daniel introduced himself, explaining that he had seen the professor a couple of times at his father’s house.

Branden offered his hand and asked, “What can I do for you?”

Daniel said, “I understand that my Uncle Enos asked you to look into Uncle Benny’s death.”

“Right,” Branden said. “He thought it might have been murder.”