“This is the Stoll place,” Ronette said. “Instead of driving onto the property, I think it would be more polite to walk.”
The house had been built in the shade of a cluster of ancient red maples, all of which had been tapped for sugaring. Someone must not have informed the Amish that red maples don’t yield the best sap even under ideal weather.
We had gotten out and were standing beside the vehicle when we heard the roar of a truck engine coming from the direction of the main road, behind us.
“Shit.”
I didn’t have to ask Ronette to elaborate on that remark. The Dodge Ram 3500 Laramie model was already among the largest pickups on the road, but this one had been modified with monster tires and a lift kit that raised the chassis another half foot off the ground. The driver must have returned from a mud run because the entire exterior looked to have been finger painted in dog shit.
The Ram stopped on a dime and the window slid down. The big man behind the wheel was not at all what I had expected. He had a face like a baked ham—his head was shaved—and he was wearing a blue blazer and a white button-down shirt opened at the collar to let loose an effusion of gray chest hair.
“What are you doing here?” he said in the voice of a man who enjoyed his whiskeys.
“And a good day to you, Gorman,” said Ronette.
“It’s my land and I’ve got a right to know.”
“In fact, this is a public way, and our business is none of your concern.”
“Did one of the neckbeards poach a deer?” The thought made smile lines radiate from the corners of his piggish eyes.
“I hope you’re not referring to one of your Amish neighbors,” I said.
“Excuse me, pretty boy, I ain’t talking to you.”
I had heard a lot of insults, but that was a new one.
“Game warden investigator.” I raised my badge. “You call me that again and I’m going to pull you down out of that truck.”
“Ooh, scary.”
Ronette waded into the fray. “Why don’t you move along, Gorman.”
“Because I have a right to be here. You said it’s a public road.”
“A public road you happen to be blocking,” I said.
“But it’s OK when the neckbeards drive their little carts down the middle of it?”
“I warned you about using that term,” I said.
“This town is being overrun by religious fanatics, and I’m the bad guy.” He pitched his voice high in mockery of someone, perhaps me. “‘Oh, but the Amish are peaceful people who want to be left alone.’ What happened to my rights? How come my personal liberty matters less than the Children of the Corn? My family founded this damn town.”
“When we’re done here,” I said, “we’ll be visiting your house, so don’t go anywhere.”
“Not without a warrant you won’t be.”
He scanned the inside of the truck, rummaged around (for a moment I feared he was reaching for a gun), and held up a thin white booklet. He waved it in the air.
“You might want to read this sometime. Schools used to teach it. But now it’s considered politically incorrect.”
He tossed the slim pamphlet at my feet. “Don’t come onto my land. I’m not even joking.”
Then he lifted his foot from the brake and slammed it on the gas pedal. The Ram shot forward, leaving us choking in a cloud of exhaust.
I squatted down on my heels to retrieve the booklet from the mud. It was a pocket edition of the U.S. Constitution.
20
Not until Gorman Peaslee had driven off did I notice that a young boy had come down the road from the farmhouse and was standing in the gap in the fence.
He was wearing a blue shirt, high-water black pants held up by suspenders, clunky boots, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. His head was square shaped with wide-set brown eyes like those of a herd animal of the savanna. His hair, the same hay color as his hat, had been cut in straight bangs that fell below his eyebrows. In his small hand he clutched a switch he’d made from a ruddy birch branch. I guessed him to be about ten although he might have been short for his age.
“Good morning.” He had the faintest trace of a Teutonic accent.
“Good morning,” Ronette said for both of us. “What’s your name?”
“Samuel.”
“Samuel Stoll?”
“Ja. Who are you?”
“I’m Warden Landry, and this is Warden Bowditch. We’re game wardens. That’s a kind of police officer.”
“I know what a game warden is.”
“Are your parents home, Sam?” I asked.
“Samuel.” His face had remained empty of emotions. “Datt went to town with Uncle Ike. I am supposed to watch the sheep.”
“What about your mother?” Ronette said. “Is she here?”
“Mamm is making pies with Indigo and my sisters.”
I recognized the name of Zane Wilson’s girlfriend. “Can you get her for us?”
He pointed the switch at the flock in the pasture. “I am supposed to watch the sheep.”
The child’s lack of affect unsettled me. “I bet your donkey can protect them while you’re gone.”
“Not if the black one comes back.”
“The black what?”
“The black coyote. He killed Little Amos and dragged him away before Datt could get his gun.”
Ronette and I exchanged glances.
“Little Amos was another of your family’s donkeys?” I asked as if the answer weren’t obvious.
The boy bit his lower lip so hard I saw his upper teeth and he whipped the branch back and forth as if it were a cutlass.
“Would it be all right if we walked down to the house, do you think?” Ronette asked.
“If you are police, as you say.”
“We are.”
“Then you are welcome.”
Ronette locked up her vehicle. Samuel stepped aside to let us pass. I wanted to make a new start with the blank-faced child. I squatted down on my heels. “I am very sorry about what happened to Little Amos.”
But, of course, the boy didn’t understand why I felt the need to apologize
