Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.
Steve Ressler stands behind his desk, his hands on his hips, glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so. He’s a small, wiry man with red hair and a ruddy complexion that glows like a bad sunburn when he’s frustrated or angry, which seems to be all the time. He’s a hard-driving, type-A personality and always looks as if he’s on the verge of having a stroke.
“I want you to run a special edition of The Advocate,” I begin.
“A special edition? That’s kind of expensive. Maybe I could just put something on the Web site. . . .”
“I need both,” I tell him. “A story on the Web site as well as a special edition.”
“Is there some news item I don’t know about, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m working on something now.” I hand him the bogus press release. “Everything you need to know is there.”
Ressler skims the paper, his red brows knitting. “This is pretty explosive.”
“I’d appreciate it if you kept your source confidential,” I say.
“Of course.” Then Ressler sighs. “I hate to ask this question, Kate, but will I be compensated? Running a special edition is not cheap.”
I give him a wry smile. “As chief of police, I’ve gotten pretty good at squeezing blood out of a stone.”
“Excellent.” His cheeks flush red with excitement. “When do you want me to run it?”
“This afternoon. In time for dinner.”
“Gonna be tight.” He glances at his watch, frowns. “That only gives me a few hours.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to have to hustle. I’ve got some ads and other stories I can use for fill.” He’s thinking aloud now. “I’m going to need to call in a few people. Ad girl. Layout guy. Typesetter. Circulation. Route people.”
I look at my own watch. Almost one P.M. “How soon can you get it out?”
“Going to need at least four hours. That’s pushing it.”
“We need it out by five P.M. Grocery stores. Bars. Convenience stores. Doctor offices. All of your subscribers.”
Heaving another sigh, Ressler looks at his watch. “Okay, okay.”
“I don’t have to tell you this is strictly confidential, do I, Steve?” I ask. “You can’t tell anyone I was your source. Not your wife. Not even your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog,” he snaps. “Who the hell has time for a damn dog?”
Glock and I hold back grins when we walk out.
Dusk at an Amish home is a special time. Sunlight slants through the windows, washing the rooms in golden light. Dust motes spiral and dance in the glowing shafts. Quiet falls and shadows lengthen. It is a time when the chores are done. The heat of the day is fading to cool comfort. Everyone’s tired and looking forward to the evening meal, conversation, prayer and rest.
It’s strange to walk the rooms of a farmhouse so much like the one I grew up in. Around me the house is so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the open windows, the tap of the curtain hem weights against the sills. The occasional creak of a century-old house settling. Sparrows chatter in the maple tree outside.
I’m standing in the kitchen and my memories are keeping me company. Some of those memories are good. There’s laughter. A keen sense of belonging. The kind of security I felt knowing I was part of a family unit. But some of the memories are bad, too. I was introduced to violence in a pretty country kitchen much like this one. That single event forever changed my life and set me on a path I have not veered from to this day.
Despite the peacefulness of the house, an edginess creeps over me. The kind of dark anticipation you feel right before a storm. The thought that my plan won’t work is a cloud that has shadowed me all afternoon.
I look down at the plain dress, apron, kapp and stockings folded neatly in my hands. I haven’t worn traditional Amish clothing for about thirteen years, and it’s disconcerting to contemplate wearing them now. It’s the small, everyday things that take me back. Donning these clothes will be like stepping into a time machine and being thrust back to a time I’m not sure I want to revisit.
The special edition of The Advocate went out as scheduled two and a half hours ago. My copy was still warm from the presses when I swung by the diner and picked it up. Steve Ressler did a good job with the information I gave him.