“Sarah.” I say her name with an urgency I hadn’t intended. My sister is not a liar; it doesn’t come naturally to her. There’s a part of me that’s terrified she won’t keep her mouth shut. During the Slaughterhouse Murders, she sent a note to the bishop, telling him I knew something about Daniel Lapp. The bishop went to the mayor, who passed the note on to Tomasetti. He held on to the note, protecting me in doing so, but my sister’s actions put me in a precarious position. What if she does something like that again?
“I’m the chief of police,” I remind her. “If word of this gets out—if you tell anyone what happened that day—I’ll lose my job. I’ll never work in law enforcement again. Sarah, I could be charged with a crime. All of us could be charged.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“That doesn’t matter. I killed a man. My guilt or innocence won’t be determined by you, but by a jury. If it goes that far, it’s over for me. At least in terms of my career.”
“Fine.” She snaps the word without looking at me. “I’ll do it. But I don’t like it.”
Leaving my coffee unfinished, my little niece unacknowledged, I rise and start toward the door without thanking her.
CHAPTER 14
I’m still worrying over the exchange with my sister when I pull onto the dirt track of the Wengerd farm fifteen minutes later. There’s no doubt in my mind that the sheriff’s investigators will be taking a hard look at the disappearance of Daniel Lapp—if they haven’t already. Even without DNA or dental records, they’ll be able to match height, age, and sex. They’ll look at the timing and start connecting the dots—right back to me.
The Explorer bounces over deep potholes. To my left, a pasture with the grass shorn down to bare earth accommodates a dozen or more pygmy goats. On my right is a cornfield with slightly crooked rows of yellow stalks fluttering in a stiff breeze. The lane swerves and I see a mobile home with a nice wood deck tucked into a stand of trees. Beyond, a red metal building surrounded by a wood pen holds a dozen more goats with kids. Twenty yards away, Enos Wengerd stands next to a pile of burning brush, poking at it with a good-size stick, looking at me.
The breeze carries gossamer fingers of smoke my way as I get out of the Explorer. Somewhere nearby, a dog begins to bark. I hit my radio, “Six two three. I’m ten twenty-three.”
“Ten four.”
I slam the driver’s side door and start toward Wengerd. “Enos Wengerd?”
He stabs at the brush pile with the stick. “That’s me.”
“Do you have a few minutes, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“There’s no burn ban,” he says. “I checked.”
I’m midway to him when I notice the truck parked at the side of the metal building. “Not too windy yet,” I comment.
“It’ll do.”
The truck is blue, but I can’t discern the make or model. I stop ten feet from Wengerd. “Is that your truck over there?”
He leans on the stick, takes his time answering. “Yup.”
He wears a straw, flat-brimmed hat, a faded work shirt, and gray trousers with suspenders. I guess him to be in his mid-twenties. Six feet tall. Two hundred pounds. I can tell from the breadth of his shoulders he partakes in a good bit of physical labor.
“I hear it caused you some trouble with the deacon,” I say conversationally.
“That’s not against the law, is it?”
“No,” I tell him. “Unless you have an argument with the deacon and then he turns up dead.”
“Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” It’s an old Amish sobriquet about gossip. If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults. “Andy Erb gossips like an old woman,” Wengerd says, but he doesn’t look quite as cocky now that he knows why I’m here.
“Did you have an argument with Paul Borntrager?” I ask.
He stares at me for a long time before answering. “We had a disagreement.”
“What about?”
“Paul and the bishop put me under the bann.” The muscle in his jaw begins to work and I realize the bad attitude is by design, perhaps to conceal just how much the excommunication has upset him.
“Why?”
“Because I bought a truck. It’s against the Ordnung.” He doesn’t mention attending Mennonite services. “But then you know all about breaking the rules, don’t you, Kate Burkholder?”
I ignore the question. “Did you get angry?”
Instead of replying, he stabs at the smoldering brush, sending a scatter of sparks into the air.
“Where did the argument happen?” I ask.
“At the auction. In Millersburg. You already knew that, though, or you wouldn’t be here.” He pokes harder, watching as new flames lick at the dry kindling. He’s got large, strong hands and forearms turned brown from the sun. He wraps his fingers around the length of wood so tightly his knuckles go white. “I didn’t run him over, if that’s what you’re going to ask me next.”
“Where were you two nights ago?”
“Here. Clearing brush.”
“Was there anyone with you?”
He sighs. “It was just me and all these goats.”
“Do you mind if I take a quick look at your truck, Mr. Wengerd?” I say amicably. “Then I’ll get out of your hair and let you get back to work.”
“It’s right there.” He motions toward the vehicle, but his attention stays riveted on me.