“They’re on the way.” Reaching the young man, I kneel, take a quick visual assessment.
He’s pale and shivering. His lips are dry and tinged blue from the cold. Probably suffering from hypothermia and dehydration. His left eye is swollen shut. The other is the color of a ripe eggplant. I cringe when I see his hands. Both are swollen and blue. The fingertips are white and hard-looking; I suspect he may have some frostbite. His wrists are chafed and bloody, which tells me he’s been struggling to free himself from his binds for quite some time.
“How badly are you hurt?” Snapping the blanket open, I cover him with it.
“C-cold m-mostly.” He stares at me with bloodshot and glassy eyes. “I think my hands are frozen.”
Tugging my pocketknife from my belt, I cut the rope. He winces when his limbs break free. I can tell by the lack of movement in his hands that he can’t flex his fingers.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“All night.” A groan escapes him when he tries to rise.
I set my hands on his shoulders and ease him back down. “Just stay put a moment.”
“I need to unhook the horse. He’s old. Been tangled in the harness all night.”
“I’ll take care of him. You just relax a moment. I don’t want you moving around too much, in case you’re injured.” I motion toward the blood on his shoulders and chest. “Who did this to you?”
“T-two
“Do you know their names? Did you recognize them?”
He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”
I look him over, searching for signs of life-threatening injuries—blood, broken bones, stab wounds, bullet wounds. “What happened?”
He shrugs, looks away. “I was on my way to town for some lumber. They came up fast, blocked my way. When I stopped, they ambushed me.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“A truck. Blue. Old, I think.”
“Which direction did they go?”
“Toward town.”
I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for an older blue pickup truck. “Did they have a weapon?”
He shakes his head. “Just their fists.”
“Did they say anything?”
“They called me names.” He shrugs, letting me know that didn’t bother him. “Took the Lord’s name in vain.” That bothered him a lot.
I nod, try hard to bank the fury rising inside me. “There’s an ambulance on the way.” I uncap the bottle of water, put it to his lips, and he takes a sip. “What’s your name?”
“Mark Lambright.” He looks down at his hands. His face contorts in pain when he tries to flex his knuckles. “I need to get home. My wife will be worried.”
“I’ll have someone go by your place and let her know you’re all right. Where do you live?” He cites a farm a few miles down the road after I give him another sip of water. “Can you tell me what the two men looked like?”
His eyes skate away from mine. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You’ve already got trouble.”
He doesn’t answer, and a sensation of deja vu engulfs me. I recall the burning buggy incident, and I know this man isn’t going to cooperate, either.
“Mr. Lambright.” I take a deep breath, reel in my frustration. “I need to find the men who did this to you so that I can keep them from doing it again. You could have been killed.”
He motions toward his body. “As you can see, I’m okay.”
“What did the men look like?”
He stares down at his swollen, frozen hands.
“If you stick your head in the sand, whoever did this is going to get away and do it again. Next time, it could be a woman or child. They might kill someone. Is that what you want?”
He watches me with his one good eye, shakes his head. “I do not wish for anyone to be hurt. I just want to go home.”
I sit back on my heels, frustration churning inside me. In the distance, I hear sirens and I know the ambulance will be here soon. The sound of tires crunching through snow draws my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti’s Tahoe pull up beside my Explorer.
Rising, I start toward him. He gets out of the SUV, looking tall and dark against the smooth gray sky. He wears the long wool coat, no gloves or hat. His espresso-colored eyes meet mine as he crosses to me.
“You look aggravated.”
“Pissed is probably a more accurate description.” I tell him everything I learned from Lambright. “Felony assault at least. Maybe attempted murder. The problem is, he’s not going to be much help.”
Tomasetti cocks his head. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t want to get involved.”
“What is this, some kind of conspiracy? He just had the shit hammered out of him. How much more
“He doesn’t want to deal with the English.”
“You tried?”
I nod. “If the passerby hadn’t called us, this probably would have gone unreported.”
“We need to ID whoever did this. Without it, we don’t have shit.”
I glance toward the victim. “We could try waterboarding him.”
“Probably wouldn’t go over too well with the brass.”
I heave a sigh. “I’ll get my guys out here to canvass, see if anyone saw anything.”
“Scene doesn’t look too promising.”
The ambulance pulls up behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe. We watch the two paramedics open the rear doors and unload the gurney. They roll it across the road to the bar ditch and kick down the brake. One of the men kneels next to Lambright and begins a field assessment. The other, a freckle-faced man with a red goatee, approaches Tomasetti and me. “What ya got, Chief?”
“Assault,” I say. “Hypothermia. Frostbite, maybe. He’s been out in the cold all night.”
“Cold night. He’s lucky.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You guys know who did it?”
“We’re working on it.” That’s my standard answer in situations where I don’t know squat.
Tomasetti and I stand in the dirty snow and watch the two paramedics load Lambright onto the gurney. The Amish man makes eye contact with me briefly as they roll him across the asphalt. I stare back, letting him know I’m not happy with his lack of cooperation.
That’s when I realize I’ve yet to make good on my promise to take care of the horse. It’s been standing all night with nothing to eat or drink. “I need to unhitch the horse,” I say.
Tomasetti arches a brow. “Can’t help you there.”
I cross to the animal, moving slowly, my hand outstretched. “Whoa, boy. Whoa.”
It’s an old gelding with a sorrel coat and the kind eyes of a working animal. Stepping into the mud, I set my hand against the animal’s neck, then run both hands over its shoulder and down both front legs, checking for injuries. Finding none, I go to work on the harness. Having tacked up our own horses many times as a girl, I let the dormant memories come rushing back. I unbuckle the crupper and girth, unfasten the shaft tugs, pull the long reins through the guides, then lift the collar over the animal’s head. In a couple of minutes, the horse is free of the buggy. I lead him to a gnarled fence post, use the scissor snap to attach one of the reins to the halter beneath his bridle, and tie him until a neighbor arrives to walk him home.
I turn back to the street, to find Tomasetti watching me. “You’re pretty good at that.”
“Lots of practice as a kid.”
“I’m impressed.”
But I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that the horse is the last thing on his mind. “What are you thinking?”
“I was just thinking about connections.”
