Pray for Silence

“Not if I feed them exactly what we want them to report.”

“If we make it too easy and name the witness outright, the killer will smell a trap,” Pickles says.

“I won’t use names. But I’ll mention the disk and the face in the window. I’m betting the killer kept a copy of that disk.”

Skid nods. “First thing he’s going to do is take a look at it.”

“If we found the kid’s face, he can find it,” T.J. adds.

I nod. “It’ll take some doing on his part. He’ll need to review the disk, magnify the image. Identify and find the kid. But if we make it too easy, he’ll know it’s a trap.”

Glock leans back in his chair. “How do you know the killer will be able to identify the kid? Hell, how do you know if he’ll even read the newspaper?”

“It’s not a perfect plan,” I tell him. “But Painters Mill is a small town. Even with the kid being Amish, it’s reasonable to think the killer will somehow learn about the witness. Once he does, he should be able to ID him.”

“Lotta ifs in there, Chief,” Skid says.

“I know,” I reply. “But if you look at the killer’s profile, I think he’ll go for it. He’s ruthless. He’s smart. Cunning. Billy Zook can put him in prison for life. Maybe even get him lethal injection. This killer has already murdered seven people, including a toddler.”

“Eight people if you include the baby Mary Plank was carrying,” Pickles adds.

“Pretty solid motivation,” Glock says.

T.J. raises his brows. “The killer could run.”

“True. But I don’t think he will. I believe he’s established here. His life is here. He doesn’t want to give it up. That’s why he killed Mary Plank and her family.” I shrug. “If you look at the situation through the eyes of a psychopath, it’s a hell of a lot easier to eliminate a threat than it is to start over in another country.”

Skid rakes his hand through his hair. “That’s some cold shit.”

“Have you run this by the Zooks?” Glock asks.

The thought makes me sigh. “It’s going to be a hard sell.”

T.J. looks from face to face. “But won’t the boy be in danger?”

“No,” I reply.

“How can you guarantee that?”

“Because he won’t be anywhere in sight. I will.”

Ten minutes later I’m on my way to the Zook farm. Glock offered to ride along, but I declined. The odds of my convincing this conservative Amish family to help are better if I do this alone. Even then, I have my work cut out for me. My Amish background will only go so far, particularly since I’m no longer a member of the church district. I’m an outsider encroaching on a society I turned my back on a long time ago.

The morning sun beats down from a severe blue sky as I head out of town. I pass an Amish man and a team of mules raking hay. I’m in such a hurry, I barely notice the scent of newly cut alfalfa. In that moment it strikes me there was a time when I had no concept of urgency. Life was slow and simple; my life path set on a course that would have been much the same as my mother’s and grandmother’s before me. All that changed the day I shot and killed Daniel Lapp.

I wave to the Amish man as I pass. I smile when he returns the wave. Turning into the gravel lane that will take me to the Zook farmhouse, I hope I’ll be able to convince William and Alma to help me.

I park behind a black buggy. Midway to the house, I hear my name. I turn to find William and his youngest son walking toward me from the barn. Man and boy wear typical Amish work clothes—trousers with suspenders, blue work shirts and flat-brimmed straw hats. Their boots are covered with muck, and I realize they’ve been cleaning the hog pens and transferring manure to the pit.

William greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder Mariya.” Good morning.

I respond in kind. “I’m sorry to disturb your work.”

“Isaac and I were just going in for the midday meal.”

Under normal circumstances, anyone that visits an Amish home during a meal would be asked to join them. The Amish are generous with food, and the women prepare large portions. But because I have been excommunicated, he doesn’t ask. I don’t take it personally, but it doesn’t bode well for what I’m about to propose. “Do you and Mrs. Zook have a few minutes to talk?” I glance at Isaac. “Privately?”

“There is much work to do.”

“This won’t take long.”

He grunts an unenthusiastic reply without looking at me.

I fall in behind them. We enter the house through the back door. The kitchen is a large room and smells of frying food and cooking tomatoes. From where I stand, I can feel the heat coming off the stove. A rectangular table draped with a blue-and-white checkered cloth dominates the room. Alma stands at the stove with a spatula in her hand, turning something in a cast iron skillet. She looks at me when we enter, and offers a small smile. Canning jars rattle in boiling water, and I know she’s probably been at the stove since the wee hours of morning. Though the windows are open, the room is uncomfortably hot and I break a sweat beneath my uniform shirt.

“Hello, Katie,” Alma says.

Feeling out of place, I smile at her. “Hello, Alma.”

The table is set for four people with plates, glasses filled with water, and napkins. William takes his place at the head of the table and growls, “Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin.”

“Next month you’ll be complaining about the cold.” Alma sets a plate of fried ham, green beans, sliced tomatoes and a piece of bread slathered with apple butter in front of him.

“Wash your hands, Isaac,” she says to her son. “And tell Billy to come down.” She looks at me. “Katie, would you like to join us?”

William gives her a dark look.

Frowning, she puts her hands on her hips. “Mer sot tem sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.” One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.

“She is under the Meidung,” William growls.

“She is in our home.”

I almost smile when William looks down at his food and concedes to his wife. Alma turns her attention to me. “I have fried ham with vegetables and bread. Would you like a plate?”

“I’m not hungry. But thank you.” I look from Alma to William. “I’m here because I need your help.”

William raises his head to look at me. “That is a first. The English police asking the Amish for help.”

Isaac and Billy wrestle into the kitchen. William speaks sharply to them. “Sit at the table, boys. We will pray.”

Eyeing me suspiciously, Billy and Isaac take the chairs to William’s right. Alma sets a basket of bread in the center of the table and then takes her place to her husband’s left. I stand near the kitchen doorway, perspiring in the sweltering heat, trying not to feel like an outsider as the family bows their heads and William recites the before meal prayer.

“O Herr Gott, himmlischer Vater, Segne uns und Diese Diene Gaben, die wir von Deiner milden Gute Zu uns nehmen warden, Speise und tranke auch unsere Seelen zum ewigen Leben, und mach uns theilhaftig Deines himmllischen Tisches durch Jesus Christum. Amen.”

Oh Lord God, heavenly Father, bless us and these thy gifts, which we shall accept from thy tender goodness. Give us food and drink also for our souls unto life eternal, and make us partakers of thy heavenly table through Jesus Christ. Amen.

Even after seventeen years, the words come back with a clarity that astonishes me. I recited that prayer a thousand times as a child. Memories fly at me out of the backwaters of my mind. My datt’s baritone voice. Sarah and Jonas and I trading food beneath the table. Mamm knowing what we were doing, but never busting us because she knew sometimes Datt’s punishments were too severe for the crime.

The memories scatter when William raises his head, grabs his fork and begins to eat. “What do you want from us?”

I didn’t want to discuss police business with the children present, but I may not get another opportunity, so I