“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 Englischers.”
“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 déjà 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 involved could he be?”
“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.