“CSU found a can of Skoal at the scene. Hasn’t been there long.”
“Amish kids have been known to sneak dipping tobacco.”
“We questioned them separately and away from their parents. None of them claims the can. If we can lift some latents and we get a hit, we might have a name.”
Mentally, I shift gears, grasp hold of the last shred of optimism. “How long will that take?”
“We couriered it to the lab. Maybe late this afternoon if I call in some favors.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
“You know I will.”
“Any prints on the rifle?” I ask.
“Not even a smudge.”
“Someone was being careful.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Glock get anything on the dark pickups?”
“He’s still working on it. Nothing yet.” The phone jingles again. I look down and see all four lines blinking. “I’ve got to go.”
“You want to grab some lunch later?” he asks.
“I’d like that.” I end the call and hit the first blinking light. “Burkholder.”
“Katie.” It’s Bishop Troyer, and his usually unflappable voice is harried. “Mose has been injured.”
Concern steamrolls over me. “What happened?”
“One of the Slabaugh boys rode the horse over to my place. He was very upset. He says Mose has been beaten.”
“
“I do not know.”
“Who did it?”
“I do not know. I’m on my way there. I thought you should know.”
My mind spins through what I’ve just heard. “What was he doing at the Slabaugh place, Bishop?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.
“I do not know.” I can tell by the guilt in his voice that the bishop knows exactly why Mose was there. “He must have left when I was in town earlier.”
A hundred questions pound at my brain, but there’s no time to ask them now. “I’m on my way.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
CHAPTER 14
My tires send snow flying when I turn into the lane of the Slabaugh farm. The Explorer fishtails when I hit the gas, but I cut the wheel hard, and I don’t slow down until the house is in sight. As I ran out the door of the station, I asked Lois to call for an ambulance. To my dismay, it’s not here yet. Bishop Troyer’s buggy is nowhere in sight; evidently, he hasn’t arrived yet, either.
Jamming the Explorer into park, I fling open the door and hit the ground running. I sprint to the house and burst inside without knocking. Ike and Samuel meet me in the mudroom.
“Chief Katie!” Samuel cries. “Mose is hurt!”
“He’s all bloody.” Ike clings to his older brother’s shirt, crying. “He’s gonna die just like
“No one’s going to die,” I tell him.
“But what if he does?” Ike whines.
“Where is he?” Even as I bark out the question, I move past them into the kitchen.
Mose sits slumped in a chair, his elbows on the table. His shirt hangs like a war-torn flag on the back of his chair. I see blood, stark and red against white skin. I wince upon spotting the pink-purple stripes on his back and shoulders. He looks at me, and I steel myself against a recoil. His lip looks like a fat, purple worm that’s been nearly chopped in half by some mean kid. His left eye is swollen. There’s more blood on his chest. Someone worked him over good.
Salome stands over him, pressing a towel to his lip. She’s been crying. Her eyes are red and wet. She glances over at me, but her gaze skitters quickly away. “He needs a doctor,” she murmurs.
I cross to Mose and bend to make eye contact. “How badly are you hurt?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t answer.
“Mose,” I say, pressing. “I’m here to help. How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps. “Just … shook-up is all.”
“What happened?” Pulling out the chair next to him, I sink into it and lean close to him. “Come on. Talk to me.”
Mose lowers his head. I look at Salome, aware that her hand is shaking. She drops her gaze. Guilt gouges me when I realize they’re more frightened of me and what I might do than they are of whoever did this.
“You’re not in any trouble.” I struggle to keep the intensity out of my voice. “I just need to know what happened. I need to know who did this.”
Mose raises his eyes to mine. He looks miserable, embarrassed and scared. “I was walking on the township road. Two guys in a truck stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. I said no.” He drops his gaze to the tabletop and shrugs. “They jumped me.”
“Do you know them?” I ask. “Do you know their names?”
He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”
“What did they look like?
“I dunno.
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really. They were older than me. In their twenties, maybe. They wore blue jeans. Cursed a lot.”
“What kind of truck? What color was it?” The questions trip over themselves, coming out in a rush.
“Uh, I don’t know. Red, maybe,” he replies. “Not sure what kind.”
I stare at him, aware that my protective instincts have been roused. Not the first time that’s happened since I’ve met these kids. Wanting to protect the innocent is a noble endeavor, but not the smartest frame of mind for a cop. After a while, those kinds of emotions just get in the way.
I look at Mose. The outside corner of his left eyeball is bloodred. The cut on his lip gapes like a tiny screaming mouth. At the very least, he’s going to need stitches. I can’t even imagine the other damage he might have suffered—broken ribs, internal injuries, a concussion. That’s not to mention the psychological harm. I’m appalled and ashamed that someone could do this to a teenage boy, Amish or otherwise. I know it’s stupid, but I feel somehow responsible, as if I should have been able to stop it.
“How did you get those marks on your back?” I ask.
Mose looks everywhere except at me. “Buggy whip.”
“They whipped you?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
“
“Where did this happen?” I ask.
Mose stares at the tabletop. “On the road between Bishop Troyer’s house and ours.”
“How long ago?”
He lifts his shoulder. “I don’t know. An hour or two.”
Shaking my head, I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for a red pickup truck. When I finish, I look at Mose. “What were you doing on the township road?”
His gaze skates away from mine. “Walking.”
“To where?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer.
“Here.”
“You know you were supposed to stay away, don’t you?”
“I know it.” When he looks at me, his expression is so filled with misery that it’s difficult for me to hold his gaze. “I had to come. This is my home. You’ve no right to keep me from it.”
I suspect his covert excursion had more to do with seeing Salome than with a sudden attack of homesickness, but I don’t press him on it. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the men who did this to
