“That’s one word for it.” Hitting the emergency lights, I park the Explorer on the shoulder and we get out.
“How in the hell would a buggy catch on fire?” Pickles grumbles as we start toward the group.
“Maybe a lantern or heater tipped over.” But I don’t think that’s what happened. Most Amish know all too well the dangers of fire and are cautious when handling flame or any kind of accelerant.
Winter-dead trees curl over the gravel lane like curved, arthritic fingers. In the distance, I hear the sirens of the fire department. I walk around a dozen or more hoof marks that are sunk deeply into the muddy ground—the kind of mark a terrified horse might make while trying to escape danger. I find myself hoping no one was seriously injured.
“Mr. Kaufman?” I call out when I’m a few yards from the group. “Is everyone okay?”
Mark Kaufman is a stern-looking man with shrewd, intelligent eyes and an angular face, which gives him a gaunt countenance. His steel-wool beard reaches nearly to his belt. He wears a black coat, a straw hat, and black work trousers. He stares at me with unconcealed displeasure as I approach.
“Is anyone hurt?” I ask, rephrasing my question.
When Kaufman doesn’t answer, I look past him and make eye contact with his wife. Liza Kaufman looks to be ten or fifteen years younger than her husband. Clad in black winter clothes, she’s a petite woman with anxious eyes and quick, nervous hands. She looks away, and I sigh.
I turn my attention back to Mark. “I got a call that there was an accident.”
“We do not need the English police,” he states.
“I need to know if anyone was hurt,” I repeat.
“No.” He bows his head. “We are fine.”
“Chief, I’ve got blood here.”
I turn at the sound of Pickles’s voice and see him kneeling in the grass next to the gravel lane. I cross to him and look down at the area he’s indicated. Sure enough, a dinner plate-size puddle of blood shimmers bright red against the yellow winter grass.
“Horse, maybe?” he asks.
I’m no expert on horses, but I spent a quite a bit of time around them as a girl. I know if the animal was scared, it was probably moving too fast to leave a puddle of blood that size. I look at Kaufman. “If someone got hurt here, they should get themselves checked out. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
“We do not need anything from you,” Kaufman says. “We are fine.”
Shaking my head, I cross to the buggy—what’s left of it. It was originally black, with four wheels and a covered top. Not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. I can see where the harness leather snapped. The right shaft is broken as well, and I imagine the panicked horse, running full out, must have fallen at some point, struggled to its feet, and then broken free.
“Looks like a total loss.” Pickles whistles. “I wonder if the horse got hurt.”
“Probably ran up to the barn. That’s what they do when they’re scared.”
Pickles picks up a good-size stick, begins poking around in the pile of smoldering wood and ash.
The crunch of tires on gravel drags my attention away from the wreckage. I turn to see a young man get out of a newish Ford Ranger pickup truck. He’s thin, with long hair, buckteeth, and toothpick legs. “Everyone okay?” he asks me.
“Are you the one who called 911?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.” He crosses to me and looks down at what’s left of the smoldering buggy. “Damnedest thing I ever saw in my life.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“Alls I seen was this crazy horse running down the road. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that buggy. I swear to Jesus, flames was shooting twenty feet in the air. There was a couple of Amish folks in the buggy. They was yelling their heads off, and I knew straight away they was in trouble.”
“Did you see it catch fire?”
He shakes his head. “It was already on fire and going pretty good when I saw it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ricky Shingle. I live a couple miles down the road. I was on my way to work.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I don’t know if they was part of it, but a couple of young guys in a pickup truck just about ran me off the road.”
My cop’s radar goes on alert. “What direction were they going?”
“Same as the buggy, and they was movin’ fast. They was left of center and, I swear to Jesus, I’d be wearing their teeth in my forehead if I hadn’t driven into the ditch. Crazy shits. Probably high on whatever it is them youngins get high on these days.”
“Chief!”
I look over my shoulder and see Pickles holding up the stick. On its tip, I see something that looks like the broken mouth of a mason jar. “Molotov cocktail, anyone?” he says.
Only then does the implication strike me. Never taking my eyes from the jar, I cross to Pickles for a closer look. “You sure?” I ask.
“I seen enough of ’em in my day.” He hefts the stick, brings the broken jar closer. “Fill it with gas. Use a piece of fabric for a fuse. Screw on the lid.” He shrugs. “Crude, but effective as hell. I betcha one of them young guys threw it into that buggy.”
The images that rush through my brain are vivid and disturbing. Outrage rattles through me. I spin back to Shingle. “Did you get a look at the young guys?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. They was just a couple of guys.”
“Can you give me a description? Hair? Clothes?”
“Didn’t really get a good look.”
Pulling my pad from my pocket, I write, “Two Caucasian males. Young.” “What about the vehicle?”
“A truck. Ford, I think. Blue. Or black, maybe. Didn’t really get a good look at it. I couldn’t take my eyes off that damn buggy. Thought the horse was going to go right through the fence.”
I hit my lapel mike, then think better of it and grab my cell. This is one of those times when I wish I had more officers. At the moment, every member of my force is tied up with the Slabaugh case. I hit the speed dial for the station. “Lois, call the sheriff’s office and tell them we need extra patrols out on Sampson Road. A couple of guys tossed a Molotov cocktail into a buggy.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Tell them to be on the lookout for a dark pickup truck. Possibly a Ford with two white males inside.”
“You got it.”
Sighing in frustration, I hit END and cross to Pickles. “Get a statement from Shingle. I’m going to see if I can get Kaufman to talk to me.”
Pickles gives me a knowing look. “Good luck with that.”
We both know Kaufman isn’t going to cooperate. The Amish are sectarian and strive to remain separate from the rest of the world. Having grown up Amish, it’s a mind-set I understand. As a cop, the lack of cooperation frustrates me to no end.
I walk over to Kaufman. “What happened?”
“We do not want your help,” he responds.
“Please, Mr. Kaufman, I need to know who did this. If you could just give me a description of the vehicle.”
He stares at me, his expression as hard and unmoved as a stone statue. “This is an Amish matter and will be dealt with by us.”
My father cited that very same phrase a thousand times when I was growing up. Even after all these years, those words still wield the power to send gooseflesh up my arms. When you’re an Amish kid, you obey your parents without question. I learned early in life that such blind trust can come back to bite you in a very big way later in life.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, I frown at Kaufman. “I’m trying to help you,” I say firmly. “Please. Work with me. Help me. You can’t deal with this kind of violence alone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt.”
