“We need your help finding a location.”
“Inside our great country or outside?”
“I believe it’s near Cleveland,” Rollin said. “We’re trying to find a place called Sugar Creek.”
The guy took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “The village or the actual creek?”
Rollin glanced over at Lance and his partner crept closer to the desk. “Both.”
Quincy stood up and motioned to them to follow him. Passing through a maze of shelves and desks, they stepped into a smaller room filled with piles and piles of newspapers. Quincy shut the door and muttered the names of the papers to himself as he crossed the room.
Rollin picked up a copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer and perused the headlines. Yet another story on the famous “Lady Lindy.” A recap of yesterday’s Olympic Games in Amsterdam. And an entire article about the sweltering heat wave that spiked temperatures in Cleveland to eighty degrees.
There was no headline about Leone Puglisi’s murder.
Quincy stopped in front of the papers starting with W and lifted a stack into his arms. Cradling them like a child, he took several steps back and placed the pile on a table in front of the men.
“The Weekly Budget,” he proclaimed, like he’d struck gold.
Rollin stared at the papers blankly. “What’s the Weekly Budget?”
“The newspaper in Sugarcreek.”
Rollin stepped forward, staring down at the headline that ran below the masthead.
The Sugarcreek Street Fair Starts Thursday.
Rollin looked up at the librarian. “Where is Sugarcreek?”
Quincy held up his finger. “I’ll be right back.”
Rollin slid into a chair and tossed his fedora onto the table beside the newspapers. Lance took the seat beside him.
The headlines on the front page contrasted greatly with the headlines on the Plain Dealer. There was an entire article on the upcoming street fair and an announcement of a band carnival. There were articles about local cheese makers, book recommendations for the upcoming school year, and a long list of people traveling, visits with friends and relatives, and the churches that would hold picnics that week.
Turning the page, he saw letters instead of articles. A dozen or so of them.
Miss Minnie Beachy wore her peacock blue dress to church today.
Bushy Yoder is the proud owner of a new buggy.
Mrs. Moses P. Miller held a quilting on Thursday.
Mrs. Benjamin Bontrager had some bad luck with her canned fruit jars. She had a shelf of two hundred quarts and the shelf broke down.
Rollin slumped back against the chair. What kind of newspaper reported the dress someone wore to church? And the loss of canned fruit?
He turned the page and saw the recipes for prune jam and shoofly pie. And an advertisement for buggy repairs.
Lance looked over. “What is it?”
“This newspaper is filled with letters.” He read the ad for the buggy repairs. “Written by what seem to be Amish people.”
Lance stared at him. “The group with the bonnets?”
“Bonnets and buggies.”
“What would Antonio and his fellas have to do with the Amish?”
“They could be buying corn from them.” He tapped the top of the paper. “And storing the corn sugar down there.”
Quincy came around the corner with a long blue book in his hand. An atlas. He set it on the table and paged through the maps for a moment. Then he spun it around. Quincy pointed at Cleveland and his fingers traveled down the page, passing tiny towns like Fairlawn, Clinton, and Brewster.
He pushed his spectacles back up his nose before pointing at a tiny dot just west of Dover. “That’s Sugarcreek.”
Rollin massaged the back of his neck. “Any idea how long it takes to get there?”
The librarian eyed the map. “I’d say about two or three hours.”
Rollin reached for his hat and circled his fingers around the curled brim. Then he shoved his hat back on his head. “Can we borrow this?”
Quincy hesitated but finally handed over the atlas.
Outside the library, the sunshine bore down on them. Rollin stepped under a tree and looked at Lance.
“You want to take that new car of yours on a ride?”
A grin swept across Lance’s face.
“You betcha...” he started before his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where did you want to ride?”
“Down to Sugarcreek.”
“Quincy said it was three hours down there.”
“Actually, he said two or three.”
“That’s our entire Saturday.”
Rollin shoved his hands in his pockets. “You think golfing is more important?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“Because today might be the day things are going down in Sugarcreek.”
“You promised me dinner with a dame.”
“So go out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“I already asked her out tonight.”
“Get a rain check.”
“It ain’t rainin’, Rollin.”
He glanced at a small white cloud building toward the lake. “It might be by the time we get back to town.”
Lance sighed, eyeing the phone booth across the street. “Let me call Mazie and tell her I’ll be late.”
After Lance talked to his girl, Rollin tried to call Malloy, but his boss didn’t answer the phone.
*
The stench of manure overpowered the sweet scent of grass in the barn. Midday light washed through the wide doors and tumbled across the mounds of hay, farm equipment, and the four horses penned in their stalls. Katie removed a stiff brush from where it hung on a wall and opened the first stall. Prince nudged his cheek against hers, the white star between his eyes gleaming in the light.
She laughed, pushing his muzzle away. “Keep your nose to yourself, mister.”
She held out three cubes of sugar in her palm, and with a slight shake of his head, he devoured the treat.
Lifting the brush to Prince’s mane, Katie stroked the rich chestnut hair on his neck and back and brushed the dirt off his barrel and belly. As she worked, she soothed him with a hymn they’d sung in service two weeks past. The words resonated in her soul.
No ear has ever heard, no eye has seen
The joy that God bestows and has prepared for those
Who will behold God, with a bright countenance:
Pleasantly with their eyes, the eternal true light.
She’d sought God as her eternal light, and she believed He had prepared a future for her and Henry, a short future on this earth and a joyous one in the next life. A future that should include Jonas Miller as well.
This morning she’d tried to find a reason why she couldn’t visit Jonas today. Erma had moved from canning peaches to tomatoes, and Katie volunteered to help, but Erma refused her assistance. Isaac had woken early this morning, the ginger and garlic combination raging through his veins. He’d snuck to the field after breakfast without asking her or Henry to accompany him.
The Lehmans were conspiring against her. Or for her. She wasn’t sure which it was this morning.
She harnessed Prince and led him out of the barn, toward the separate buggy shed where the Lehman family stored their wagons, a road cart, and two buggies. She’d been up most of the night, her mind racing with how to tell Jonas about her past. The truth only Isaac and Erma and the deceased bishop of their district knew.
Once she told Jonas the story, she had no illusions that he would rush his decision about their marriage. He could think about it as long as he wanted, and if he still wanted her hand in marriage, she wouldn’t vacillate any longer. She would take her vows and be baptized and become Jonas’s wife. Henry would become his son.
Her stomach rolled as she opened the door to the buggy barn. It was the best decision for all of them, so why didn’t it fill her heart with joy?
If Jonas decided tonight that he wanted to pursue their mar
riage, she would talk to the new bishop at their church service tomorrow. She wouldn’t wait any longer.
For three years she’d waited for God to answer her pleas as to what she should do about the future, but His voice had been silent. She had no choice but to conclude His silence meant her marriage to Jonas was the right decision. She would rescue Henry from the world like Isaac and Erma had rescued her.
She guided Prince by the spring wagon, surrey, and black-topped buggy. Jonas’s house was only three miles away, so they would take the open road cart for their visit today.
The door banged against the wall, and her son bounded into the barn. “Are we going to visit Jonas?”
“Yes.” She pulled the shafts of the cart toward Prince, threaded them through the loops on his shoulders, and attached the straps to the breeching on his flanks.
“Do you think he’ll let me drive his Belgians?”
“Maybe.”
“I can do it all by myself this time.”
She sighed, leaning into the horse. She would always be Henry’s mother, but she couldn’t mother him forever. A boy needed a papa, and it was her responsibility to provide a good papa for him. Jonas would make a fine father. Why couldn’t she rid herself of her fears?
As the sound of an engine echoed through the barn, Prince whinnied and reared his head.
“Steady,” she whispered, stroking his neck.
Henry popped his head out the door and then turned to her in excitement. “It’s the airplane again.”
He ran out the door, waving his arms as he followed the flying machine across the yard.
She groaned as she climbed into the cart. The problem was that Henry was too much like the man who’d fathered him.
Her hands clutched the reins almost as tight as the anxiety clutched her heart.
At one time, when she was much younger, she thought she’d been in love with Henry’s father. Her heart had trembled and quaked, and she’d spent hours fantasizing about what could be. As she grew older, though, she realized her feelings for him had been a silly infatuation. She’d been too young to know what real love should look like. A love like Isaac and Erma’s.
Isaac and Erma respected each other. Admired each other. Even after forty years of marriage, Katie saw the fleeting tender looks pass between them, and every once in a while, she would come upon them in the parlor or on the porch swing and find their fingers intertwined or Erma’s head on Isaac’s shoulder. Whenever Katie caught their rare physical displays of affection, Erma blushed and scooted away from Isaac like she’d been caught in a scandalous affair.
Perhaps that was what love looked like. Blushing faces of a couple who’d been married for a lifetime and a love that endured even in their wounds.
The sound of the airplane faded away, but Katie didn’t drive out into the sunshine.
Would she and Jonas last for forty years? Would she secretly reach for his hand when they were alone and blush if she were caught? Or would she grow bitter with age and hide from his affection?
She tapped her bare feet against the floor of the cart as she waited. Her feelings didn’t matter. She wasn’t marrying for herself. She was marrying for Henry.
Her son raced back into the room, jumping up into the cart beside her. “The pilot waved at me!”
“Did he now?”
“He tipped the plane and I could see his face. He saluted and waved.”
“That was nice of him.”
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a pilot.”
Her heart racing, she lifted the reins and prompted the horse forward.
It didn’t matter what she felt. She would marry Jonas, and he would protect her son from the world.
CHAPTER 6
Sweat balled up on Rollin Wells’s forehead, dripping down the sides of his face, but he didn’t wipe it off. With the windows rolled up, Lance’s new coupe sweltered like a hot boiler—almost as hot as the fire those blasted Boche showered over the trenches during his little holiday in Rheims. A decade had passed since he fought alongside French and Americans alike, but he could still feel the heat from the German flamethrowers. And taste the fear.
There were no trenches near Sugarcreek and no German soldiers. Only miles and miles of forest and fields with the occasional farmhouse and barn scattered around for a reminder that people actually lived in these isolated hills.
“You hot?” Lance quipped on the seat beside him.
Rollin groaned. “Shut up.”
“You gotta roll the window down.” Lance rolled down the glass on the driver’s side to demonstrate, like Rollin didn’t know how to operate a window knob. Humidity rushed through the open window, and dust settled over the coupe’s shiny blue interior.
Lance tapped the steering wheel. “Don’t it feel great?”
“Dandy.”
“If you’ve got to be out here on a Saturday, you might as well enjoy it.”
Rollin grunted. They’d already wasted their morning and half their afternoon searching for who knew what. If the Cardano boys were down here, they were well hidden.
The car flew over the crest of a hill, and Rollin’s head crashed into the ceiling. “Son of a —”
Lance laughed again, and Rollin wanted to reach over and wring the laughter out of his partner’s throat. If he didn’t do it, some gangster would pummel sense into Lance one day, and the result wouldn’t be pretty.
Rollin rubbed the growing bump on his head. “Slow down, would ya?”
“What’s the fun of driving a new tin can if you have to go slow?”
“We’re not out here to have fun.”
“Says you, boss.” Lance turned the radio knob, and jazz music poured out of the speakers. “Just listen to her sing.”
“Are you nuts?” Rollin flipped off the radio. “Someone might hear us.”
“There ain’t nothin’ out here except cows.”
Rollin had been hoping they could scout out some sort of distribution center or meeting place, but his partner was probably right. There was nothing out here except endless fields and trees and cows. No Amish man or woman would sell corn to the corrupt Sicilians, at least they wouldn’t if they knew what the gangs planned to do with the corn.
His heart lurched. Maybe Antonio knew they were listening on Thursday night and tossed out Sugarcreek to throw them off the scent. Maybe they were trying to get him and Lance out of town so his men could do something big in Cleveland.
They needed to find a telephone so he could try and call Malloy again.
Rollin braced himself as the car launched over a second hill, but instead of clear road, a curtain of brown and black swung in front of them. A horse and cart turning onto the road. Rollin stomped on the floor like there were brakes on the passenger side.
Lance swore as he slammed on the brake. The back tires fishtailed, and he struggled to regain control.
Rollin clutched the door handle until his partner finally straightened the car. Lance took a deep breath, and Rollin slumped back against the leather seat.
A few seconds later, Lance glanced over at him. “I guess there’s some Amish out here with the cows.”
A little head popped over the seat of the cart in front of them—a boy with a straw hat. He lifted his hat, waving at the two men until the woman driver tugged on the child’s shoulder. The boy turned around, facing the front again.
Rollin wiped the sweat off his brow. “You still having fun?”
His partner’s eyes were on the narrow road. “Not so much.”
“Good.”
Slowly they climbed up another hill behind the cart and horse. In the distance he could see a large red barn. In a field near the barn was a white house surrounded by a cluster of trees. Only one solitary barn and house as far as he could see.
Scanning the fields, his gaze rested on the back of the woman’s pleated cap in front of them. “Is it just me or has she slowed down?”
“Methinks she’s playing with us.”
“I’ve got to get
to a telephone.”
Lance pushed the accelerator until they were six feet or so from the cart. “It may take awhile.”
The woman driving the cart didn’t turn around nor did she prompt her horse to move faster.
“Who do you need to call?” Lance asked.
“Malloy.”
“I thought you didn’t need to keep him informed.”
“I want him to up the security around Mayfield tonight.”
“You think there’s going to be trouble?”
The car rattled over a bridge before it rolled onto the dirt road again, behind the woman and her cart. “I don’t know.”
“If you call Malloy, he’s only going to grandstand.”
“He can’t grandstand if nothing happens.”
“You do all the work, Rollin, but Malloy gets all the credit.”
Rollin glanced down at the atlas.
The newer men didn’t respect Malloy like the older ones did. They may have heard the stories about the man who almost brought down Club Cardano seven years ago, but they didn’t appreciate it. Even though the jury acquitted Salvatore, the feat of capturing him was legend among Cleveland’s veteran police officers.
They came to a crossroad, and the woman stopped her cart. She didn’t turn around, but the boy waved at them again. Rollin lifted his hat.
As the horse pulled the cart through the crossroad, Rollin pointed left across the steering wheel. “Go that way.”
Lance nodded down at the atlas. “What’s over there?”
“I’m hoping a telephone.”
“Which means we’re lost…”
Rollin slammed the atlas shut. “I’m pretty sure we’re still in Ohio.”
Lance dropped back against the headrest. “I told Mazie we’d go out tomorrow night.”
“We’ll be back by tomorrow.”
The cart was only eight or nine yards ahead of them, the horse slowed to a crawl.
“I don’t care which way you go,” Rollin said. “Just stop following her.”
Lance opened his window as he turned left and sniffed the humid air. “I can smell it.”
“The horse?”
“No.” He sniffed again. “The Cardanos.”
Rollin rolled his eyes. “You should have gone into theatre.”
The Silent Order Page 5