“What then?”
“It’s a … clique. At school. The Savages. I mean, it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.”
“I need names,” I tell her.
“No one knows who they are.”
“What kind of group are we talking about?”
“They’re haters. Bullies. A lot of what they do is online. Anonymous, you know.”
“Who do they bully?”
“Anyone they don’t like. Take your pick.” She gives a sour laugh. “They’re equal-opportunity haters, Chief Burkholder. It doesn’t matter who they are. Anyone who rubs them the wrong way or crosses them or pisses them off. They’re vicious and secretive.”
“Have you ever been threatened?”
“Not until now.” She can’t quite hide the shiver that runs through her. She raises knowing eyes to mine. “Do you think they’re involved in what happened to Noah?”
“Maybe. Or what happened to you.”
She looks at her hands again, saying nothing.
Something there, I think. Something she doesn’t want to talk about.
“Do you know Christine McDowell?” I ask.
“I know of her.” She makes a face. “She graduated last year. She’s kind of sketchy.”
“Does she have anything to do with the Savages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone else I might talk to?”
“I just don’t know.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“All right.” I motion toward the phone on my desk. “Call your parents. I’ll load up your bike and drive you home.”
* * *
I try to get Ashley to open up and talk to me during the drive to her house, but she doesn’t bite. I suspect she knows more than she’s telling me—about the Savages or maybe even the attack in the park—but every time I broach the subject, she shuts down. Why would a young woman who claims to be in love with the victim of a crime refuse to tell the police what she knows?
I’m in my office at the police station, thinking about the case. I’m missing something, but it’s on the edge of my brain. My conversation with Ashley Hodges keeps running through my mind.
… it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.
I pull the two notes that were sent to her from my desk drawer and set them on my desk.
WE DON’T APPROVE.
YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.
Ashley told me she threw away the first note, but it said something like:
WE GOT EYES ON HIM.
Were they threatening Noah Kline because he’s Amish? Because he’s Amish and dating a popular non-Amish girl? Something else?
Opening my desk drawer, I pull out a photo of the knife and set it beside the notes. I look at the engraving.
SAVAGE.
Not a name, Ashley had told me, but a group of people. A gang. A clique. The Savages. When I asked her for more, she’d clammed up.
“What don’t you want me to know?” I say aloud.
I open the folder containing my notes. Starting at the beginning, I read. I’m midway through my initial interview with Ashley when I remember where I heard the word “cringey.” It was when I spoke to her father, Craig Hodges, and her brother Jason, after they walked me to the front porch. Jason said something to the effect that people at school thought his sister’s relationship with an Amish boy was “cringey.”
“Her older brother,” I whisper as I flip to the next page.
Jason had all but pointed the finger at Doug Mason. I think about Ashley’s clamming-up and I realize if her older brother is involved in something iniquitous, she would likely try to protect him.
Is it possible Jason Hodges, the son of a prominent and well-respected attorney, is a member of some shadowy high school clique?
Only one way to find out. Grabbing my keys, I head for the door.
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m standing outside the ornate doors of the Hodges’ home. I’ve knocked twice, but no one has answered. A glance at my cell tells me it’s not yet 5:00 P.M. More than likely, both parents are still at work. I consider calling them, but realize this is a conversation I need to have in person. The same holds true for Jason. All the better if he doesn’t know I’m coming. I resolve to try them again in a couple of hours.
I’m nearly to the station when a call comes in from my dispatcher. “Chief, I’ve got a ten fifty PI,” she says, which is the code for traffic accident with a personal injury. “County Road 13, just past the railroad trestle.”
“Get an ambulance out there. I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m on my way. “Tell Skid to meet me there.”
“Ten four.”
Flipping on my emergency lights, I pull into the parking lot of the Lutheran Church on Main, hang a U-turn, and head out of town. I crank the speedometer up to sixty, blow the stop sign at Hogpath Road, and make the turn onto CR 13. The railroad trestle is a mile ahead, an ancient structure that stretches over the road like the skeleton of some long-dead dinosaur.
As I draw closer, I realize there’s no vehicle in sight. No sign that anyone is here at all. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Dispatch or the reporting party got the location wrong. I slow as I pass beneath the trestle. I’m reaching for my radio mike when my windshield explodes. Glass pelts my face, my jacket, shards clattering onto the dash. Something thumps onto the passenger seat. I stomp the brake. The Explorer skids into a spin. The ditch and trees loom. Too close. Too fast. I turn into the skid, but I’m not fast enough. The vehicle whips across the ditch, ends up in the field, facing the wrong direction.
Shaken, I unsnap my seat belt, take a quick physical inventory. My face stings, probably due to small nicks from the glass. Otherwise, I’m uninjured. A section of railroad tie lies on the passenger seat, looking ominous and out of place. Someone threw it from the trestle.…
I’ve ended up in a field in a foot of mud. The engine has died. I set my hands on the wheel, turn the key, but nothing happens. “Shit,” I mutter and get out.
This road dead-ends a couple of miles ahead. There’s not much through traffic. A chill scrapes up my spine when I realize it’s the perfect place for an ambush.
I hit my shoulder mike. “Skid. Expedite. Ten eighty-eight,” I say, reciting the code for suspicious activity. “Ten thirty-nine,” I add, letting him know it’s an emergency.
“ETA three minutes,” comes his reply.
I cross the ditch and step onto the road. There’s no one around. No accident. No sign of the ambulance yet. It’s so quiet I can hear the whisper of wind as it ebbs and flows through the trees. I glance up at the trestle. It’s about twenty feet high and has been abandoned for years. Northbound, the tracks head back to Painters Mill. South, they end up in Coshocton. In both directions, the tracks intersect roads. If someone tossed that piece of railroad tie, and wanted a quick getaway without being seen, all they would have to do is park to the north at Hogpath Road.
I hit my radio as I start up the steep embankment. “Skid, check for a ten forty-eight,” I say quietly, using the ten code for suspicious vehicle. “Railroad tracks at Hogpath Road.”
“Roger that,” he says.
The embankment that will take me up to the tracks is steep and tangled with high grass, bramble, and saplings. I’m midway up when I hear the pound of footsteps. Using my hands, I scramble to the top, glance left to see a figure running away. Adult male. Moving fast.
“Stop! Police Department! Halt!”
I break into a sprint, shout into my lapel mike. “Suspect northbound on the tracks! Moving toward Hogpath Road! Male! Dark hoodie!”
Vaguely, I’m aware of my radio lighting up with traffic. The sheriff’s deputy is en route. Skid is nearly to Hogpath Road. For now, I’m on my own.
�
��Stop!” I shout to the running man. “Painters Mill Police! Halt!”
He doesn’t even break stride.
I’m no slug when it comes to running, but he’s young and fast and pulls away from me at an astounding rate. He flies over the tracks, long strides, arms pumping, tossing the occasional glance over his shoulder. I’m thirty feet behind him and losing ground. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping Skid can get to him before this guy reaches a vehicle.
The man throws a look at me over his shoulder. His foot strikes a broken railroad tie that’s sticking up. He goes down hard enough to send gravel flying. He recovers quickly, scrambles to his feet. But the fall cost him precious seconds. I close the distance between us.
“Police!” I pant the word, not enough breath to shout. “Stop! Stop!”
The intersection is two hundred yards ahead. No sign of Skid. I’m just feet behind my suspect now, running full out. I pour on a burst of speed, dive for him, reach out, wrap my arms around his waist. He drags me a few feet, so I jam my shoulder into the small of his back and take him down in a flying tackle.
He hits the ground with so much force he skids through gravel. My chin slams against his spine. I try to lock my arms around him, but his sweatshirt rides up. My hands slide on skin slick with sweat. He twists, raises his leg, shoves me with his foot, and I lose my grip.
“Stop resisting!” I make another grab for him, miss, my hands fisting his shirt.
Fabric tears. He writhes, cursing, and tries to dislodge me. His knee comes up, slams into the side of my face. Pain zings along my jaw.
He flops onto his backside, raises both feet to kick me. I get my first good look at his face. Jason Hodges. I see panic and rage. Lips peeled back in a snarl, teeth clenched, spittle flying.
“Jason!” I shout. “Stop!”
The next thing I know Skid comes down on top of him, flattening him, using his momentum and weight to overpower him. “Turn over, dude,” he says. “Face-down. Relax. Do it now.”
The boy tries to twist away, but we scramble, get him flipped onto his stomach. Once he’s prone, Skid sets his knee against the boy’s back. I grasp one of his arms, Skid gets the other and cuffs him.
“I didn’t do anything!” the boy shouts.
“Get up.” Skid rises.
Taking the boy’s arm, I help him to his feet. The three of us stand there for a moment, the only sound coming from our labored breathing. A few yards away, a Holmes County deputy approaches us from the trestle.
“Your parents aren’t going to be happy with you,” I say to the boy. “Neither is Ashley.”
The boy hangs his head. In shame or defeat, I can’t tell. Or maybe he’s downcast simply because he got caught.
“I think I need a lawyer,” he mutters.
“Yeah, I think you do, too,” I tell him.
Skid glances at me, touches the side of his face to indicate mine. “You’re bleeding, Chief. You need an ambulance?”
“Just a few nicks.” I tell him about the railroad tie being thrown from the trestle and shattering my windshield. “I could use a ride into town, though.”
“You got it,” he says and we start toward his cruiser.
* * *
A few hours later I’m sitting at my desk at the police station finishing my arrest report, trying to ignore the headache that’s taken up residence behind my left temple. Tomasetti sits in the visitor chair adjacent to my desk, trying not to rush me, not quite succeeding. I’m not sure who called him and told him what happened on County Road 13—that a railroad tie was thrown through my windshield—but he got there in a matter of minutes. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he laid eyes on me. He’s playing it cool now, but he hasn’t let me out of his sight.
A subdued Jason Hodges was transported to the juvenile detention center in Wooster. He admitted to throwing the railroad tie off the trestle. More important, he admitted to running down Noah Kline. All for the simple fact that he didn’t want his sister “wasting her time on some stupid Amish boy.” He claims he didn’t mean to hurt anyone; he’d only wanted to scare him. With the exception of his parents, no one believes him, including me.
The one subject he wouldn’t discuss was the Savages. As the reality of his situation sinks in, I believe he will eventually come clean and name names. Even if he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt I’ll get to the bottom of it and bring their shady little operation to an abrupt and final end.
In the coming days, Jason will likely be charged with a multitude of serious crimes, including aggravated assault of a peace officer and failure to stop after a motor vehicle accident with serious physical harm. That he’s a minor will be taken into consideration. Still, he’s facing serious charges that will affect him for a long time to come, possibly the rest of his life.
In the good news department, Noah Kline emerged from his coma a few hours ago. According to the nurse on duty, he’s conscious and asking for food. I figure that’s a good sign.
I would have finished my reports and corresponding paperwork by now, but I’ve had a slew of visitors in the last hour, including every member of my small department. I played down what happened. All of us know it could have been a hell of a lot worse.
I’ve just shut down my computer when Tomasetti leans forward and closes my laptop for me. “What do you say we head home, pull out a couple of steaks, and open that nice bottle of Carménère I’ve been saving?” he asks.
Rising, I loop the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder and round the desk. “I think that sounds like a good way to end what has been a very long day.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re easy?”
“Just you.”
“In that case.” Taking my hand, he pulls me close for a kiss and we go through the door.
* * *
ONE WEEK LATER:
I’m in my cruiser, idling down Township Road 4 when I spot the buggy a quarter mile ahead. The sight of it makes me smile, so I head that way and pull up beside it.
The buggy stops. Noah Kline sits on the passenger side of the bench, grinning from ear to ear. His arm is in a cast. A bandage peeks out from beneath his hat at his left temple. Next to him, Ashley Hodges grips the leather reins, looking a little too excited to be in the driver’s seat. Her grin is as brilliant and wide as Noah’s.
“I heard they sprung you,” I say to Noah.
“Nurses got tired of feeding me, I reckon,” he replies.
I turn my attention to Ashley. I’ve only talked to her once since her brother was taken into custody a week ago. She gave me the names of some students who may be involved with the Savages. It wasn’t a pleasant exchange, but she stepped up to the plate and told me what I needed to know. The Savages no longer exist. Those who were part of the group know they’re on my radar—and had better keep their noses clean.
The arrest of Jason Hodges has been tough on his family. I’m hoping all of them have learned something. I hope Jason will take all of it to heart and get off the path he’s taken.
“Noah’s teaching me to drive the buggy,” Ashley announces.
“I see that.” I look at Noah and smile. “How’s she doing?”
Putting his arm around her, he hugs her against him. “She’s a natural.” His grin widens. “The horse likes her almost as much as I do.”
Ashley elbows him and I realize she isn’t wearing her usual hoodie, but a longish skirt with sneakers and a plain coat. It’s not exactly Amish, but it tells me she’d dressed to please Noah’s parents. The thought makes me smile. Young and with a lot to learn—but in love.
“Chief Burkholder.” Ashley sobers. “I owe you an apology. And an explanation.”
I nod, waiting, saying nothing.
“I didn’t know my brother was involved with that group. I mean, early on.” She seems to struggle through the words, figuring them out as she goes, trying to get them right, as if knowing they’re important. “Mom says I was probably in denial. I just couldn’t believe he’d get involved with a gro
up like the Savages. By the time I faced the truth, it was too late to warn you.”
She pauses as if she wants to stop there, leave it at that. Noah touches her arm, his expression urging her to continue. “If you’d been hurt when my brother threw that railroad tie off the trestle … I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”
I nod. “When did you figure out he was involved?”
She draws a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “The night I was attacked. I recognized Duke Mason, even though he was wearing that mask. He’s on the football team with Jason. Duke’s younger, but they’re friends. That’s when I knew, when I should have told you. I’m really sorry I didn’t.”
I’ve already talked to Duke’s father. I didn’t pull any punches, and Chris Mason was concerned and furious. If he holds to our agreement, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, Duke Mason has already relinquished football for the school year in exchange for volunteer “community service” work in and around Painters Mill.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to believe when someone we love makes a mistake,” I tell her. “Especially if it’s ugly.”
“I don’t blame you for hating me. I don’t—”
I cut in before she can finish. “Hate never entered into it,” I say, meaning it.
She looks down at her hands. “What’s going to happen to my brother?”
I’ve been in contact with the juvenile court personnel in Wooster. Jason hasn’t yet been released to his parents, but he will be soon. “Once he’s released, he’ll have to return for some court appearances. The rest is up to the judge and juvenile court system. He may be incarcerated for a time, or he may get off with community service. The one thing I can tell you is that the judge and the court will be fair.”
She doesn’t make a sound, but tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “Okay.”
I give her a moment, use the time to get my words in order, hoping she’ll listen. “I learned a valuable lesson when I was about your age,” I tell her.
The girl raises her gaze to mine.
“You can’t control what other people do. The one thing you can control is how you react.” I let my expression soften. “It’s a good rule of thumb.”
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