Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

The man was breathing hard, shaking harder. In the moonlight, Skid saw sweat glistening on his cheeks, despite the October chill, and he wondered if the guy was high on drugs. “Mein Gott!”

Skid didn’t understand Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect, but he didn’t need to be fluent to know the guy was terrified. He didn’t know what he’d walked into. The one thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to let this cagey-looking sumbitch get any closer. As far as he knew, the guy was on crack and armed with a machete. “Stop right there, partner. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The Amish man put his hands up. Even from ten feet away Skid could see his entire body was trembling. His chest heaved. It was tears—not sweat—that glistened on his cheeks. “What’s your name?” Skid asked.

“Reuben Zimmerman!” he choked.

The Amish man’s eyes met his. Within their depths, Skid saw fear and the sharp edge of panic. The man’s mouth worked, but no words came.

“You need to calm down, sir. Tell me what happened.”

Zimmerman pointed toward the farmhouse, his hand shaking like a flag in a gale. “Amos Plank. The children. There is blood. They are dead!”

The guy had to be out of his mind. “How many people?”

“I do not know. I saw . . . Amos and the boys. On the floor. Dead. I ran.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

Skid’s gaze went to the darkened farmhouse. The place was silent and still. No lantern light in the windows. No movement. He hit his lapel mike. “Mona, I’ve got a possible 10-16 out here.” A 10-16 was the code for a domestic problem. “I’m going to take a look.”

“You still out at the Plank place?”

“That’s affirm.”

“You want me to call the sheriff’s office and get a deputy out there?”

“I’m going to check it out first. Will you run Reuben Zimmerman through LEADS for me?” LEADS was the acronym for the Law Enforcement Automated Data System police departments used to check for outstanding warrants.

“Roger that.” Computer keys clicked. “Be careful, will you?”

“You got that right.”

Anxious to get to the scene, Skid approached the Amish man. “Turn around and put your hands against the car, partner.”

Zimmerman looked bewildered. “I did not do anything wrong.”

“It’s procedure. I’m going to pat you down. The handcuffs are for your protection and mine. All right?”

As if realizing he didn’t have a choice, Zimmerman turned and set his hands against the cruiser. Quickly, Skid ran his hands over the man, checking pockets, socks, even his crotch. Then he snapped the cuffs into place. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I help with the milking. Work begins at four A.M.”

“And I thought I had bad hours.”

The Amish man blinked.

“Never mind.” Opening the cruiser door, Skid ushered him into the backseat. “Let’s go.”

Sliding behind the wheel, he put the cruiser in gear and started toward the house. In the rearview mirror, dust billowed in the red glow of the tail-lights. Ahead, a massive barn and silo stood in silhouette against the predawn sky. The postcard perfect farm was the last place Skid expected any kind of trouble. He’d lived in Painters Mill for going on four years now. Aside from a few minor infractions—like that time two teenaged boys got caught racing their buggies down Main Street—the Amish were damn near perfect citizens. But Skid had been a cop long enough to know there was always an exception to the rule.

He parked behind a buggy, his headlights reflecting off the slow-moving-vehicle sign mounted at the rear. To his right, the house stood in shadows; it didn’t look like anyone was up yet. Turning, he made eye contact with Zimmerman. “How did you get in?”

“The back door is unlocked,” the Amish man said.

Grabbing his Maglite, Skid left the cruiser. He slid his .38 from its sheath as he started down the sidewalk. Stepping onto the stoop, he banged on the door with the flashlight. “This is the police,” he called out. “Open up.”

That was when he noticed the dark smear on the jamb. He shifted the flashlight beam and squinted. It looked like blood. A handprint. Skid shone the light down on the concrete porch. More blood. Black droplets glittering in the moonlight. Bloody footprints led down the steps to the sidewalk that led to the barn.

“Shit.” Skid twisted the knob and opened the door. His heart rate kicked as he entered the kitchen. He could feel the burn of adrenaline in his midsection. Nerves running like hot wires beneath his skin. “This is the police,” he called out. “Mr. and Mrs. Plank?”

The house was as silent and dark as a 1920s noir film. Skid wished for a light switch and cursed the Amish people’s aversion to modern conveniences. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. Gray light from the moon bled in through the window above the sink, revealing plain wood cabinets, a bench table draped with a blue-and-white checked tablecloth. A lantern sat cold and dark in its center.

“Hello? This is the police. Anyone home?” Midway through the kitchen, he noticed the unpleasant odor. Not spoiled food or garbage or pet smells. It was more like the plumbing in the bathroom had backed up.

Skid entered the living room. The stench grew stronger, pervasive. A chill crept up his spine when his beam illuminated the body. An Amish man wearing a blue work shirt, trousers and suspenders lay facedown in a pool of blood the size of a dinner plate.

“Holy shit.”

Skid couldn’t look away. The dead man had a horrific wound at the back of his head. Blood oozed from his left ear into his full beard and then trickled down to pool on the floor. His mouth was open and his bloody tongue protruded like a fat slug.

He hoped Zimmerman was wrong about the number of victims. He hoped the other lumps on the floor were piles of clothing in need of mending or maybe feed bags someone had brought in from the barn. That hope was dashed when the beam of his flashlight revealed two more bodies. A teenaged boy wearing dark trousers with suspenders. A little red-haired boy encircled by more blood than could possibly fit into his small body. Both boys had gunshot wounds to the head. Both had their hands bound behind their backs. Skid knew without checking that they were dead.

He’d been a cop for going on ten years, first in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and now here in Painters Mill. He’d seen death before. Traffic accidents. Shootings. Stabbings. None of those things prepared him for this.

“Holy Christ.” He fumbled for his lapel mike, surprised when his hand shook. “Mona, I’m 10-23 at the Plank place. Call the chief. Tell her I’ve got a major fuckin’ crime scene out here. A shooting with multiple vics. Fatalities.” His voice broke. “Shit.”

“Do you need an ambulance?”

He looked down at the staring eyes and the ocean of blood, and he knew he’d be seeing that image for a very long time to come. “Just send the coroner, Mona. It’s too late to save any of these people.”

CHAPTER 2

I’m caught in that weird twilight between wakefulness and slumber when the phone on my night table jangles. The last time I looked at the clock, it was just after three A.M. A glance at those glowing red numbers tells me it’s now four-thirty. I feel lucky to have gotten a full hour and a half of sleep.

“Burkholder,” I rasp.

“Chief, it’s Mona. Skid says there’s been a shooting out at the Plank farm.”

The words jolt me upright. “Anyone hurt?” I envision an accidental shooting; someone putting a bullet in his foot while cleaning his .30-06.

“He said it was a major crime scene with multiple fatalities.”