The Silent Order

by Melanie Dobson

  Her head felt like it was swimming along with the current as the giant of a man cradled his strong hands under her arms and lifted her out of the water. His hat fell in the water and sun dusted golden waves across his light brown hair and clean-shaven face. A sound came out of her throat, but it sounded more like she was choking on creek water than laughing. And when she tried to smile at him, her teeth chattered instead.

  “Are you shmatza?” he asked. Hurt.

  He sounded distraught, and she knew he was concerned about her condition. But even more than the bruises that would surely form on the backs of her legs, she knew he was concerned about her behavior.

  Her toes still in the water, she bunched her skirt together and wrung a gallon of the creek back into its source. “I’m fine.”

  Jonas plucked his straw hat out of the water and looked toward the pathway that led to the house. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She should be up helping Erma can peaches in the kitchen instead of playing in the creek with Henry.

  “Did you see it, Jonas?” her son asked, his eyes as round as silver dollars.

  Jonas shook his head slightly. “See what?”

  “The airplane! Did you see it fly?”

  A shadow crossed over Jonas’s handsome face, as if the plane had blocked the sun from his face as well. “Nay, I didn’t see it.”

  Henry pleaded with him. “Then surely you heard it.”

  “The only thing I heard was your mamm falling into the water.”

  The smile rose quickly on her lips, laughter bubbling in her throat, but Jonas didn’t laugh with her.

  “He is fascinated with machines,” she tried to explain.

  She hoped Jonas would say it was no problem, all Amish boys went through a fascination with automobiles and even planes and they all grew out of it. But Jonas didn’t offer her any consolation. Instead he studied her like she should be the one consoling him.

  “Are you here to see Isaac?”

  “No,” he started. “We were supposed to…”

  She stopped him. “Oh, Jonas, I’m so sorry.”

  The call of this beautiful day had been so strong that she’d completely forgotten that Jonas was coming. She should have been at the house, ready for him to take her and Henry to his parents’ home for dinner.

  She wiped the beading sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. “Kumma, Henry.”

  Her son took her hand, and she turned back to Jonas. “We’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Jonas nodded his head slowly.

  She squeezed Henry’s hand. “Maybe even ten if we hurry.”

  Her bare feet sank into the cool earth and leaves as she turned toward the pathway, tugging Henry along behind her. She wished she could read Jonas Miller’s emotions, because he never talked about how he felt. He should be angry with her this afternoon, but it seemed he was just irritated with her that she was playing instead of working and waiting for him.

  She never should have forgotten this dinner.

  At the top of the hill, hidden by the trees in front of her, was the white farmhouse where she and Henry lived. She would quickly wash up and change into her lavender dress while Henry put dry clothes on as well. Jonas, she assumed, would wait in his buggy since Isaac was in the field.

  A green garter snake slithered in front of them, and Henry squealed. As her son knelt down in the dirt, she sighed. If she stopped every few minutes to let Henry explore, they would never be ready in fifteen minutes.

  Jonas waited in silence behind her.

  During the past three years, Jonas Miller had become quite the expert on waiting for her. He’d asked her to marry him a long time ago, and when she couldn’t give him an answer, he told her he would be patient while she made a decision. Many a night she’d lain in bed, trying to figure out why she couldn’t just say “yes” to his proposition. Jonas would make a good husband for her. A good father for Henry. She should accept his proposal with grace and gratefulness.

  But this decision was about so much more than her and Jonas Miller. It was about marriage, and it was about....

  “Katie.” Jonas’s call to her was low, but it still felt like the icy creek water flooded her veins. She stopped walking and turned, wondering what he wanted from her now. “Could I talk to you alone first?”

  Henry picked up the garter snake, and it wove through his fingers. She nudged him and his new friend toward the house. “Go change your trousers,” she said. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

  After her son rounded a bend in the curved path, she turned and faced Jonas. His dark blue eyes searched her face, and she felt the smoldering fire in his gaze.

  “I really am sorry, Jonas.”

  “You are always sorry.”

  “It’s this day.” She lifted her free hand to the sky as if the soft breeze and sunshine explained everything. “I got distracted.”

  He ground the heel of his boot into the ground. “And you are always distracted as well.”

  She stepped back, leaning against the crusty bark of an oak tree. “You shouldn’t wait on me, Jonas. There are plenty of less distracted women who’d love to be your wife.”

  His eyes didn’t leave her face. “But I don’t want to marry those women.”

  She looked down at the hem of her skirt, burying her toes in a pile of leaves. “You have been a good friend to Henry and me for so many years, but it’s not fair to make you wait any longer.”

  He took off his straw hat and twisted the wet rim in his hands. “Are you turning down my proposal?”

  “No—”

  He glanced down at his hat for a moment and then met her gaze again. “Then I will continue to wait.”

  “I’m not ready to marry.”

  “You don’t have to make a decision until November.”

  The wedding month.

  “I don’t know when I will decide,” she said. “If I will decide.”

  “One day you will have to make a choice, Katie.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t want to choose. She was content with her life exactly as it was right now.

  “You make your peace with God first,” he said. “Then we will talk.”

  God had been just as patient with her as Jonas had been, but the thought of making either of these decisions was daunting. Her word was her honor, and she would never, ever take a vow she couldn’t keep, whether it was to the church or to her husband.

  “Do you still want us to join you for dinner?” she asked.

  He watched her for a moment and then shook his head. “We will talk at the Yoders’ on Sunday.”

  Nodding her head, she watched him walk back up the path. There were plenty of other Amish women across their county who would do just about anything to have Jonas Miller come visiting, but he had chosen her, and she had no idea why. And she had no idea why he continued to wait on her.

  She heard the sound again above her, the whir of a plane’s propeller. She looked up and watched the machine streak through the blue sky one more time.

  She didn’t want anything to change and yet things kept changing, even in the timeless hills around the village of Sugarcreek. She wanted Henry to stay eight. She wanted to remain friends with Jonas. And, more than anything, she wanted to run from any decision that would change her and Henry’s lives.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cigarette smoke clouded the dilapidated station on Euclid Avenue, the stench of hard work laced with the acrid smell of smoldering tobacco. Twenty desks crammed into the open room and almost twice as many detectives and cops gathered around these desks in small pods to collaborate on how to stop the organized families in the Unione Siciliana from overrunning their city with Prohibition’s dual offspring, otherwise known as bootlegging and racketeering.

  Profanity spiced the whispered conversations along with the loud banter that volleyed across the room. Metal chairs scraped across the cement floor, and doors clanged from the cells that ringed the building. In the middle of the room, Rollin shoved a mas
s of paperwork into a pile, hiding it under his desk. In its place he spread a colorful map of Cleveland across the wooden surface.

  He’d spent most of his life in Cleveland, and he’d never heard of Sugar Creek before. Was Antonio talking about aligning his family with others at this place? If he could determine the location, he was certain they could find out what Antonio was planning there.

  With a sharp tug, he unknotted his tie and strung it over his coat, across the back of the chair, and began to pore over the ridged lines and dots on the map. But the lines on the papers blurred. The dark form of last night’s angel seemed to haunt him, following him around the precinct today like she was curious about what he would find.

  He rolled his neck and pressed his hands to his shoulders, trying to work out the knots. He had a job to do, and he wouldn’t let her distract him again.

  He blinked, his eyes on the map as he searched the waterways for a Sugar Creek. No matter how long it took, he would find out what Antonio was planning next, just like he’d found out about the meeting up at Lake View Cemetery last night.

  Once their captain confirmed Leone Puglisi’s murder, the news would sweep through Cleveland like an oil slick burning across Lake Erie. Half the force was down along Mayfield this afternoon, manning the corners and shops so no more bullets flew today, but the police couldn’t stand guard forever. Leone was right—a war had been brewing for well over a year, and this last skirmish could set them up for a battle of unknown proportions. The Puglisis against the Cardanos.

  If it weren’t for all the innocent bystanders who would be hurt in a battle, he’d try and convince Malloy to let the Sicilians battle it out among themselves. It would make his job a whole lot easier if they could take each other out of the picture for good.

  Too many people viewed the government’s ban on alcohol as a business opportunity instead of a detractor, and the Volstead Act only swelled the demand for their goods. Everyone from the bottom up in Cleveland’s law enforcement knew the Sicilian crime families were competing to be the sole refiner of corn sugar to make liquor, but they covered their tracks well when it came to distributing the corn sugar to their disreputable clientele.

  He and Rollin were the only detectives in their precinct dedicated to thwarting families like the Cardanos and Puglisis, and there were only fourteen detectives in all of Cleveland fighting against organized crime. Fourteen men with limited resources fighting against a stronghold of hundreds who made more money than John Rockefeller himself.

  The odds would make a betting man laugh, but Rollin didn’t bet nor did he laugh. He didn’t care much about the other families, but he would take down the Cardanos, with or without Lance Dawson’s help.

  Drips of coffee sprinkled across his map, and Rollin looked up to see Lance with a mug in each hand.

  The younger detective pushed a mug toward him. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

  Rollin glanced down at the coffee splattered across the map, but he took the coffee without complaining. “Thanks.”

  Lance twisted a chair around and sat down beside the desk, hands clutching his mug. “I was a jerk last night.”

  Rollin took a sip of the coffee, his eyes focused on the map. “Good observation.”

  “I was tired.”

  “Me too.”

  “I didn’t think they’d show up.” Lance inched the chair closer to the desk.

  “And yet they did.”

  Lance paused. “I’ve never actually seen someone get a bullet through the head before.”

  Rollin traced his finger along Mayfield Road, stopping at one of the entrances to the cemetery. “It won’t be the last time in this business.”

  Lance scooted the chair closer, lowering his voice. “How many people have you seen knocked off?”

  “Too many to count.”

  Lance’s hand shook, the coffee spilling onto the floor this time.

  Rollin looked over at him. “Why did you take this job?”

  He knocked on the wooden top in front of him. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting behind a desk all day.”

  “Sitting behind a desk probably sounds pretty nice now.”

  “Nah,” Lance said, his grin returning. “I’d rather watch a Puglisi get shot up any day.”

  “Just as long as it’s not you being shot at.”

  The grin fell a notch. “I’ll steer clear of the bullets, boss.”

  Rollin tugged on his chair, pulling it close to the desk as he contemplated the names on the map. “I can’t for the life of me find a creek called Sugar.”

  Lance took another sip of coffee. “You’re limiting your options.”

  Rollin looked up. “You know something?”

  “I’m just wondering if Sugar Creek isn’t a place,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe it’s some sort of code name for something else, like a place they hide their corn sugar. It could be near a creek or something.”

  Rollin rolled his neck again. Maybe he was limiting his options.

  There was one person he could ask, but getting information from his contact was complicated.

  There was one person he could ask, but getting information from his contact was complicated.

  “We’ll have to begin with the obvious first.” Rollin took a pen from his top drawer and circled the creeks near Mayfield Road. Sighing, he counted twelve. “We could spend all day sniffing around these, but what exactly are we looking for?”

  “A warehouse of some sort, I’m guessing. Someplace they’re storing the sugar.”

  “Antonio said it was an alignment.”

  “Maybe they’re pooling their resources.”

  Rollin tapped his pen on the map. “Who are they working with and why?”

  “Whatever they’re doing,” Lance said as he tipped his chair forward, “they won’t be able to keep it secret for long.”

  “Wells!” the captain called out from across the room, and Rollin hopped up from his seat.

  Lance clapped his shoulder. “Good luck.”

  Captain Malloy slammed the door behind Rollin, the frosted glass shaking along the wall. Even as Malloy dropped down into the chair, he commanded attention. He was the tallest man at their precinct and probably the smartest looking as well, with his neatly trimmed mustache and tailor-made attire. Even if he didn’t always agree with his tactics, Rollin had admired the man since Malloy recruited him eight years ago. Malloy was as devoted to cleaning up their city as he was.

  Malloy propped his elbows on the desk, folding his hands together. “I just got back from Dempsey Lake…”

  “And?”

  “The divers recovered Leone’s body along with the body of Sergio Nardelli.”

  Rollin glanced out between the bars on Malloy’s window. His contact said last night would be big, but Rollin had had no clue as to how big. Not only had they knocked off Leone Puglisi, but now Nardelli was gone as well—the criminal who’d been accused but not convicted of taking the life of a Cleveland cop. The case against Nardelli had gone to trial, but the jury hung on the verdict like most juries seemed to do when it came to convicting anyone involved with bootlegging alcohol or racketeering the sale of it.

  Malloy scooted to the edge of his seat. “What exactly happened last night?”

  “I have a contact—”

  “Who?” he interrupted.

  “I can’t say.”

  Malloy drummed his fingers together. “Go on.”

  “My contact told me something important was going to happen last night above Dempsey Lake.”

  “How did he know?”

  Rollin shifted in his chair. “I can’t say that either.”

  “You’re just a wellspring of information, aren’t you?”

  Rollin pressed the soles of his shoes against the hard floor. He wanted to come clean with the captain, but he couldn’t compromise his source. Not until they were ready to expose the entire Cardano family. “We wouldn’t even know about these murders if it weren’t for my information.”
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br />   “I want you to treat this informer with kid gloves.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We need his information.”

  Rollin nodded, wondering how much to tell Malloy and how much to keep under wraps until he had more evidence. When they finally unraveled the organization, his boss would hold a press conference and tout their hard work fighting crime in Cleveland. Malloy would have his moment in the spotlight, but Rollin had to make sure they had enough evidence to convict the Cardanos this time. Irrefutable evidence.

  “So where exactly did Junior meet up with these men?”

  Rollin thought about the tombstone—and the angel. He didn’t want to bring her into this.

  “They were along the road, near a mausoleum.”

  Malloy nodded. “We found plenty of blood on the road, but we don’t know who shot them.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “Antonio was there along with about eight other men, but I couldn’t see their faces in the dark.”

  “Antonio never seems to do the bloody work himself.”

  “He doesn’t need to. He pays the other men well enough to do it for him.”

  “So we have two murdered criminals. No suspects.” He eyed Rollin. “And no witnesses.”

  The captain was fishing, but Rollin didn’t waver under Malloy’s stare. If Rollin testified against Antonio right now, not only would it destroy any hope of him exposing the Cardano family operations, but his source would never speak to him again. He couldn’t risk it, not until the time was right.

  “Before they shot Leone…” Even though the door was shut, Malloy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What were they talking about up there?”

  Rollin cleared his throat. “Leone was offering Antonio protection.”

  “I bet he loved that.”

  “Turns out Leone was the one who needed protection,” he said. “Antonio mentioned something about Sugar Creek and an alignment, but I haven’t been able to locate a creek by that name.”

  “What kind of alignment?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ve never heard of Sugar Creek, but I have a contact down at the library who is a geography whiz.” Malloy scribbled down a name. “Visit him and then let me know what you find.”