Pray for Silence

plunge ahead. “It’s about the Plank case. I need your help.”

“I do not see how we can help,” Alma says. “Billy did not see the man clearly—”

“The killer doesn’t know that.”

William and Alma look at me. Isaac stops eating and looks at me, a green bean sticking out the side of his mouth. Only Billy continues chewing, oblivious to the conversation. “I do not understand,” William says after a moment.

“I want to set a trap. Make the killer believe Billy was a witness. To do that, I need access to your farm for a few days. So I can lure the killer here.”

Alma opens her mouth to speak, but William beats her to it. “I will not allow you to put my family in danger.”

“That is too dangerous for Billy,” Alma says simultaneously.

I level a stare at them. “None of you will be in danger.”

William sets down his fork. The look he gives me makes the hairs on my arms tingle. “We are Amish, not dumb farm animals.”

“You know I don’t think that,” I snap.

William bristles. Glancing at his children, he motions toward the living room. “Isaac and Billy, go to your room.”

Alma’s gaze darts from me to her husband. “William . . .”

“Go!” He thrusts a hand toward the door.

Isaac snatches a piece of bread from the basket, and without a word, they flee the kitchen. William gives me an accusing stare. “I will not allow you to come into my home and frighten my children.”

“William, if this wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here. But I have a killer to catch. I have a responsibility to the people of this town to keep them safe.”

“The killer is an Englischer,” William growls. “This is not an Amish matter.”

“The Plank family was Amish,” I counter.

“I cannot help you.” William resumes eating, using his fork and chewing with a little too much vigor.

“If I don’t stop him, he’ll kill again.”

He chews harder, ignoring me.

Frustrated, I look at his wife. “If you’ll just listen to what I have to say.”

“I have heard enough.” The Amish man stands abruptly. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers; for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”

The passage is a doctrine that forbids an Amish person from doing business with outsiders. I heard it many times in my youth. I don’t believe it now any more than I did then.

“Yes, we are two societies,” I tell him. “Amish and English. But we are one town. And this killer doesn’t differentiate between the two.”

Without looking at me, William mutters something in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Alma puts her hands on her hips. “But what of the people who are in danger, William? If it is in our power to keep them safe, perhaps this is the path God would want us to take.”

Her husband brings his hand down on the table hard enough to rattle silverware. “No!”

I’d known the plan would be a hard sell. The principle of separation from the outside world colors every aspect of an Amish person’s reality. My own parents shared a similar view. In this case, I suspect that buried somewhere inside that philosophy, is also fear for his son.

Realizing there’s nothing more I can say, I give William a final look. “The Amish are not the only children of God in this town. Think about that tonight when you’re trying to sleep.”

The level of emotion in my voice surprises me. Disgusted with them, with myself, I head for the door, yank it open, take the steps at a too fast pace to the sidewalk. I’m nearly to the Explorer when I hear my name. I turn to see William coming down the steps. Alma stands just inside the screen door, watching.

William reaches me and stops. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then he surprises me by saying, “I will talk to Bishop Troyer.”

I don’t know if that’s good or bad because I have no idea if the bishop will give his blessing. I want to tell him keeping people safe is bigger than this clash of cultures. Because I so desperately need his cooperation, I hold my tongue. “Thank you.”

“Gott segen eich,” he says, then turns and walks away.

CHAPTER 26

I’m standing at the window in my office, thinking about John Tomasetti when the call comes. I hadn’t expected to learn of William Zook’s decision via telephone, but Bishop Troyer is one of the few Amish who has a phone and uses it. It’s mainly for emergencies, like the time when Joe Yoder fell off the roof during a barn raising and broke his leg. But the bishop is also sort of an acting liaison between the Amish community and the English. When important calls need to be made, they are made to and from the bishop’s home.

“This is William Zook.”

“Hello, William.” Anticipation makes my heart thud dully in my chest.

“Bishop Troyer has given his blessing. I will allow you to use the farm, but that is all.”

My relief is so profound that for a moment, I fumble for words. “I appreciate that.”

“I do not want Billy to be in danger, Chief Burkholder.”

“None of you will be in danger,” I say firmly. “Two of my officers will be taking you and your family to a safe house.”

“I do not understand what that is.”

“A house where you’ll stay while we wait for the killer.”

“No English house,” he says.

I tamp down impatience while my brain scrambles for a solution. “Is there an Amish family you could stay with for a few days?”

He considers that for a moment. “Rachael and Joe Yoder. The storm blew down some of the pens and chicken coop. It will take Joe and me a few days to make repairs.”

“All right. Two officers will be with you at all times.”

Williams sighs. “So be it.”

Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.

Steve Ressler stands behind his desk, his hands on his hips, glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so. He’s a small, wiry man with red hair and a ruddy complexion that glows like a bad sunburn when he’s frustrated or angry, which seems to be all the time. He’s a hard-driving, type-A personality and always looks as if he’s on the verge of having a stroke.

“I want you to run a special edition of The Advocate,” I begin.

“A special edition? That’s kind of expensive. Maybe I could just put something on the Web site. . . .”

“I need both,” I tell him. “A story on the Web site as well as a special edition.”

“Is there some news item I don’t know about, Chief Burkholder?”

“I’m working on something now.” I hand him the bogus press release. “Everything you need to know is there.”

Ressler skims the paper, his red brows knitting. “This is pretty explosive.”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your source confidential,” I say.

“Of course.” Then Ressler sighs. “I hate to ask this question, Kate, but will I be compensated? Running a special edition is not cheap.”

I give him a wry smile. “As chief of police, I’ve gotten pretty good at squeezing blood out of a stone.”