Pray for Silence

conversation shifts into new territory when I ask him if any of the Planks had come to him with a problem.

A shadow I can’t quite read passes over his expression. “Ja.” Wiping his face with the kerchief, he meets my gaze. “Bonnie approached me after worship with concerns about Mary.”

“The younger of the two girls?”

The bishop nods, his brows knitting. “Bonnie did not want to speak to me with her husband present.”

An uneasy ping sounds in my brain. The Amish are generally a patriarch-cal society. Secrets between a husband and wife are rare. What was Bonnie keeping from her husband? And what did that have to do with Mary?

“Do you know what she wanted to speak to you about?” I ask.

The bishop shakes his head. “We never got the chance to speak privately. I tried several times but Amos was always present.” He shrugs. “I took the buggy to the house last week, but she said it was not a good time. I even met her at the shop in town where Mary worked part-time.”

I didn’t know Mary had an outside job. “Which shop?”

“The Carriage Stop.”

One of Councilwoman Janine Fourman’s shops. I make a mental note to swing by and speak to the manager. “Do you know why Bonnie wouldn’t speak to you in front of her husband?”

“I do not know. Perhaps Amos is—was—a private man.”

Or he was into something he didn’t want anyone to know about. It’s a powerful, uncomfortable thought. I know being suspicious of Amos is cynical, especially since he is among the dead. But as a cop, I know sometimes victims play an unintended role in their own deaths. I’ve seen more than one innocent person get in over his head. And I’ve seen them pay the consequences, too.

“So you have no idea why Bonnie wanted to speak to you about Mary?”

“No.”

Beside me, Glock leans closer. “Did Bonnie or any of the Plank family seem upset lately?”

He considers the words and then nods. “Bonnie seemed upset sometimes, but she was a nervous woman.”

“Did she ever seem afraid?”

He shakes his head. “I had planned to pay them another visit, but with the harvest . . .” He looks down at his boots.

The bishop and I have had our moments of disagreement over the years. He can be a hard, judgmental man. But he can also be kind and fair and generous. At this moment, looking into his eyes, I know he blames himself for not forcing the issue with Bonnie.

“What can you tell us about Mary?” I ask.

“I did not know the family well, Katie. They were new to the area. They kept to themselves more than most. Mary seemed like a kind, happy girl. Generous. Smart in school. She helped care for her younger siblings.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“I do not know.”

“Do they have family in Lancaster?” Glock asks.

“I do not know.” His face darkens, and I realize he feels guilty for his lack of knowledge. “Will you let me know if they left behind family in Lancaster County, Katie? Perhaps I can be of some comfort to them.”

I touch his shoulder. “Of course.”

As I drive away, I feel as if I know even less than when I started. Who were the Planks? Why did they leave Lancaster County? Why was Bonnie worried about her daughter?

The questions taunt me, but I have no answers. The one thing of which I’m fairly certain is that the Plank family left behind secrets. Where there is a secret, there will be a revelation.

I drop Glock at the Plank farm with instructions to assist the crime scene unit from BCI. The CSU will process the scene, dust for latent prints, collect blood evidence and footwear imprints, bag any hair and fibers and whatever else they can find. I know it’s petty in light of the loss of life, but I find myself watching for John Tomasetti’s Tahoe. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t show. In my current frame of mind, I’m probably better off not analyzing my feelings too closely.

On my way to the police station, I call Lois, my first shift dispatcher, and ask her to let all of my officers know there will be a briefing at the station in an hour so I can bring them up to speed on the case.

As I drive through downtown Painters Mill, life goes on as usual. I pass by the Carriage Stop Country Store where Mary Plank worked part time. I’m tempted to pull in, but I know the store isn’t open for another twenty minutes, so I keep going. On the steps of the City Building, Mayor Auggie Brock and Councilman Norm Johnston are in the midst of some gesticulation-inducing exchange. Auggie spots me and waves; Norm pretends not to see me, which makes me sigh. His daughter was the victim of a serial killer last January. He didn’t agree with the way I was investigating the case, and to this day he blames me for her death. One more demon riding my back, spurring and whipping, keeping all the others company.

Down the street, Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery, squeegees the front display window with the verve of a New York City high-rise window washer. The elderly Farmer brothers sit in steel chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and argue over their morning chess game.

I should be comforted by the constancy of our existence. The routine of small town life. The prettiness of the town. The friendliness of the people I’ve sworn to protect and serve. Instead, I feel strangely indignant that life continues on with so little interruption when just down the road a family of seven has been wiped off the face of the earth.

The predator inside me has been roused. I look upon every man, woman and child with hard-edged suspicion. Maybe because I know the possibility exists that hidden somewhere behind all this normalcy, a monster roams.

The police station is housed in a century-old red brick building that had once been a dancehall. It’s sweltering in the summer and cold as a meat locker in winter. But it’s my second home; the people who work for me are my family. At this moment, I’m unduly thankful for them.

I enter to find both my day- and night-shift dispatchers at the window that faces the street. Lois Monroe is about fifty years old with pretty blue eyes and a disposition as prickly as her overprocessed hair. She might look like someone’s mom, but I’ve seen her put more than one cocky young cop in his place. Mona Kurtz, on the other hand, is twenty-four going on sixteen with a head full of wild red ringlets and a personality that matches her hair to a T. Working on an associate’s degree in criminology, she’s totally enamored with all facets of law enforcement—and doesn’t mind working third shift. Neither woman is perfect, but they keep the police station up and running.

Mona is kneeling at the window, braced, with her hands on the sill, straining to open it. Lois is using the heel of her practical shoe to tap on the seal, trying to break it loose.

“I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing,” I say as I pass the dispatch station.

Both women turn at the sound of my voice.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona grins. “We’re trying to get the window open.”

“It’s hot in here,” Lois adds.

“She’s having another hot flash.”

Lois wipes her forehead. “If I don’t get cooled off I’m going to have to call the fire department.”

I steer clear of the hot flash comment. “You look like a couple of inmates trying to break out of jail.” Reaching over the top of the desk, I grab messages from my slot. “Mona, did you hear back from Lancaster County?”

She crosses to me, and I try not to notice the black tights, red miniskirt and little black boots. “The sheriff’s office checked the names over the phone and sent a couple of deputies to some of the Amish farms. I haven’t heard back.”

“Call them again. The Planks have got to have relatives somewhere.” Notifying NOK is one of the most difficult aspects of my job. There’s nothing I’d hate more than for someone to find out about a family member’s death from the six o’clock news.

“Any media inquiries?” I ask.

“Steve Ressler,” Mona replies. “Channel eighty-two in Columbus. Radio station in Wooster. The usual suspects.”

Lois sighs. “I swear the gossips in this town are the best informed people in the world. Everyone’s got