by Gaus, P. L.
Cal pulled the dust cover off the one car, a dull yellow Ford Escort, and climbed in on the passenger side. He opened the glove box, sorted through some papers, read a name on the registration, and asked, “John Miller?”
“That’s one of them,” Raber said.
In the other car, a white Chevy Nova from the ’60s, Cal found the registration papers and said, “I know this fellow. Lives down the valley. Jeremiah Miller.”
Raber smiled wanly and said, “That’s one of the boys who want to marry Sara Yoder.”
“He’s not in your district,” Cal said. “He’s with the Melvin Miller congregation.”
Raber shrugged. “The kids all know each other these days. Ten miles is only a ten-minute ride for them, anymore. It’d take an hour in a buggy.”
Cal’s phone rang, and he stepped outside to take the call. As he listened, he waved Raber over to him, said, “OK, Mike,” and switched off.
Intently, Cal said, “Irvin, they’ve found a young man, hurt, and Mike thinks it may be Abe Yoder. They’re at Pomerene Hospital.”
CAL pulled in under the carport at the emergency room doors, let the bishop out on the blacktop, and backed up into a parking space at Joel Pomerene Memorial Hospital, on a steep hill beside the Wooster Road. In the lobby, they found Mike Branden and Bruce Robertson talking with a doctor in green scrubs. As they walked up, the doctor was saying, tying on a scrub hat, “I don’t think it nicked the kidney. It’s the infection I’m worried about.”
Branden introduced the doctor to Raber, and the bishop followed the doctor to one of the curtained rooms. When he came out, Raber stated, “It’s Abe Yoder, all right.”
Cal said, “We need to get Albert and Miriam Yoder to come in.”
“They’re taking him into surgery,” Robertson said. “Going to clean out the wound.”
Raber asked, “How long could that take, do you think?”
Robertson said, “Depends.”
Raber asked, “Does anyone know how bad off he is?”
Branden said, “He tried to stitch himself up several days ago. The infection has had a long time to fester.”
“He could die?” Raber asked.
None of the three English men volunteered an answer.
Cal cleared his throat and said, “Irvin, do you know their cell phone number?”
Raber shook his head and turned to go back to where the nurses were working to prepare Yoder for surgery. Cal laid a hand on his arm and pulled him gently back around. “Don’t worry about it, Irvin. Ricky Niell wrote their numbers down,” Cal said, and let the distracted bishop go.
Robertson said, “I’ll call Niell,” and stepped outside to call the jail.
Branden stopped a nurse in pink scrubs and asked, “Can we talk to him?”
The nurse said, “He hasn’t been conscious. We’ve sedated him now for surgery.”
Down the hall, an orderly pushed Abe Yoder’s gurney out into the hall, and then into the elevator while a doctor held the doors open. As Yoder rolled by, Bishop Raber reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. When the elevator doors closed, the nurses and orderlies in the emergency room went quietly and efficiently about their other duties.
Cal watched Irvin Raber take it all in with a stunned look on his face, and the pastor said to him, gently, “The sheriff will have Sergeant Niell contact the Yoders and bring them into town, Irvin.”
Raber blinked and looked at Cal and then Branden in turn. “It suffices to know that he is alive,” he said. “He’s been in God’s hands since the day he was born.”
WHEN Albert P. and Miriam Yoder arrived, t hey were dressed in formal Sunday attire. Albert P. wore a black suit with a plain waist-coat, and Miriam wore a long, dark green dress with a white lace bodice. He was in a black felt hat, she in a black bonnet. Bishop Raber got up from a waiting-room chair and took them aside. He spoke solemn Dutch at some length, and then the Yoders took seats next to each other in the waiting room. Beyond the few words they spoke to Raber, the Yoders said nothing. The cast of their eyes seemed to be at once purposeful and resigned.
Cal whispered a few words to Branden, and the professor stepped outside to stand under the carport with Robertson and Niell, letting Cal take the lead with the Yoders. Cal came outside after speaking a few words of encouragement to the Yoders, and asked Niell, “How’d they take it?”
Niell said, “Shocked. Like anybody would be, I guess. Also, glad that he’s still alive.”
Branden asked, “None of the kids came with them?”
“They’ve all got their orders, Doc,” Niell said. “Chores and such. I couldn’t get them here any faster. Mrs. Yoder took the time to speak to each one of the kids. Wouldn’t leave any sooner.”
Cal asked, “Did you tell them much about what happened? Explain how bad he is?”
Niell said, “Only what I know myself, and that isn’t much.”
Robertson said, somewhat bemused, “You notice they took the time to dress formal? You’d think they could have gotten here faster.”
“Just being conservative,” Cal said. “Amish don’t panic readily.” To Branden he said, “You found him in one of the old Peterborough cabins?”
“Right,” Branden said. “There was someone with him who ran off when I got there. I think he’s been hiding there since the trouble at the Spits Wallace place.”
“Hiding from whom?” Cal asked.
Robertson said, “Look, Cal, it was always heading this way with the Rumschpringes. Sooner or later. Now two kids have gotten themselves shot over drugs, and the whole bunch of them is tied up in it. For all I know, one of them shot the other!”
“That’s just baloney,” Cal growled, muscles tensing in his arms and neck.
Robertson said, “They’re going to account for themselves, and I’m not waiting any longer. Every hour puts Sara Yoder at greater risk.”
Branden said, “Good luck rounding them up,” and got a scowl from the sheriff.
Cal said, “They’ve all agreed to an interview at 6:00.”
Robertson said, “I don’t think I can wait that long under the circumstances.” To Niell, Robertson continued, “Ricky, bring them in. Any of them that you can round up. Just bring ’em in.”
“Wait,” Cal said. “I’ll go back in and talk to Raber. Maybe he can get them together faster.”
Cal left and Branden said, “There’s still going to be plenty left to do.”
Robertson said, “It’s the weekend coming up, Mike. That’ll stall us out.”
Niell said, “The state BCI lab people aren’t going to go through the Pontiac until Monday, anyway.”
Robertson said, “OK. What else have we got?”
Branden volunteered, “Cal and I can still go out to Schlabaugh’s trailer. I have the keys now. We could do that before we talk with the kids.”
Robertson nodded approval.
“You’ll also want to go through that cabin,” the professor said. “See what we missed.”
Robertson nodded again.
Niell asked, “What has Wilsher gotten off the phone dump?”
“Still working on it,” Robertson said. “And Carter is screening more videotapes.”
“Someone should try to talk to Abe Yoder when he wakes up,” Cal said, as he walked up to the men. “Irvin is using the Yoders’ cell phone. Might be his first time doing that. Anyway, he says he’ll have them all here by four o’clock at the latest.”
“He can do that?” Niell asked.
“He’s the bishop,” Cal said flatly.
When Robertson and Niell had headed for their car, Cal said to Branden, “Mike, one of the cars in Schlabaugh’s barn belongs to someone we know.”
Branden waited.
“You saved his life when he was ten.”
“Jeremiah Miller?”
“He’s the one who wants to marry Sara Yoder.”
12
Friday, July 23
2:45 P.M.
AT John Schlabaugh’s trailer, Cal’s gray work truck
was parked back by the barn, under the tall hickory trees. Branden found Cal and Bishop Irvin Raber going through the trunk of the yellow Escort parked inside the barn. As sunny as the afternoon was, the light was dim in the barn, and Troyer and Raber were working with a flashlight.
When Branden arrived, Cal said, “Hold these, Mike,” and handed Branden a tangle of English clothes smelling strongly of stale cigarette smoke and beer. Branden laid the clothes across a wooden sawhorse that stood against the interior wall of the barn.
Next, Cal pulled out an assortment of camping gear, and handed the items one at a time to Branden, who stacked the goods on the concrete pad, behind the parked cars. In Branden’s stack there was a sleeping bag of green nylon and a green Coleman lantern in a red plastic case. A small hatchet. An aluminum cook kit of nested pans and skillets, banded together with a loop of copper wire. Fishing tackle. A folding chair. And last, a GPS receiver like the one they had found in John Schlabaugh’s grave. Branden switched it on and found the batteries dead.
Cal observed, “This is John Miller’s car, Mike. He’s one of the kids in Schlabaugh’s gang.”
In a cardboard box pushed to the back of the trunk, Irvin Raber found a collection of pornographic magazines. He dropped the box back into the trunk as if it were a palpable evil and muttered to himself, something in dialect that Cal didn’t understand.
Cal said, “It’s pretty much the same thing in the Chevy, Mike,” tipping his head at Jeremiah Miller’s car.
Branden walked over to the tractor, studied the farm implements, and asked Raber, “This all belong to John Schlabaugh?”
Raber said, “Some of the men helped to pay for the plow and the reaper. The rest is John’s.”
At the trailer, out beside the road, Raber tried the keys and got the right one on the third try. Inside, they found a jumbled mess. Curtains torn from the windows, books strewn about on the floor. Dishes pulled down from the cupboards and shattered. Kitchen table upended, and balanced at an acute angle in the corner. Appliances tossed into a heap on the kitchen floor. A TV screen broken and the glass gouged out onto the carpet. Overturned ashtrays. Clothing emptied out of drawers. Bed off its frame, sheets and blankets crumpled and tossed into a corner.
Branden crunched through broken glass and turned the kitchen table upright. He set the two chairs beside it. Cal walked back to the bedroom and started sorting through the clothes that had been pulled from the drawers. Bishop Raber cleared a spot on the couch and sat down wearily.
Branden said, “It’s been searched, Cal.”
Cal came into the living room, studied the disarrayed electronics there, and said, “There used to be a computer here.”
Raber gave a sorrowful moan, got up and sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Cal joined him there, and Branden leaned back against the sink, arms folded over his chest. Raber cradled his head in his hands and began to talk softly.
“They’ve got everything they need, Cal, our kids. Homes, families, security. They’ve got it all, and still it’s not enough. They’ve got an itch to scratch. So they scratch.
“They could make plenty of money and just stay home. It’s not like we don’t let them take jobs. Even with a 14/7, they lack for nothing.
“But that’s where they get into trouble, on the jobs. Computers and phones. TVs and videos. It’s all out there for them, the English world. Who can stop it? And it’s been getting worse every year.
“And if, when they are young, we haven’t managed to give them a faith that will sustain them, they are lost to the world when they leave us. Which one of us, without our faith, could hold to righteousness in this vain and faithless world?
“They see the glitter, those young ones. Sparkle and shine. But it’s false. I know what’s on those TVs, Cal. Glitter to snare the eye, and it’s the eyes that are the windows to the souls of the boys. They want what they see, and nowadays, they see it all.
“So, how do we keep them home, Cal? How do we keep them safe? If they have to see the world, then we must prepare them to see the truth. To see the rust beneath the glitter, before it is too late.
“So, I preach the Word, Cal, let me tell you. They all know what the Good Book says. We preach commitment to the only real thing there is—community. The church as the community of believers. We say to them, Stay! In the name of God, Stay! Forsake the world of golden streamers and glitter stars, where all is false and shallow. Stay, we say. Build a plain and simple life of commitment and community. Serve the Lord where you live. Live the life of sacrifice, devoted to the higher purposes. Live in the light, for God is light. Live in truth, for God is truth.
“And still they have to see the world for themselves, Cal. They don’t know what my words signify until they’ve gotten themselves locked away for a drunken brawl or a stolen car. Alone is where the heart first cries out for touch, for communion, for belonging.
“I tell you the world has a ripping wind, Cal. It tears our children from our arms. They don’t know the danger. We can’t hold them. If they are ripped away, who can save them? If they falter alone, who is to mourn? And it’s the Rumschpringe that lures them into the world. It has been a tradition for as long as any of us can remember, but I rue the day we ever allowed this Rumschpringe among us.
“But, without the Rumschpringe, who can know? Without the going, who can return? How will they know the truth of what we preach? Tell me it’s not wrong, Cal, to let them go out into the world. Oh, if I could only know peace in this.
“Without the training of the church, how can they see the difference between good and evil? I tell you that they can’t, Cal. They can’t see. They have no sight at that age. And what can I do? I am only a bishop. What could I possibly know about the world? I, who have never tasted it, seen it, lived it. In my day, the Rumschpringe was a mild thing. A mere dalliance. ‘How can I know?’ they will say. I was called to be bishop when I was only forty-six. What did I know then? How can a man prepare for such a burden? The children come to me for answers. They want to know what the things mean that they see on television. What they mean, the things that they read in magazines. But what can I know of these choices? What answers can I give? All I can do is uphold the Word and pray that it still has the power to preserve. To guide them when they are away from home. What else can I do?
“And what is happiness? How can a child of eighteen or twenty know what sorrows come streaming in on the winds? How can they see the glitter for what it really is? We say, ‘Marry and raise a family.’ The world says girls, girls, girls, and boys, boys, boys, on every street corner. Free love. Free sex. No commitments. And then it drops them into a lonely hole from which they can never escape. A loneliness that has no balm. Chasing the glitter stars from town to town. When all along they could have lived with real beauty, with God’s family.
“These young ones don’t know what terrible storms there are when they set out in their Rumschpringes. They only know temptation, mistaking it for love. Or thrills, mistaking them for security.
“So, that’s why we’ve had a good Amish boy living here by himself, in a trailer. Surrounded by gadgets. Unspeakably alone. Dead.
“And a gang of kids running wild. Shot and killed. Laid up in the hospital. Young girls pulled into cars by ruffians. Parents with unspeakable grief.
“They need answers, too, these parents. It makes me want to cry out. They see their children drive off, and all I can tell them is to pray. Love them every minute you have, and pray without ceasing. Pray that the world won’t drag them away. Pray that the children turn back and see the truth. Pray, sometimes, that they’ll just make it home tonight, Lord. Pray that the sheriff never comes to your door in the middle of the night with the kind of news that rends your very heart from your chest. Like the news the Schlabaughs got this morning.”
Raber took his hands away from his eyes and found that he had been weeping. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and moaned. Cal had a handkerchief laid out on the table, and Raber
took it gratefully and dried his eyes and blew his nose. He looked up at the professor and shrugged an apology. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I don’t think I can bear the pain, if we don’t find Sara Yoder in time.”
13
Friday, July 23
4:00 P.M.
BRANDEN met Ricky Niell in the long hall on the first floor of Millersburg’s cubical red brick jail, and they poked their heads into Interview A and Interview B. In each room, Robertson had set out a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups. Placards on the gray metal tables admonished NO SMOKING. Each room held precisely four chairs, three at one end of the rectangular tables, and one by itself, at the other end.
In the sheriff’s office, Robertson skipped pleasantries and said, “Look, it’s critical that we get a line on where Sara Yoder is. The rest can wait. We know they’re into drugs, and we can always come back to that later, if we really want an investigation. We don’t know who shot John Schlabaugh, but if it was one of them, they won’t be likely to own up to it today.”
“It could just as likely be Spits Wallace who shot Abe and John, both,” Branden said.
“Or Abe Yoder shot Schlabaugh,” Niell suggested.
Branden shook his head and said, “Not Amish, Ricky. It’s just not possible. Besides, who shot Abe, then? He was shot in the back. It would seem more likely to me that Spits shot one or even both of them.”
Robertson punched his intercom button and said, “Ellie, where’s Deputy Carter?”
“He’s out with Captain Newell,” Ellie answered. “They’re checking bars in Wooster.”
“Did he ever finish watching those videotapes?”
“Yes, and he marked one for you to see. Said it looked like a drug buy, involving John Schlabaugh and a big redheaded guy. Handing over a briefcase.”
Robertson switched off and said, “If that’s true, then the DEA can probably tell us who the redheaded guy is.”
Again, Robertson punched the intercom. “Ellie, who’ve we got in the house right now?”