“Chief Burkholder, this is Chief Archer from Connersville, Indiana.” He clears his throat. “Sorry to call so early.”
It takes my befuddled brain a moment to place the name. Then my intellect clicks in, and I realize he’s returning my call. Mose had told me his family was from Connersville and I wanted to check out his adoption story. “Thanks for returning my call, Sheriff.”
“Sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I was out of town. Big conference over in Richmond on the meth problem.” He sounds harried, as if he’s back in town and pounding through a whole collection of messages. Mine wasn’t very high on his list, and he’s anxious to move on to the next.
“I’m calling to verify some information about a young man by the name of Moses Slabaugh.”
“Slabaugh…”
“His name would have been Hochstetler. He’s living here in Painters Mill, but he’s originally from Connersville.”
“Yeah, I know that name. Amish folks?”
“That’s right. Mose claims his parents were killed and he was adopted by another family shortly thereafter.”
“I remember that,” the sheriff says. “Hell of a thing. Nice Amish family, too.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“Oh, gosh, I’d say it’s been ten years now. One of the worst accidents I’ve ever seen.”
In the three years I’ve been the chief of police here in Painters Mill, I’ve investigated one fatal buggy accident. A logging truck from Pennsylvania crossed the yellow line and hit a buggy head-on. It was a triple fatality, and I was first on the scene. The images ran through my head for months.
“We require all buggies to have ‘Slow Moving Vehicle’ signs here in Painters Mill,” I say. “Some of the more conservative families balk, claiming the signs are ornamentation.”
A too-long pause ensues, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Sheriff Archer?”
“The Hochstetlers weren’t killed in a buggy accident,” the sheriff tells me.
The prickly sensation augments to a stabbing suspicion. “Mose told me his parents were killed in a buggy accident.”
“The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. You know, methane gas. I ought to know; I was first on the scene. First damn week of work and I got two dead Amish on my hands.”
His voice fades as the words hit home. The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. I almost can’t believe my ears. All I can think is, Why would Mose lie to me about something like that? He was seven years old at the time. Why would he lie? Muttering a thank-you, I hang up the phone, then sit there, my head reeling.
“What is it?” Tomasetti asks.
I look at him, feeling shell-shocked, and tell him what I learned from Sheriff Archer. “Why would Mose lie about something like that?” I ask.
Tomasetti’s expression is dark. “Because he’s lying about something else,” he says. “Or covering something up.”
“Or both.” My mind spins through the possibilities, and I hate all of them. I don’t want to say aloud what I’m thinking. Of course, I don’t have a choice. As much as I don’t want to confront those possibilities, they’re there, staring me in the face. Until this moment, I’ve been too blind to see them.
“My God, he would have been seven years old,” I say, and another chill runs through me.
Tomasetti nods, knowing what I’m thinking. “We need to get out there.”
I’m already up, rushing toward the shower. “Could Mose be the one who pushed his parents into the pit? Has he done it before?”
“I think it’s time we asked him.”
CHAPTER 17
Twenty minutes later, I whip the Explorer into the Slabaugh lane and zip toward the house. I called Bishop Troyer on the way and asked him to check on Mose. Sure enough, the boy was nowhere to be found. Concern notches up into worry as I park at the rear of the house. It doesn’t elude me that the buggy is gone, and I wonder if Mose took it, or if the Rabers went into town.
Praying it’s the latter, I swing open the door and get out. Drizzle floats down from a slate sky as I jog toward the rear porch. Around me, fog hovers like wet ghosts, turning the farm monochrome. It’s like walking into an old black-and-white movie.
I hear the crunch of gravel behind me and turn to see Tomasetti park the Tahoe beside my Explorer. I don’t wait for him. Reaching the door, I rap hard with the heel of my hand.
“Mr. and Mrs. Raber?” I shout. “Police! Open up!”
A hard-edged uneasiness steals through me as I wait. The seconds seem to tick by like minutes. I know it’s premature, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
“They home?” Tomasetti strides toward me, his expression sober.
I motion toward the gravel area. “Buggy’s not here.”
“Maybe they went into town, took the kids with them.”
“I called Bishop Troyer on my way over. Mose is gone.”