Clouds without Rain

by P. L. Gaus

  Newell ushered Branden out onto the back patio and asked, “What do you smell, Professor?”

  Branden, somewhat dazed, turned to Newell and asked, “What? What did you say?”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Smoke,” Branden said, puzzled.

  “No. It’s out here, mostly,” Newell said. “Smoke and burnt wood inside, where the fire was hottest, but what do you smell out here?”

  Branden shrugged.

  Newell bent over, picked up a tatter of window curtain, and held it to his nose. Then to Branden’s nose.

  “Gasoline,” Branden said, frowning.

  “It’s all over out here, where the initial burst scattered all this glass.”

  “Arson.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m praying, Bobby, that the next thing you tell me is not that you found Britta Sommers in there.”

  “She’s not there, Mike. Not at work, either. And we can’t raise her on her cell phone.”

  Branden said, “I didn’t notice whether or not her car is parked out front.”

  Newell nodded, “It is,” and Branden groaned, clasped his fingers on top of his head, and dropped into one of the wet patio chairs.

  10

  Thursday, August 10

  4:58 P.M.

  CAL Troyer went looking for the professor late that afternoon on the campus of Millersburg College and found him in the firearms restoration labs in the darkened basement of the Museum of Battlefield Firearms. Branden was perched on a tall stool in front of a workbench on the far wall. There were two intense work lights trained on the work surface, which was covered with a thin rubber mat. Laid out on the mat were the sundry parts of an antique firearm. Branden was scrubbing meticulously with a toothbrush, cleaning the trigger group on a long gun. The gray metal parts and the brown wood stock were arranged in roughly the same order on the mat as they would take when the piece was fully reassembled.

  Cal descended the steps, crossed the large, darkened room to Branden’s workbench, and asked, “You got time to talk, Mike?”

  Without looking up from his work, Branden said, “Hi, Cal,” a weary tone in his voice.

  Troyer stepped into the light of the workbench and leaned on his elbows to inspect the separate parts of the rifle. “Got someone’s old rifle in the mail again?” he asked.

  “Came in last week,” Branden said as he worked.

  “Civil War?”

  “No. Pre-Civil War. More like the Black Hawk Wars. It’s a breech-loading Hall. Made at Harpers Ferry in the 1830s.”

  Cal picked up the gray metal bayonet, fiddled with it absently, put it back in place, and said, “Lawrence Mallory told me you were down here.”

  “I didn’t know Lawrence was in today,” Branden said. He finished with the trigger group, set the works down, and turned on his stool to face Troyer.

  “Are you working or thinking?” Cal asked, leaning sideways with his elbow on the bench.

  “I like thinking down here. Quiet.”

  “I understand you’re helping the sheriff with the buggy wreck out at John Weaver’s place,” Cal said. He pushed away from the workbench and stuffed his large hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He wore a plain white T-shirt that fit snugly over the muscles of his chest and arms. There was a carpenter’s knife strapped to his belt. He was short and stocky, with large round eyes set far apart.

  “Robertson’s burnt up pretty bad, Cal. You been to see him yet?”

  “Several times. I’m going back over tonight. They waved me off this afternoon.”

  “I’ve been going over as much as I can,” Branden said. “Sometimes late at night when there are only nurses around. They let me sit in his room, but Bruce is wiped out. Can’t really talk.” After a thoughtful interval, Branden asked, “What do you think? Is he going to be OK?”

  “There’s a bit of infection. Mostly, I think he’s tired himself out. At any rate, Missy Taggert has nurses posted at his door, and they’re not letting anyone in this afternoon.”

  “They didn’t expect he’d just lie still, did they?”

  “Robertson?” Cal said and chuckled.

  “I hear you’ve got Bruce on a prayer chain.”

  “Yep.”

  “You think he’s that bad off?”

  Cal laughed. “I think he warrants prayer in general, twenty-four /seven.”

  “It’s serious, Cal,” Branden scolded mildly.

  “I know,” Cal said softly. “You get that from watching Missy Taggert’s eyes.”

  “Has she told you anything?”

  “Nothing specific. I’m just not prepared to lose him without a fight.”

  “I’m not prepared to lose him at all,” Branden sighed.

  “I know,” Cal said, his tone conveying a delicate veil of comfort, given sincerity by the lifelong friendships the three men had labored to preserve.

  Cal tilted his head back, ran his fingers through his white locks, gazed again at the rifle at the table, and asked, “What’s going on with the Weaver case?”

  “It’s not just Weaver anymore. There’s Britta Sommers, now, too.”

  “Britta?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Been out with the Melvin P.’s all day.”

  “They’re a Yoder sect?”

  “Melvin P. Yoder. One little group that split off from a larger group so they could have phones in their barns several years back.”

  “Britta Sommers’s house was torched this morning, Cal.”

  Cal whistled, surprised.

  Branden added, “Nobody has been able to find her, either,” and eased down from the work stool. The two climbed up the steps, circled around the lobby of the museum, and came out onto the lawn in front of the history building. They took seats on a bench under an old, split-trunk silver maple, and Cal said, “You think John Weaver’s accident is connected to the Sommers arson?”

  “She was trustee for his estate,” Branden said. “He was what could best be described as a land speculator. Awfully good at it from what I can tell.”

  Cal frowned and said, “It’s Weaver’s land deals that brought me here to see you.” Branden turned sideways on the bench to face Cal directly, interested in the apparent coincidences. Cal added, “It’s going to ruin some farms in Melvin Yoder’s sect.”

  Branden said, “I thought old man Yoder died a year ago.”

  “He did. They’ve got themselves a new bishop now. John Weaver’s brother, from Pennsylvania.”

  “Andy Weaver?”

  “So, you remember.”

  “Andy Weaver preached against the occult when it moved into Holmes County,” Branden said.

  “We both did. Now he’s staying at Melvin Yoder’s old place out in the Goose Bottoms. His family hasn’t settled everything back home. They’re to move out here, toward the end of the summer.”

  “His brother, J. R., used to be a member of the Yoder congregation.”

  “Loosely,” Cal said. “He had pretty much quit on them in recent years.”

  “That would explain some of the things I saw out at his house,” Branden said.

  “Like what?”

  “Telephone, computer, fax machine.”

  “That was all allowed in Melvin Yoder’s sect,” Cal said, “if it was a requirement for a home business. Won’t be, now, with Andy Weaver in charge.”

  “He’ll split them up,” Branden said.

  “Could be,” Cal said. “There’s at least one family who wants to keep their land and their phones and join a liberal group, up north of Trail. But the Walnut Creek bunch, starting out near the Goose Bottoms and west and north of there, are sticking with Andy Weaver. Taking down phone lines and selling off electric stuff like phones and faxes. They plan to keep a few electric lights in some of the district’s shops and factories, because it’s safer than oil lamps. But the rest of them are going back to wood stoves, kerosene lanterns, and plain black dress.”

  “Very unusual,” Branden sai
d.

  “Andy Weaver is a very unusual man,” Cal said dryly.

  “He’ll move against the cult, Cal.”

  “Eventually. Once he knows more.”

  “Does he know about the robberies I’m working, by Amish kids in goat’s-head masks?”

  “Yes,” Cal answered flatly.

  Branden eyed Troyer. “Is he prepared to be any help to me on that?”

  “In time.”

  “He’s got something more pressing?”

  “Land swindles.”

  “Land?”

  “Land swindles. Your John R. Weaver, no less.”

  “Back to the land baron,” Branden said and wondered how Britta Sommers fit in.

  “It doesn’t affect the whole outfit,” Cal said. “But Andy Weaver, the new bishop, takes the position that anything that threatens the well-being of one family threatens the well-being of them all. As it is, seven or eight young families are directly affected. John R. Weaver was going to terminate their farms on an obscure clause in their lease-to-own contracts.”

  “Can’t believe Amish would go lease-to-own on land,” Branden said, an eyebrow raised.

  Cal said, “It goes back to Melvin Yoder, again. He allowed some of the younger fellas, starting out, to acquire their farmland from John R. on a lease-to-own basis. They’re about halfway done on the payoff, and Weaver wrote them each a letter saying that he had decided to sell the land outright, for development.”

  “The way Britta Sommers explained things to me, he has already sold the land,” Branden said.

  “That’s what Andy Weaver wants to talk to you about.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” Cal said. “Tomorrow morning, if you’ll be free. I told him you would be.”

  “Just like that, Cal?”

  “Have you forgotten how pleasant this county used to be before the big housing developers and the tourist industries took over, Mike?”

  “I’ve got enough to do with the sheriff’s office. First, there’s Weaver’s accident. Then Britta Sommers’s house, and before that, riding decoy to catch those kids holding up buggies.”

  “Figured you would say that,” Cal said and grinned. “I’ve got a little something that’ll put you out at Bishop Weaver’s place early.”

  “Is that a fact?” Branden said, amused.

  “It is, Professor, and I’ll tell you why.”

  Branden made an expression of exaggerated resignation and said with a growing smile, “Go on.”

  “One of Weaver’s families has a son, gone English, who has worked as a surveyor for Jimmy Weston on some of these new, pricey, housing developments that are going up for rich city folk who want a place in the country. He’s pretty much gone off the deep end. Crying mostly, and pounding his head with his fists, until they restrained him. He’s been muttering strange things about John R. Weaver’s dead buggy horse.”

  11

  Thursday, August 10

  6:55 P.M.

  WHEN Branden arrived that night at Bruce Robertson’s room in Pomerene Hospital, he found Dan Wilsher and Ricky Niell waiting outside in the hall. Robertson’s door was open, and Branden could see Cal Troyer and Captain Bobby Newell inside. A nurse stepped away from her station in the hall and reminded Branden that the sheriff could have one visitor at a time, and then for five minutes only. When she spotted both Troyer and Newell in Robertson’s room, she marched in authoritatively, scolded Robertson, and chased both men out of the room. Outside again, she laid down the law for all five of them.

  When she had returned to her station, Captain Newell said his good-byes and left.

  Niell said to Wilsher, “Is it still two days and then off the case, Lieutenant? Doesn’t give us much time to figure out how Phil got caught in that pileup.”

  Branden said, “I think you’re going to find that Weaver’s accident and the arson out at Sommers’s place are related. That gives us all the time we want, Ricky. Working on the one case means working on the other, too.”

  Lieutenant Wilsher said, “There’s nothing material to connect the two.”

  “Sommers was John Weaver’s trustee,” Branden offered.

  “That’s more of a connection than you may realize,” said Troyer.

  “Your land swindles?” Branden asked.

  “Right,” Cal said and then explained for Niell and Wilsher that John Weaver had backed out on property lease-to-purchase contracts, apparently putting eight Amish families off their farms.

  Niell commented, “Amish don’t do lease-to-own.”

  Troyer answered, “It’s rare, I’ll grant you that. But we’ve got eight real cases, clustered in Melvin P. Yoder’s old district.”

  Branden glanced in at Robertson and saw him struggling to rise up from his bed.

  “That seems plausible,” Wilsher said. “Sommers and Weaver, connected on the land aspect, I mean.”

  “Has anyone seen Sommers?” Troyer asked.

  “We’ve been looking,” Wilsher answered.

  Branden watched Robertson and grimaced. He turned back to the group and said to Wilsher, “Dan, why don’t you go in first. I think the sheriff is wearing out.”

  Cal said he had finished his visit and left. Niell and Branden waited while Wilsher made his report to the sheriff.

  Niell glanced anxiously at his watch and said, “Ellie’s expecting me.”

  “You still need to see Robertson?”

  “Yes,” Niell said, and drew a small spiral-bound notebook out of his hip pocket. “I’ve brought my notes.”

  Branden studied the little notebook in Ricky’s hand and asked, “Has anything else happened that I don’t know about?”

  Niell thought. Tentatively, he said, “Got a visit from Brad Smith’s parents. They asked to photocopy all of my notes.”

  “They paid me a visit, too. Did you give them your notes?”

  “No.”

  “I told them to hire a private investigator in Chicago,” Branden said.

  Ricky nodded.

  Niell went in when Wilsher came out, and Branden waited in the hall alone. When Niell came out, Branden slipped into Robertson’s room, closing the door.

  Robertson lay on his back, eyes closed. He was sweating and looked exhausted to Branden. The professor stepped into the small bathroom, ran cool water onto a facecloth, squeezed it out, came back to Robertson’s side, and used the cloth to dab at the perspiration on the sheriff’s forehead and cheeks.

  Robertson opened his eyes and said, “Thanks, Mike,” taking the cloth and holding it to the side of his neck.

  “Shall I call the nurse?” Branden asked.

  “Just get me that nosepiece for oxygen.”

  Branden took down the clear plastic tubing that hung on the bed rail and slipped the elastic band over the sheriff’s head. The two small ports he fit into Robertson’s nostrils, and the sheriff lay still for several minutes, drawing deep breaths through his nose, while holding the damp cloth to his forehead.

  When his breathing was relaxed again, Robertson dropped his arm to his side, and Branden took the cloth and hung it on the side railing where Robertson could reach it again.

  “Couldn’t be a worse time,” Robertson whispered.

  “Let Newell handle matters,” Branden said.

  “Newell doesn’t give me as much detail in his reports as Kessler does.”

  “Ellie tells me Kessler’s out on vacation.”

  Robertson nodded, closing his eyes momentarily.

  “Niell and Wilsher will do just fine,” Branden said, taking a seat in an overstuffed green chair, upholstered in smooth plastic.

  “Niell should have made sergeant by now, but doesn’t seem to care,” Robertson said, gaze focused on the ceiling. “You gotta wonder about that. And Armbruster is just a rookie. So I want you working the Weaver case, too.”

  Branden said, “I’ve already got that worked out with Bobby, and Niell’s better than you make him out to be, Bruce.”

  Robertson closed his eyes ag
ain, grunted softly, and brought his knees up with considerable exertion.

  Branden asked, “What’d you get from Wilsher?”

  “Says Britta Sommers didn’t show at the bank. Hasn’t been seen since yesterday.”

  “Has he got anything new from the Weaver place?”

  “Been through most of the documents there, and some of the computer records,” Robertson said weakly, eyes fluttering shut.

  Branden eased the big sheriff’s knees down to the bed and said, “Weaver’s most recent land deals were with an outfit up in Cleveland. He and Britta Sommers had a corporation for land and other real estate matters.”

  Robertson nodded with his eyes closed.

  “There weren’t any papers, Bruce,” Branden said, “but the last entries Weaver had made in his computer seemed to involve Holmes Estates up in Cleveland. Corroborates what Britta told me yesterday, and a buck will get you ten that Cal Troyer’s problem with his Amish friends’ land swindles is connected to Sommers’s disappearance.”

  “What kind of land swindle?” Robertson asked, eyes open again.

  “I’m not sure. We’re going out there tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were never going to get over her,” Robertson’s voice trailed off.

  “Ancient history, Sheriff,” Branden said, but Robertson’s eyes had closed.

  12

  Friday, August 11

  7:06 A.M.

  BISHOP Andy R. Weaver was rocking on Melvin Yoder’s old front porch, smoking a pipe and waiting for Cal Troyer and Mike Branden. He had assembled the men an hour earlier and had cautioned them what could be said, and what could not. It was one thing to talk with English about their land troubles, quite another to mention the rest.

  When he saw Branden’s truck raising dust on the lane, he got up from his rocker and stood at the top of the steps of the porch. In spite of the heat, he was dressed in conservative Amish attire, high-lacing work boots, shiny blue jeans with baggy side pockets, brown cloth suspenders, and a dark blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His vest was off, hanging on the rocker behind him. Beside the house, there was a line of buggies, the horses hitched to a fence that ran along a field of withered corn.