A Prayer for the Night (6 page)

“What if I have?”

“Nothing. It might account for why you need a bath, is all.”

Wallace eyed the sheriff, laughed scornfully, and spat again.

Branden said, “A young Amish boy’s been murdered, Spits. Over east of 58. It’s not that far from here. You know anything about that?”

Wallace stared back at the professor wordlessly.

Branden asked, “You ever see any Amish kids out in these parts?”

“We got Amish all over the place. You know that, Branden, good as anybody does.”

“Do you know John Schlabaugh from Saltillo?” Branden asked.

“Might.”

“He’s been shot.”

Wallace’s brow knitted almost imperceptibly and his eyes flashed brief heat. “Then I reckon he mixed in with the wrong crowd.”

“What do you know about it?” Robertson tried.

“I know his little gang of kids. Every one of them. They use those old summer cabins for parties. I’ve run ’em off my property a couple of times.”

“When was the last time you saw any of them?” Robertson asked.

Wallace chewed and spat, and scratched at a scab on his wrist. He thought about an answer and hesitated.

Branden said, “John Schlabaugh’s been shot, Spits. He’s dead. If you can tell us something that’d be helpful, I’d be grateful.”

“For old times’ sake?” Wallace scowled.

“Like I said. I knew your dad. He used to take me and my father through your house. Showed us his collection of coins, in all those old canvas bags. Stuffed under all the furniture. Stacked in the closets.”

“Ain’t got no gold,” Wallace spat. “I’m tired of telling people that.”

Robertson said, “We’re not here because of your gold.”

“I don’t have no gold!” Wallace shouted.

Robertson took a step forward, and Wallace shouldered the shotgun and barked, “You boys stand where you’re at!”

Robertson froze, stared at the 12-gauge barrels, and tried to relax. “Easy, there, Spits,” he said. “Just tell us what you know about John Schlabaugh.”

Wallace croaked out an angry growl, stepped forward, pointed his shotgun at Branden’s truck, and said, “You boys get back in your truck and don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do.”

Branden eased back several paces, and Robertson matched him. Slowly the two men moved back to the truck. When they were seated with the doors closed, Wallace said, shotgun still at the ready, “Now buckle up, gents.”

Both men did that.

“Now start her up, Branden, and back it up around here so’s you’re pointed back the way you came.”

Branden did that.

Wallace stalked up to Robertson on the passenger side and said his piece, punctuating the space in front of the sheriff’s nose with the muzzle of his shotgun.

“Last I saw of John Schlabaugh, that dirty little brat and his pal Abe Yoder were leading a gang of three city slickers up to my back door. But I don’t like visitors, see, so I made myself scarce.

“It’s like I keep telling everybody. I AIN’T GOT NO GOLD!”

Friday, July 23
10:55 A.M.

 

 

WHEN Ricky Niell and Cal Troyer made it back to the valley along Township Lane T-110 where Sara Yoder had left the Pontiac in the ditch beside the Salem Cemetery, the Firebird was being hooked up for a tow. From where they stood on the east ridge, they could see the several houses and barns of the Yoder compound on the other side of the wide valley. Through the heat shimmers across the long, hazy distance, they could see the trunk and rear bumper of an old black car in the doorway of a barn. They turned Niell’s cruiser around, drove back down County 68 to the creek, crossed to the other side of the valley under tall shade trees, and took the long gravel drive back to the Yoder houses. When they parked the cruiser and got out behind what proved to be a ’50s model black Ford Fair-lane with no license plate, there were several Amish children, a mix of ages, milling around the old car. One little fellow had planted himself behind the steering wheel, turning it left and right, bouncing on his seat, and making a grrr sound like an engine. When the other kids saw Niell’s black and gray uniform, they backed shyly away from the car. Eventually, the boy behind the wheel noticed the new tension in his brothers and sisters, turned and saw Niell and Troyer, and climbed sheepishly out of the car. All the kids backed up a pace, but none of them took the opportunity to leave.

An Amish woman in a light green dress, white apron, and white head covering with loose tie strings came out the side door of the adjoining house. She walked across the grass in plain black shoes and black stockings, carrying a wadded handkerchief. Her eyes were red and her lids were puffy.

To Ricky, she said, “Can I help you?” and held the handkerchief to her eyes.

“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Niell, and this is Cal Troyer.”

“I know the pastor, Sergeant,” she said and acknowledged Troyer with a respectful nod.

“Ma’am, we’re looking for Sara Yoder,” Niell said.

“She’s my niece, Sergeant. Is she in trouble, too?”

“The sheriff wants to talk with her. It’s very important. Urgent, you might say.”

“You’ll need to talk with my husband,” she said cautiously.

“I’d also like to talk with the children,” Niell said and took out a pocket notebook and one of his gold pens. “And I’d like to write down some names, so I know more about your family.”

Sara’s aunt hesitated and looked to Cal for reassurance.

Cal said, “We don’t think she’s in any trouble with the law. She may be in some danger, though, so you should know that, Miriam. We’d like to ask her some questions about John Schlabaugh. The way we understand it, she parked that Pontiac over by the cemetery.”

Miriam Yoder stiffened and glanced nervously at the children standing nearby. In dialect, she spoke several words, and the younger children scurried away toward the house. Three older boys took up positions behind her.

“My husband’s name is Albert Yoder. That’s Albert P. Yoder. He’s got a cousin Albert O. Yoder. I am Miriam Yoder. These boys here saw Sara leave the car over by the cemetery.”

Mrs. Yoder turned and spoke Dutch at some length to one of the three boys. He gave a long answer, also in dialect. Turning back to Niell and Troyer, she answered, simply, “She left in a car with two English.”

Cal gave Ricky a look of alarm, moved off twenty feet, and made a hushed call on his cell phone.

Niell studied the faces of the three lads behind Mrs. Yoder and concluded that they had been less than forthright. Or perhaps that Mrs. Yoder had not provided a complete translation of everything the lad had said.

An Amish gentleman joined the group from around the corner of the barn. He was soon joined by two other men who came down the gravel lane from the direction of the other houses. Miriam Yoder backed up a yard or so to allow the men to come forward on the gravel pad in front of the barn.

The first man, an older gentleman with a bushy gray beard and thinning gray hair, said, “I am Albert Yoder, Officer.” His eyes, too, were red.

Cal returned to Niell’s side, and Albert Yoder greeted him, “Pastor.”

“Albert,” replied Cal, and put his cell phone away.

“I’m at a little disadvantage, Mr. Yoder,” Niell said. “You all seem to know Pastor Troyer, here.”

Mr. Yoder nodded gravely and said, “We’ve not been hospitable, Sergeant.” He turned and spoke soft Dutch to Miriam, and she went back to the house.

Albert said, “Please join us on the porch. I’ll make introductions.”

Niell glanced at Cal for guidance, and Cal nodded agreement, following Yoder toward the house.

In the yard between the barn and the two-story house, a volleyball net was stretched above a level patch of grass. A concrete path lined with petunias and edged with red bricks passed behind the volleyball court and circumnavigated a large round trampoline with thick plastic padding around its edges. A wooden swing set and two tall wooden poles holding white purple martin houses stood against the azure sky. The children followed the men in a tight group, staying down at lawn level when the men went up the steps of the porch.

On the porch, there were three long deacon’s benches, and the Amish men took seats on one of them. Albert Yoder indicated large, deep wicker chairs for Niell and Troyer. When they were all seated, Ricky and Cal found themselves looking slightly up at the stern Amish men.

Miriam Yoder came out the screened door with a tray of paper cups and a pitcher of lemonade. She set the tray on a round, glass-topped table in front of Albert Yoder’s knees and then poured five cups of lemonade before going back into the house.

Albert Yoder handed lemonade to each of the men, Troyer and Niell first. The Amish men sipped quietly at their drinks. Cal took one sip to be polite and held the cup in his lap. Niell drank it all down straight and put the empty cup back on the tray, agonizing over the crawling pace of the conversation.

“Thanks,” Niell said. “And thank your wife, would you?”

Yoder said, “Now, Sergeant Niell, introductions. As I said, I am Albert P. Yoder. Here is also Willis Stutzman and one of my cousins, Albert O. Yoder. Albert O. is father to Sara Yoder, and I am father to Abe Yoder. Abe and Sara run with the Schlabaugh gang. Willis Stutzman is father to one of the boys who also runs with John Schlabaugh. He is a close neighbor.”

Niell thanked Yoder for the introductions and said, “I presume you all know about John Schlabaugh?”

Albert said, “The bishop was just here. We need to be getting over to the Schlabaughs’ house pretty soon. They are all tucked in at home, waiting for us to help.”

“I won’t keep you long,” Niell said, taking a small notebook out of his breast pocket.

Cal touched Niell’s arm, eyeing the notebook. Niell shrugged and put the notebook back into his uniform shirt pocket, trusting that Cal Troyer would know best how to proceed.

Niell said, “I need your help. If you know where Sara Yoder is, I need you to tell us.”

Albert P. Yoder said, “I’ll tell you what we know, Sergeant. Sara Yoder drove off with some men about an hour ago. She left John Schlabaugh’s car out on the road, and a deputy came by later to have it towed. It is good riddance as far as I am concerned. Now we do not know where Sara went, and we haven’t seen anything of Abe, my son, for over a month.”

“Are you not speaking with your son, Mr. Yoder?” Niell asked.

Yoder turned pensive and tangled his fingers in his chin whiskers. To the boys on the lawn he said, “You youngsters run along, now. You have chores.”

The boys left, obviously disappointed.

Yoder gave a quick glance to the men sitting with him on the bench and evidently saw enough encouragement in their expressions that he decided to talk. “Abe quit on my 14/7,” he said. “I reckon he knows not to come back until he’s made a few changes.”

“14/7?” asked Niell.

“It’s the financial arrangement I use to let him stay with us even though he’s of an age to marry.”

Cal asked, “Albert, do you know what kind of thing Abe and John had gotten mixed up in while they’ve been running together?”

“The usual running around wild, I suppose,” Yoder said.

Willis Stutzman coughed pointedly, and Albert said, “OK, well, maybe more than the usual wild behavior. Willis can tell you better.”

Willis Stutzman appeared to Niell to be about ten years younger than Albert P. Yoder. He was dressed in blue denim trousers and a pink short-sleeved shirt under black braces. He eased forward on the deacon’s bench and leaned over, elbows on knees, to light his pipe. When he had it going he said, “My oldest boy, Andy, wants to marry Sara Yoder, but she’s not of a mind.”

He glanced sideways through the smoke at Albert O. Yoder, Sara’s father, and the man shrugged apologetically, as if Stutzman had spoken a well-known fact.

Stutzman continued. “It often develops that a man, gone courting, has to wait for the girl to make up her mind. But, when this Rumschpringe started up, quite a few of the kids took it too far. We Amish allow the Rumschpringe so that the children can learn what the English world is really like. So they can see what they are turning away from, if they choose to be Amish like us. That’s the only way they can be certain of their choice. If they didn’t burn it out of their systems, they would wonder all their lives what they had missed in the world. So, Amish allow the Rumschpringe, and have allowed it for many generations. But that doesn’t mean we approve of wild behavior. The children live with us, work with us, eat with us, and then sometimes, usually on a weekend, they just go away for a spell. Change their clothes to English and then go to town. We don’t follow them around, so we’re not ever really sure where they go, or what they do.

“We allow this because it is all necessary for a true, informed, adult decision to join the church. It’s the best way for them and us to know that they are taking their vows seriously.”

That said, Stutzman sat up straight and drew several puffs on his pipe, as if he thought he had said everything a soul could ever want to know on the matter.

Sara’s father, Albert O. Yoder, said, “If she comes back, everything will be forgiven. Tell her that, Sergeant Niell.”

Niell tapped a thumb on his knee and considered what had been said. He shifted to a more upright posture and said, “Are you telling me you don’t even know where Sara might be?”

“Yes,” answered her father.

“Or that you can’t tell us where she typically goes on the weekends?”

An affirmative nod of Yoder’s head.

“Who she hangs with in the English world?”

Unhappy shrugs from all three of the men.

Albert P. Yoder cleared his throat and stood up. Bishop Irvin Raber climbed the steps to the porch, and the men stood up briefly and then sat down when the bishop sat. Albert P. Yoder introduced Niell to the bishop, and Niell stood to shake his hand.