by Gaus, P. L.
Professor Nina Lobrelli sought out Branden and asked about the Amish boy who had been abducted. Branden explained that too much time had passed to contemplate hope for the lad.
Near the end of the morning, as Branden was thinking of walking home, a young woman in a cap and gown approached rather diffidently from the side and stood with him, watching the people mingle. He had never taught her in class, and he was embarrassed not to know her name. Without looking at him, she began to speak softly, and by the time his attention caught up to her words, she was saying, “That was all before he hooked up with Cathy Billett.”
Branden turned to her and saw an extraordinarily petite woman with sorrowful eyes. She was no more than five feet tall, and holding a brick in each hand, she might barely have tipped the scales over a hundred pounds. She had short black hair and brown eyes that turned to look at him directly only once. Her complexion was the pale color of coconut, and the muscles in her jaw line were knotting as she spoke.
“Cathy Billett was my best friend,” she said, “until they hooked up. After she’d been out with him for the second time, she stopped talking to me. Best friends, Professor, for three years, and she stopped talking to me after two dates with Eddie. That’s gotta be a record.”
Branden said, “I remember seeing you when Cathy died. You’re the girl who tried to slap Sergeant Niell.”
“I was trying to get to Eddie,” she said with a chilled laugh.
Branden felt a ripple along his spine, an uneasy tension, born of strange insight.
“I don’t know your name,” Branden said. “I’m sorry.”
“Hope Elliot, Professor. Psychology. I did my senior thesis with Professor Wells. I was Eddie’s girlfriend, until he dumped me for Cathy.”
“I see that Eddie wrote for Newhouse,” Branden said, tapping the bulletin and struggling to focus his mind. “Psychology, too.”
“He killed her, Professor Branden.”
“That’s a serious allegation!” Branden exclaimed.
“I know he did it, but nobody can prove it. So he’ll probably get away with it.”
“Eddie says she jumped,” the professor said, adjusting his posture to relieve the tension in his back. “He says he broke up with her, and she jumped.”
“Either way, Professor, he killed her. He killed her by how he treated her.”
Branden turned to face her fully, and Hope Elliot couldn’t look at him. Eyes forward, she said, “It won’t be good for me if he sees us talking too much.”
When Hope Elliot walked out of the oak grove, she was crying. She was also watched, Branden noticed, by Eddie Hunt-Myers.
Branden watched Eddie’s eyes track Hope to the street, and then he saw them swing back to rest on him. Branden held to his spot, and Eddie pulled his mother over to him. He offered Branden his hand and shook it with abundant goodwill, smiling as if it were the happiest day of his life. Then Eddie introduced his mother. His father joined them, and Eddie introduced him, too. The Hunt-Myerses asked for a picture, and Eddie clamped his arm around Branden’s shoulder and smiled for the shot. Eddie’s father shook Branden’s hand again, and Eddie gave his mother a bear hug. When he released her, there was a light in Eddie’s eyes that could have been pride, if it weren’t so tinged with sorrow and conflict.
As the Hunt-Myers family moved off with their graduate, Branden caught a glimpse of Bruce Robertson talking on his cell phone. Robertson spoke, listened, spoke again with heat, and started across the oak grove toward the professor at a run. Thirty yards out, the sheriff shouted, “Mike! Mike!” as loud as cannon shots, and everybody in the oak grove turned to look.
“We got him!” Robertson shouted. “We got him, Mike! Albert Erb! He’s safe. He just walked home on his own.”
24
Monday, May 14 2:30 P.M.
“HAS HE said anything at all?” Robertson asked. He was standing on the front porch, talking through the screened door to Israel Erb. The sheriff could see Albert behind Israel, cradled in his mother’s arms, head shaved and scalp as white as cotton, in a fresh suit of blue Amish denim.
Israel said, “No, Sheriff. He won’t talk. We’ve tried.”
Branden stepped out from behind Robertson and asked Israel, “Do you still have the clothes he was wearing?”
On the steps behind Branden stood Dan Wilsher in a blue suit, his gray hair lifting in the breeze. Behind him Ricky Niell, in uniform, was clicking his gold pen nervously. Cal Troyer waited on the lawn below, and beside him were Missy Taggert with her medical bag and Willa Banks with her endless curiosity. Branden’s white truck was parked in the drive, in front of two cruisers and the coroner’s wagon. Missy had already explained to Robertson her need to examine the boy. Cal had objected, fearing Albert was already too traumatized. They had agreed that she should start with the English clothes Albert had worn home, and examine him only if it proved to be wise to do so.
Israel looked the whole scene over anxiously from his side of the screen and said, “Yes. We have the English clothes.”
He turned back to the room behind him and spoke to an older son in dialect, calling him Daniel. The boy came forward with a plastic Wal-Mart bag bulging with clothes and a pair of pink flip-flops. Israel held the door open, and Daniel stepped out onto the porch with the bag of clothes. Robertson motioned him down the steps, and Missy Taggert came forward to take the clothes and flip-flops. The boy went back inside.
Next, Robertson said, “We want to talk with him, Mr. Erb. Let us talk to Albert.”
Israel stepped to the side, and his wife Hannah carried Albert forward to the screen. Robertson pulled the screened door open, and Albert cringed deeper into his mother’s grasp, squirming and whimpering. Hannah had difficulty managing him, so Israel took him from her. He laid Albert prone against his chest and let the boy rest his chin on his father’s shoulder. Albert was not facing Robertson, so the sheriff said, “Can you please bring him out here?”
Israel nodded for Hannah to precede him, and he followed with Albert. Robertson got them seated on the front porch and signaled for Cal Troyer to join them. Then Robertson and Branden stepped back. Cal waved them back farther, and the two descended the porch steps.
A warm, soft breeze suggested safety, peacefulness. The rhythmic clanking of the windmill pump bracket kept a slow, regular pace. Troyer could hear the beat of the windmill and feel the pulse of the breeze, but he dismissed these distracting sensations because of the insistent cry of Albert’s shaved head, the damage to the boy as disturbing as a knife wound to his psyche. Miraculously, the lad had made it home on his own. Perhaps that was all Troyer could ask for.
Troyer wanted to lay a hand against the boy’s scalp. He wanted to communicate safety and compassion through his touch. He wanted to hold the child. To console him with human tenderness. He searched himself for all of his healing instincts, but he had only his voice—and then only if he chose his words well. He would get one chance at this, and he’d better get it right.
Softly he said, “Hi, little fella. Hi, Albert. My name is Cal. You are safe now, Albert.” And Israel translated it into Dietsche.
Nothing but a bit of squirming came from Albert. He wasn’t facing Cal and wouldn’t turn around.
Cal continued after a pause. “Mattie is safe, too, Albert. I saw her today. She is safe at home.” Israel translated.
Cal said more. “The man was scary. I know that, Albert.” Israel translated for the boy.
Nobody made a sound. Albert gave no sign that he had heard. Cal kept his sight on the back of the boy’s shaved head, and he prayed as he talked.
“I’d like to see your eyes, Albert,” Cal said. “You don’t have to talk. You can just show me your eyes.”
Slowly, Albert lifted his head from his father’s shoulder. Branden, Robertson, Wilsher, and Niell kept a silent vigil on the lawn. Hannah Erb had started to cry. Willa Banks stood with her fingers laid against her mouth, scarcely breathing.
Slowly, as slowly as a child can manage
, Albert brought himself around so that Cal could see his eyes. Cal was on his knees, his head slightly lower than Albert’s. He held his hands softly in front of himself, as if praying, showing Albert that there was no longer any danger. But, when he saw the boy’s face, Cal hungered more than prayer to hold the child and weep.
Tears had made Albert’s cheeks wet and shiny. His little lip quivered. There was pain there and also fear. Cal could see that plainly. But as for his eyes, Albert held them closed—closed as tightly as he could squeeze them. All the horror was locked inside. He couldn’t show his eyes. He would not let the pastor see them.
And understanding what that meant nearly broke Cal Troyer in half.
Troyer pushed up from his knees with a weariness so heavy that he faltered. He rose up, turned around as Israel carried Albert back into the house, and saw Bishop Andy Miller coming slowly up the steps. Cal stood speechless before the bishop, and Miller laid a gentle hand on the pastor’s shoulder. He drew Cal toward the steps and walked down to the lawn with him.
Robertson said, “Cal, I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Andy Miller said, “We need to handle this our way, Sheriff. You need to let us minister to the boy.”
“We can take him to a doctor,” Robertson argued. “We can help here.”
“No,” said Miller. “Our ways are best. We know suffering. Our lives are supposed to be hard.”
Robertson said, “No offense, Mr. Miller, but that boy needs professional care. At the very least, he needs to be seen by a psychiatrist. He’ll need medical attention.”
Cal stood listening with his eyes cast to the ground. He heard Missy’s wagon start up and drive off.
Miller turned to him and said, “Do you know your Jonah, Pastor?”
Cal nodded his understanding, but he could not look up.
“Jonah 2:8,” Miller said. “All your medicines are worthless idols to me.”
Cal nodded, and Miller climbed the steps and went inside.
Robertson started after him, but Cal caught his sleeve and held him back with force.
Ricky Niell took a defensive step toward the sheriff, but Robertson raised a palm, saying, “No, Ricky. It’s all right.”
Cal let go of the sheriff’s sleeve and said, “There are no answers here for us, Sheriff. If he ever starts talking again, he won’t tell us any more than he already has.”
“What’s that?” Willa Banks asked from the side. “What has he told us?”
Troyer turned to her and said, “That it’s too terrible for a little boy’s eyes. That it’s too terrible for words.”
Willa Banks walked home alone to her trailer and shut herself inside. Robertson took Chief Deputy Dan Wilsher back toward Millersburg, saying, “I’m going back to see what Missy can find on the clothes.”
Ricky Niell followed in the second cruiser, leaving Branden and Troyer standing on the drive, next to the professor’s truck. Branden studied the closed front door of the house and said, “This can’t be his plan.”
Cal asked, “What?” consumed by sorrow.
“This can’t be his plan—the creep who took these kids, Cal. This can’t be his plan.”
Bitterly, Cal growled, “He’s already gotten away with it, Mike.”
“How do you figure that?” Branden asked.
“If the kids can’t describe him or can’t pick him out of a lineup, we’ll never get him. All he has to do is go away and stay away.”
“If you’re right,” Branden said, “then he’s already gotten what he wants out of them.”
“What’s that?” Cal asked.
“Don’t know.”
“It makes no sense,” Cal said. “He should have killed them. Most of these creeps would have killed them.”
“So,” Branden said, “he got what he wants, and he knows they’re so young and scared that they’ll never be able to help us catch him.”
“If you’re right and he has what he wants,” Cal said, “then what is that?”
Branden did not answer the question. He had nothing to offer. He looked back at the house, closed to the world of the English. “Jonah 2:8. What’s that, Cal?” he asked at last.
Cal recited, “Those who cling to worthless idols forfeit the grace that could have been theirs.”
“What does that mean, Cal? Medicines are worthless?”
“No, Mike. He means that they have the grace to endure this without us. He means that they are made whole by their trials—so that grace may increase. He means that they’re not going to ask for our help. He considers our medicines to be worthless idols. For his purposes, here, they probably are.”
25
Monday, May 14 4:45 P.M.
CAL WAS in no condition to handle the stark reality of the coroner’s labs, so Branden dropped him off at his church and drove back north to the hospital alone. As he entered the bright hallway outside Missy Taggert’s labs, he heard Taggert arguing with her husband about Albert Erb.
“Knock it off, Bruce,” she said, heat flaring in her tone. “I’d no more go back there now than jump out of an airplane.”
Branden pushed in through the door to the labs and found the sheriff standing in a far corner, by one of Missy’s stainless steel sinks. Missy had her palms planted on a metal examination table, elbows locked, and she wasn’t finished. As Branden came in, she added, “If I did go back to look him over, it’d cause him more harm right now than it’s worth,” and she eyed Branden as if to say, “You try talking to him!”
Branden understood the pressure Missy would put on herself now. To the sheriff he said, “You found a gutted beagle beside the road?”
“Yes,” Robertson said. “My people did, anyway.”
“So, that’s where he left his car when he went after the kids. That’s planning, Bruce. That’s a level of planning that’s pretty sophisticated.”
Robertson shook his head. “There’s got to be something, Missy. You’ve got to be able to find something on those clothes.”
“I know,” Missy said grimly. “It’s on me, now. If he gets away with this, it’s all on me.”
She lifted the Wal-Mart bag from the floor and pulled the items out one at a time. Starting with the larger items, she arranged first a pair of red cotton sweatpants, and then a Spiderman T-shirt, a pair of Jockey briefs in size 3T, and the pink flip-flops. She pulled her illuminated magnifying ring down from the ceiling and bent over to study the sweatpants.
“You boys clear out,” she said dismissively. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Robertson moved toward the door, but Branden stayed to ask, “Do you remember the Benny Erb case, Missy? The dwarf from the store in front of Israel Erb’s house?”
Distracted, Missy said, “Yes,” and moved the magnifying ring over to the Spiderman T-shirt.
Branden said, “That may not have been an accident.”
That took several seconds to register with her, but Missy looked up and asked, “What? Benny Erb, right?”
“You ruled that death accidental,” Branden said.
“And?”
“His brother says he couldn’t climb ladders anymore.”
Taggert’s eyes narrowed. “He had a broken neck, Mike. He pulled oatmeal off a high shelf, and he was covered in it. Off the top shelf, Mike. He would have needed the ladder to do that. Anybody would.”
Branden shrugged. “His brother says he couldn’t have done that.”
“Legs were stiff, short, like that?” Missy asked.
“Right.”
“It was little Albert who found him, Mike—one morning a couple of weeks ago. I examined the body myself. Benny Erb must have been up on that ladder. He hit his head, and his neck was broken.”
Branden said, “OK, you were there, and I wasn’t. But, still, Missy.”
Missy pushed back from her table shaking her head and said, “I don’t like this. I don’t like making mistakes.”
Branden said, “OK, maybe I’m wrong.”
“I woul
dn’t be able to tell, one way or the other, Mike, unless there had been unusual bruising, something like that. Something to suggest force.”
26
Monday, May 14 7:15 P.M.
PROFESSOR BRANDEN couldn’t shake the image in his mind. It was as if his lids were clicking camera shutters, his brain was film, and the print in his mind would not dissolve—Albert squeezing his eyes shut, tears running freely. After supper, Branden drove Caroline’s Miata out to the Nisley Road farms, with Caroline riding in the passenger’s seat. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was going there, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted his wife to go along.
When he turned into the Enos Erb driveway, they saw what looked like all of Enos Erb’s children out on the lawn, Mattie excepted. As soon as he pulled in, the two smallest children, maybe six and seven years old, got out of their sandbox and ran inside. Two slightly older girls stood by the swing set and watched the little sports car approach on the gravel drive. Their faces were as blank as the dead, but their eyes stayed fixed on the Brandens. They watched the English strangers roll toward them, then turned in eerie unison to hurry inside.
Two boys of grade school age stopped their game of volleyball. The older of the two put the ball on the ground and motioned for the younger to step under the net. Close together, they watched the car approach. Behind the house the Brandens could hear the drone of a gasoline lawn mower.
A girl of about fourteen years had been hanging clothes on a line beside the swing set, but when she saw the Brandens, she dropped her clothespins into her basket, left it on the grass, and went directly inside.
A lad of about eighteen came out onto the front porch and stood his ground, watching solemnly from above. When he whistled and waved, the two volleyball players walked into the house, never once taking their eyes off the two English in the car.
