by P. L. Gaus
32
Thursday, August 17
4:00 P.M.
BRANDEN cruised into the parking lot across the street from Akron Children’s Hospital and tapped lightly on the boot box that lay on the seat beside him. He inspected the wrapping paper, light green with glitter, and straightened the bright yellow ribbon and bow. A corner of the wrapping paper had lifted up, and he took a tape dispenser off the dash of his truck and taped the paper down again. He got out under dark afternoon skies and hurried to the elevators in the corner of the parking lot, shielding the package from the light mist and rain that was developing, as the outriders of an approaching storm broke the long summer drought.
In the glass and steel archway over Bowery Street, he stopped to watch the clouds. The pelting mist soon turned to a blowing rain that glanced along the window, streamed down, and puddled and flowed toward the storm drains on the street below. A nurse in white opened the outside door from the parking lot, and as she entered, Branden felt the moist coolness of the late summer storm as the skies darkened considerably and the rain strengthened to a steady, thundering downpour. A sense of belonging, connectedness, affirmed his woodland instincts.
He lingered on the crossway until the rain slackened to a light drizzle. As he watched the steam rising off the blacktop below, he set his package down, took out his cell phone, and with his optimism restored, he called Dr. Waverly at the psych ward in Aultman Hospital in Canton. He learned only that Yoder was making slow progress toward understanding what he had done to J. R. Weaver.
Branden closed the phone, dropped it into his shirt pocket, took up his package, and negotiated the turns and interior corridors of the hospital until he arrived at the burn unit. At the reception counter on the left, he inquired about Robertson and asked for a yellow paper gown, cap, and face mask.
“Dr. Taggert is still in Robertson’s room,” she said. “Been there almost all day.”
“Is it OK if I go on back?” Branden asked.
“No more than two at a time,” she said. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
The nurse keyed him through the main door to the burn unit, and circled back to the counter to use the intercom.
In Robertson’s room, Branden found the same battery of pumps and monitors against the wall behind the sheriff’s bed. The lights in the room were dim, and Missy Taggert sat in her yellow gown and mask in a large and heavily padded brown upholstered hospital chair with a tall, straight back.
She turned to Branden and said, softly, “We’ve just changed his bandages.”
Branden laid the green and yellow package on the foot of Robertson’s bed, and the sheriff came around, eyed the package, and griped, “I guess that’s the best color scheme one can expect from a college professor.”
The professor smiled for Robertson’s benefit and exchanged glances with Taggert. She shook her head sadly.
The intercom crackled, and a nurse announced that Deputy Ricky Niell was waiting outside to see the sheriff.
Missy pushed out of the big hospital chair and said, “I’ll step out.” Quietly, she drew the professor aside and whispered, “He needs encouragement, Mike. Some reason to hang on.”
When she had cleared the room, Robertson pushed himself up with effort and asked, “Are those Missy’s boots?”
“Smooth ostrich skin, just like you said. Had to back-order your size, though.”
Robertson nodded, and eased back on his pillows.
“Does it hurt much?” Branden asked.
Robertson shrugged. “Mostly it wears you out.”
Niell came into the room in a yellow paper suit and said, “Do we have to wear these masks all of the time?”
Robertson waved Niell to his bedside and, struggling, said, “Newell says you figured out who was robbing buggies, and found their hideout.”
“It was a ritual barn,” Niell said. “Satanic. We tore it down yesterday. The party who owns the land gave us permission. He didn’t even know it was there.”
Robertson’s expression coaxed more, and Niell added, “The owner lives in Cleveland. Hasn’t actually been on the property in ten years.”
“But you did catch the kids who were doing it?” Robertson asked.
“Not really. All I know is what Bishop Weaver told me this morning. All the people who were robbed have been paid back personally by two kids from his congregation.”
“So Weaver knows who was doing it,” Robertson concluded. “We can get their names.”
“Weaver won’t give them up,” said Niell.
Robertson shook his head side to side.
Branden said, “That’s going to be a dead end, Bruce,” and Robertson seemed to accept it.
“Now tell me how you grabbed up Weston,” Robertson said to Branden, rising up with effort onto his elbows.
Branden started to explain about being locked in his trunk, and Robertson cut him off. “No. I mean how did you figure him out?”
Branden took a seat in Missy’s large brown chair and said, “When I was looking through Ricky’s notes from the accident, I remembered something that had seemed curious when I first heard it from Ricky in the emergency room.”
Robertson held his eyes closed and waved his hand for more.
Niell said, “At first, Weston didn’t report that he had heard a truck backfire.”
“Right,” Branden said. “And he, most of all, should have heard one. His air conditioner was broken and all of his windows were down. Besides, MacAfee’s produce truck was brand new and wouldn’t have had any engine problems.”
“But Weston did report hearing a backfire in my second interview,” Niell said.
“Took him a while to realize he needed to have heard one,” Robertson offered in a whisper, and lay back with his eyes closed.
“He saw Yoder with Weaver’s rifle,” Branden said. “His truck was parked in just the right place to see back toward the woods. He would have heard the shot, seen Yoder, and eventually figured out that he had to report hearing a backfire like all the others. That would give him time to frame Yoder, because even then he intended to murder Britta. Probably got the idea right there at the accident, if he wasn’t already thinking about it before. Then he made two cell phone calls from the accident scene. One was to his partner, Becker. The other one is going to turn out to have been to Britta.”
“Why?” Robertson asked.
“Britta was selling out, Bruce. Everything. Right down to her majority share in Weston Surveying. Weston had sold her sixty percent a few years back just to keep afloat, and he knew Holmes Estates would call that due as soon as she had sold it to them. His phone call was one last try to convince Britta not to sell him out, with Weaver dead. When she refused, he started planning to murder her, framing Yoder.”
“Why would he do that if she was already determined to sell?” Robertson asked softly.
“Partner’s insurance,” Branden said. “They had $250,000 policies on each other. If she died before finishing the sale to Holmes Estates, Weston could at least walk away with that. Plus the sale of Weston Surveying would be less likely to go through.”
“That’s all speculation,” Niell said. “What proof do you have that he actually did it?”
“Flying glass,” Branden said, obviously satisfied with himself. He waited to let Robertson and Niell think about it.
“At the fire at Britta’s house, he poured too short a fuse. I found shards of window glass back as far as the tree line. His face and hands got cut up pretty badly, so the next thing I heard from him, through Becker, was that he had gotten scratched on a job site over near Dover. Trouble was, the Dover hospital has no record of his being there, and when I called Holmes Estates, they remembered Weston having been up there the day he was supposed to have been cut by brambles and a rusty barbed-wire fence.”
“So he called Becker from Cleveland to give himself an alibi for the cuts he got when he torched Britta’s house,” Niell concluded.
“And to hide the fact that
he was really up in Cleveland trying to save his company,” Branden said. “You see, the key was to get to Yoder fast, probably as early as Monday afternoon after the crash, and keep him drunk and off his medicine. Well, Yoder was pretty far gone by then anyway, and when Weston took him to his parents’ house last Thursday afternoon, Yoder was totally incapable of saying anything coherent.”
Niell said, “OK. You saw that all in my notes about the backfires. But when did you first suspect Weston?”
“When Becker took Weston’s call. It was the cuts. I knew we were looking for someone whose face was cut by flying glass. It was just too convenient for Weston to have gotten cut on the job where no one could have seen him.”
Niell continued. “Why did Weston come in so late to tell Newell that Yoder had confessed that he had shot Weaver’s horse? You would think he would have come in earlier.”
Robertson listened with his eyes open again, as Branden explained. “He was just slow to think it through. He needed us to get out to Yoder’s trailer faster. Had it all set up for us. Not just Britta’s body, but inside the trailer, too. The letter in the printer. Crushed Lithobid tablets on the bathroom floor. The cartridges from the rifle and the gas can. He was slow to figure he needed to nudge us Yoder’s way, so we’d find where he had planted Britta’s body. In truth, he should have waited for us to find Britta ourselves, as we eventually would have done.”
“Weston planned the whole thing,” Niell said.
“From the moment he saw Yoder with that rifle at the accident scene,” Branden said.
“There’s a lot of dumb mistakes, there,” Robertson said and pushed gently with his hands to move himself up onto the pillows. He failed and lay quiet, breathing hard.
“Over-management was Weston’s principal mistake,” Niell said. “If he had just sat tight, we might never have got him.”
The intercom carried the nurse’s voice from the front counter. “Pastor Troyer would like to come back.”
Niell fiddled with his yellow mask and said, “I’ve had about as much of this mask as I can take.”
He left, and soon Troyer appeared in his own yellow cap and gown. As he entered the room, he said, “I’ve got Andy Weaver waiting outside,” and “Do you all know it’s raining?”
Robertson seemed pleased and smiled. “Is it going to do any good?”
“Looks like a steady, all-day rain,” Cal said.
Branden asked, “Visiting Holmes Estates, Cal?”
Cal laughed heartily. “You’ll never believe what he has pulled off.”
Robertson asked, “Who’s that, Cal?”
“The new bishop in Melvin Yoder’s district.”
“Tried to buy his land back?” Branden asked.
“Didn’t just try, Mike. He actually did it.”
“So he’s not moving, after all?” Branden asked.
Cal nodded. “He went in there with an offer already in mind. Had it all planned out.”
“Buy what land?” Robertson asked.
“J. R. Weaver swindled eight of his district’s families out of their farms,” Branden said. “Ultimately, that’s what got him killed.” To Cal he added, “How’d Andy pull it off?”
“He told them he had 8.5 million in inheritance from Weaver’s estate. Offered it all to them for the eight farms they had bought from Weaver. Convinced them that they’d be better off making a quick profit all around than fighting it out in court for several years.”
“That was obviously a bluff,” Branden smiled. “Amish’d never take Holmes Estates to court.”
Cal said, “Exactly,” with great satisfaction.
“What’s he plan to do with the rest? I’m sure he didn’t mention the full eleven and a half.”
“He says he’s going to use the rest to establish a fund to pay real estate taxes for everyone in his district, every year, forever, and use some portion of the principal to buy as much land as he can, even at inflated prices.”
Robertson asked, “Why not just keep all the money?”
Branden answered. “Money is nothing to them. Land is everything.”
“He could move anywhere he wanted on 8.5 million,” Bruce said.
“I asked him about that,” Cal said. “He said something like, ‘Our troubles are not with the location of our hearts. Our troubles are with the devils in our hearts. So how would moving somewhere else solve our problems?’”
Robertson seemed to rouse a bit and said, “I still can’t believe he’d spend 8.5 million just to stay where he is!”
Cal lifted his arms, palms up, and asked, “What’s a peasant farmer going to do with that kind of money, if he hasn’t got his land?”
Branden changed the subject. “What about those two boys Ricky says are paying off on those robberies?”
Cal said, “Andy Weaver had a little talk with them yesterday,” and shook his head. “When he came out of the barn with them, they had just been shaved. Weaver had them both by the back of the collar and handed them over to their fathers like they were going to toe the line, or else.”
Robertson grumbled, “Humph,” and asked Branden, “How about Larry Yoder, Mike?”
“I just phoned his doctor. He’s making progress. Seems to want to talk. Maybe we’ll know someday if he meant to kill Weaver or just scare him. But the psychiatrist also hinted at something untoward in Yoder’s life.”
“Something like Satanism?” Robertson asked.
Cal held his peace.
Branden shrugged.
“Then that leaves just one thing,” Robertson said. “How did Phil Schrauzer know, ahead of time, to try to back away from that crash?” His eyes fluttered and closed.
“A puff of black smoke, Sheriff,” Branden answered. “When you park on 515, about where Phil was stopped that afternoon, you can see diesel exhaust when semis downshift coming over that rise. Phil saw the exhaust before the semi hit the crest. He also saw Weaver’s horse falter and knew there wouldn’t be time for Weaver to clear the road.”
Robertson shook his head, saddened. “Phil deserved better than that.”
A silent moment passed and Missy came back into the room. “It’s time the sheriff had a rest, boys.”
“Just one more thing, Missy,” Cal said. Smiling, he asked, “When’s Caroline coming home, Professor?”
“I’m flying out there, tomorrow,” Branden said, instantly on guard.
“That doesn’t give you much time,” Robertson grinned, catching Troyer’s eye.
“The sheriff’s right, Mike,” Cal needled. “You’d better start cleaning now.”
“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” Branden said, unconcerned.
“I’ll bet the dishes alone are enough to cook your goose,” Robertson whispered.
“You all underestimate me,” Branden smiled.
“I took pizza over to his place the other night,” Cal said to Robertson. “House was a mess.”
“I’ll have you both know the house is spotless,” Branden said.
“Then you’ve hired it done,” Cal challenged.
“Three Amish sisters,” Branden said, celebrating.
“Now you’ve just got to stay out of the place till then,” Robertson laughed, and then coughed heavily, wincing in pain.
“All right, then,” Cal teased. “Why are you flying to Arizona?”
Branden smiled broadly. “Caroline bought a new, two-seater sports car. A Miata. We’re going to drive it home with the top down, before classes start.”
Cal stood up and walked out, laughing. They could still hear him out in the hall as he left.
Robertson poked his toe at the package lying at his feet and whispered, “Hand me that box before you go, Mike.”
With Branden gone too, Robertson pushed weakly on the boot box beside him on the bed, and said, “This is for you, Missy.” He looked at her and thought she seemed genuinely surprised. Perhaps bewildered.
“Just open it,” Robertson whispered.
When Missy took t
he boots out of the box, her expression was of delight mixed with awkward embarrassment. She didn’t speak, but set the boots on the bed beside the sheriff, waiting.
Robertson reached for her hand and said, “Missy, without you, I’m as useless as a train ticket to Aruba.”
Missy began to cry.
Softly, Robertson pleaded, “Don’t cry, Missy. Please don’t cry.”
She popped a tissue from a box on top of one of the regulators and dried her eyes as best she could.
“Let’s go dancing, Missy,” Robertson breathed. “Lessons on Thursday nights. Dances on Saturdays.”
“Line dancing?” she asked, clearing her throat with difficulty.
“Cowboys don’t line dance,” Robertson said. “This would be couples progressive dance. Country-western.”
Missy drew near to him and spoke softly with flowing tears, as one hand brushed lightly over his short gray hair. “I hear you and Irene Cotton used to do that,” she whispered.
Robertson pulled her hand closer and managed only to say, “You and me Missy. I’m hanging on. Just you and me.”
1
Saturday, November 2
Dawn, Holmes County, Ohio
CURLED up in her black down parka, Martha Lehman lay on her side, back pressed firmly against the polished wood door, knees drawn tightly to her chest. The white block lettering on the door read Dr. Evelyn White Carson, Psychiatrist. Martha was aware only of the rough, cold carpet pressing into her cheek and of long, ragged breaths that repeatedly dragged her out of a trance. Thus, for an hour, before sunrise bled pink hues through the window at the end of the second-floor hall, she lay in a stupor, hounded again by a dreadful loneliness.
In wakeful moments, with a fervor born of an all-too-familiar pain, she renewed a childhood vow. Silence, she thought, had never betrayed her, and it was Silence she’d cling to now. Silence had brought her to Dr. Carson as a child, and Silence she would trust again. Then, it had been Carson who had understood the wordlessness. The sorrow and isolation of a mute child. It will be Carson, now, she prayed, who will remember.