I don’t ask him to elaborate. I read the fire marshal’s report. I know that kerosene from the lantern caught fire, and all four of his siblings perished. Their little bodies were recovered the next day, all burned beyond recognition.
The detective with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department believed the perpetrators were local. There were rumors that Willis Hochstetler didn’t use a bank and kept a lot of cash at the house. The detective surmised the culprits had heard about it and decided an Amish family would be easy prey. But despite an exhaustive investigation, no arrests were ever made and Wanetta Hochstetler was never found.
Word around town is that Hoch Yoder has suffered with depression and nightmares for years. The shrinks have all sorts of official names for it: survivor’s guilt; post-traumatic stress disorder. But the bottom line was that Hoch Yoder blamed himself, and the guilt affected every facet of his life. While most Amish men are married with children by the age of twenty-five, Hoch didn’t marry Hannah until just a few years ago, when he was already into his forties.
I look across the table at Hoch. “I understand your datt was an excellent furniture maker.”
Pleasure flashes in his features, and I know that while the past holds plenty of bad memories, some were good, too. “He made everything we sold in our store.”
“Hoch’s a furniture maker, too.” Hannah motions toward a cabinet set against the wall. “He made that for me a few years ago.” She nods with pride. “He won’t admit it, but he’s as good as his datt.”
Hoch looks down at the table, where his hands are folded. “He taught me everything I know.”
“Did your datt make peg dolls?” I ask.
He nods. “When he had time. The small ones. Sometimes he gave them away to the children of customers.” He gives me a quizzical look. “I haven’t thought of those dolls in years. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” I hold his gaze. “Did you know Dale Michaels?”
“The man who was murdered?”
I nod. “Have you ever met or spoken to him?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want you to read anything into what I’m going to ask you next, Hoch, but I need to know where you were the last two nights.”
Hannah sets down her mug with a little too much force. “Chief Burkholder, surely you don’t think Hoch had anything to do with that awful murder?”
I ignore her, keeping my gaze locked on her husband.
“I was here,” he tells me.
“Both nights?”
“That’s right.”
“All evening?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own any firearms?” I ask.
“I have a muzzle-loader that was passed down from Grossdaddi Yoder. For hunting.” He cocks his head. “Would you like to see it?”
“What about a handgun?”
“No.”
I reach into my jacket, tug out my card, and hand it to him. “If you think of anything else, will you get in touch with me?”
He nods. “The men responsible for what happened to my family will be judged not by you or me or even by some Englischer court,” he tells me. “They will be judged by God and God alone.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Pushing away from the table, I rise and start toward the door.
CHAPTER 6
They met at The Oak, an out-of-the-way wine bar a few miles out of Dover. The place was windowless and dark with a generous amount of antique brick and rough-hewn barrels for an ambience not quite achieved. It was the kind of place where no one would notice a group of middle-aged, financially comfortable friends getting together for a liquid lunch and some chitchat about old times. But the conversation they were about to have wouldn’t be about children or grandchildren, their looming retirement or even the good times they’d once shared. In fact, the man they called Brick was pretty sure if they weren’t frightened when they walked in, they would be when they left.
They’d been known as the Goldens back in high school. Thirty-five years ago, they’d been a tight-knit group of hotshots with the world at their feet and a future as bright as the sun. Brick had been the leader of sorts. The bad boy with a reputation he’d done his utmost to live up to. He’d dabbled in drugs and alcohol and gotten into a few fights, but nothing too serious—until college, anyway. When he was seventeen, he took his aunt’s car for a joyride and ended up wrecking it. His parents managed to talk her out of pressing charges, but he’d spent an entire summer working a shit job to pay for the damage.
Pudge had been his best friend. The little guy with skinny legs who made up for his lack of stature with a mind that kept him on the honor roll the entirety of high school and earned him a full scholarship to the University of Michigan. Studious and diligent, Pudge had always been the serious one. The one who, back in high school, had been voted most likely to succeed. The one most likely to become President of the United States. Brick always thought he would, too.
Snipe had been the football star, the charmer, the quarterback with the Hollywood good looks who could throw a fifty-yard pass and outrun any cornerback who tried to stop him. He was the athlete who could run a four-minute mile and barely break a sweat. The girls had thrown themselves at him. Rumor had it Snipe took the virginity of more girls than he’d made touchdowns, and that was a lot. But Brick and the rest of them knew about the darker side of the football star’s personality. The binge drinking. The marijuana deals and rumors of harder drugs. The girls who’d said no—and whose voices he hadn’t heard. He’d gone to Kent State on a football scholarship. Rumor had it, he’d got into a scrape with the law up there. A girl told him no and Snipe hadn’t listened. When Brick had asked him about it, Snipe was vague about the details. Somehow, the whole incident had been swept under the rug and the football team went on to win the season.
Jules was the perfect one. She was Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek rolled into a perfect ten with a capital T. The blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen with the face of an angel and a body designed by Satan himself. She’d been a cheerleader, class valedictorian, president of the Girls Athletic Association—and a purported virgin throughout high school. She was the one you fantasized about fucking not only because she was beautiful, but because you knew it would be a wild ride. Back in high school, all the boys had wanted Jules. The girls had wanted to be her. If you were lucky enough to be her friend, everything you did was for Jules, even though she didn’t reciprocate in any way. Jules always said no, but every male who met her secretly clung to the desperate hope that sooner or later, she would change her mind.
Brick had known all of them since he was he was thirteen years old and broke Snipe’s front tooth in a game of stickball. They’d been best friends ever since. Baseball games. Campouts. Long days at the public pool. He’d laughed with them. Fought with them. Cried with them. He’d had more fun with them than at any other time in his life. He’d been closer to them than to his own brothers and sisters, a closeness he never found again. He’d shared the best days of his life with this group. But not all of those memories were good.
They were older now—strangers, in fact, having gone their separate ways years ago. They rarely saw each other. Rarely spoke. But there was one thing that would always bind them. An inescapable link that would connect them until they died.
He was on his second cognac when Snipe and Jules walked into the bar. At fifty-three, Jules was still a stunner. She was wearing a pale blue suit with pearls at her throat and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was still the same shade of blond. The kind that made your fingers itch to run through it. Beneath that skirt and jacket, he could see her body was still slender and athletic. She still had it and people still noticed, including him.
Snipe, on the other hand, at the age of fifty-four looked as bent and grizzled as the old man they’d once beat down for leering at Jules. He’d heard Snipe had a problem with booze. From the looks of him, the gossip wasn’t too far off the mark.
Raising his hand, Brick motioned them over to the table. It was still early, but he was pretty sure he was going to need another drink, so he caught the bartender’s eye. Phony smiles and overly cheery greetings were exchanged as his onetime friends settled into the booth, polite strangers bringing with them the redolence of the past—and the knowledge that this was no happy reunion, no matter how hard they tried to pretend.
Across from him, Jules offered a nervous smile. Her lips were still pouty and full and painted an appealing shade of red. Brick knew he’d never rated with her; he’d always been her least favorite, but in those early days, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing about her.
Returning her stare, he smiled. “How’s it going, Jules?”
“I’ve been better.” She pressed her lips together and looked at Snipe. “Pudge called you, too?”
He nodded. “Talking crazy.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said. “Pudge. Murdered. My God.”
Snipe sat in the booth next to Jules, his elbows on the table. He wore a JCPenney shirt with a pair of khakis that were too long and baggy for his frame. “Have either of you been receiving notes?” he asked.
Brick nodded. “First one came two days ago.”
Jules looked from man to man. “Me, too. Two of them. Frankly, all of this is scaring the hell out of me.”
“Especially since Pudge turned up dead,” Snipe put in.
“Maybe we ought to go to the police,” Jules suggested.
Brick glared at her. “And tell them what, exactly?”
She looked away and didn’t mention it again.
The barkeep came over to their booth and took their orders. Snipe ordered whiskey. No brand. Jules asked for the house cabernet. Brick got a refill of cognac.
When the bartender was out of earshot, Snipe said, “Maybe Pudge wasn’t talking so crazy after all.”
Brick looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Snipe stared back, his eyes bloodshot and full of fear. “I saw her, too.”
Checking to make sure no one could hear them, Jules leaned forward and addressed Snipe. “What do you mean you saw her?” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”
“I saw her,” Snipe said. “I swear to God. She was at my place. Three days ago.”
Jules’s pretty blue eyes went from Snipe to Brick as if wishing he’d intervene with some logic. When he didn’t, she said, “You couldn’t have seen her, Snipe. For God’s sake.”
“I saw her,” he maintained. “Standing in my driveway like she lived there. By the time I got the shotgun, she was gone.”
“You never could hold your booze,” Brick muttered.
Snipe looked from Brick to Jules, his expression telling them he’d known they wouldn’t believe him—but he didn’t give a good damn. “I know what I saw. She was there. Left tracks, too. I saw them the next morning when it was light.”
“So it was dark,” Jules said hopefully.
“Someone might’ve been there, but it wasn’t her,” Brick cut in. “Unless you believe in ghosts.”
Snipe glared at him. “So if it wasn’t her, who’s sending the notes? Who murdered Pudge?”
“Not her,” Brick snapped.
They fell silent when the bartender returned with their drinks. Snipe reached for his and downed it in two gulps. “I saw her out at the old Hochstetler place, too.”
The three of them exchanged meaningful looks.
Jules fingered the stem of her glass nervously. “God, I wish none of that had happened.”
“We all wish that,” Brick said. “Can’t go back. Can’t change it.”
Snipe leaned forward, his expression intense. “Look, is there some way she survived? That we’re wrong about what happened? That she’s alive and she’s come back for a little payback?”
“Is it?” Jules asked.
Brick sighed. “You didn’t see her,” he said. “No one did.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Snipe leaned back in the booth. “I know what I saw. And let me tell you something: She saw me, too.”
“What are you saying?” Jules asked, looking alarmed.
Snipe tossed her a nasty look. “Connect the dots.”
“Stop scaring her,” Brick growled.
“Better scared than dead.” Glancing over his shoulder, Snipe lowered his head and spoke urgently. “I’m not the only one who saw her. I was down at Ladonna’s Diner last Saturday, and I heard Tyler McKay say he saw her, too.”
“Tyler McKay is a drunk,” Brick said.
“Maybe we’re wrong about what happened. Maybe she survived.” Jules drank some of the wine, leaving a red imprint of her lower lip. “Maybe she’s come back.”
“Come back to do what?” Brick asked.
“To get revenge on us for what we did,” Snipe said.
“For what you did,” Brick snapped.
“We were all there.” Jules looked down at her glass of wine. “We’re all guilty.”
Snipe grimaced. “I heard Pudge was gut-shot and strung up in his barn like a side of beef.”
“Do the cops have any idea who did it?” Jules asked.
“No one knows anything,” Brick said. “We need to make sure it stays that way.”
“They’ll know about the calls he made to us,” Jules pointed out.
“There’s no law against old acquaintances calling to catch up on old times.” Brick looked from Jules to Snipe, wanting to make sure they understood what he was telling them. Snipe had never been smart, and evidently the years hadn’t changed that.
Jules nodded. “Okay.”
“All right.” Snipe leaned forward. “How do we keep her from coming after us, too?”
“Keep your imagination in check,” Brick said dismissively.
The words hung in the air, and for the span of several minutes, they drank in silence. “I know it sounds crazy,” Snipe said, “and I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I do know what I saw. I think she killed Pudge. And I got a feeling she isn’t finished.”
Jules pressed her hand against her chest. “Snipe … please.”
“Lots of people have seen her up to the Hochstetler place,” he maintained.
“Those are just … silly ghost stories,” Jules said.
“Silly until she sinks a knife in your back,” Snipe returned evenly.
Brick slapped both palms down on the tabletop so suddenly, Jules jumped. “Ghosts? Really? For God’s sake, Snipe, are you hearing yourself?” he asked in exasperation. “No one saw her. She’s not alive. And she’s sure as hell not back from the dead. You got that?” He divided his attention between Jules and Snipe. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for thirty-five years. People don’t come back from that.”
Jules stared down at her wineglass.
Snipe glared at Brick, but he didn’t speak.
After a moment, Brick sighed. “Anyone heard from Fat Boy?”
“I called him.” Snipe glanced at his watch. “He should have been here.”
“Figured he wouldn’t show,” Jules added.
“Never liked that two-faced, do-gooder punk,” Snipe muttered.
Brick picked up his glass and drank, enjoying the heat of the cognac on the back of his throat. “Do either of you know if the cops have any leads?”
Snipe shrugged. “Haven’t heard.”
“I’ll ask around at the gallery,” Jules offered.
Brick nodded. “Look, what happened to Pudge could have been a random thing. A robbery or something. He made all that real estate money back in the ’90s.”
He could tell by their expressions, neither of them believed it. He wasn’t even sure he believed it. Still, it was better than the alternative.
Across from him, Snipe finished his whiskey, set the glass down with a little too much force. “It was her.” He said the words without looking up. “Or someone else is a dead ringer and knows what went down that night.”
“Nobody knows what happened,” Jules whispered.
“Except us.”
“The Amish kid,” Brick offered.
“He didn’t see our faces.” Snipe rubbed the back of his neck.
“What do we do?” Jules’s eyes searched theirs. “About the notes?”
“Lock your doors.” Having had his fill of ghost stories and nonsense, Brick scooted from the booth. “And hope she can’t walk through walls.”
He left without finishing his cognac.
CHAPTER 7
John Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at just before 3 P.M. and took Interstate 77 north toward Cleveland. He assured himself he wasn’t going to do anything ill-advised. Just a little recon. He liked to know what he was dealing with, after all. A cop could never have too much information, even if he didn’t use it.
Regardless of his intentions—or lack thereof—he had to be careful. Three years ago, there had been rumors about John Tomasetti. Ugly rumors that after his wife and children were murdered, he’d gone rogue and taken the law into his own hands. Nothing had ever been proved. Cops made the best criminals, after all. Besides, everyone knew that certain kinds of people tended to have a short shelf life. Just because you had a reason to want someone dead didn’t mean you’d done the deed.
But Tomasetti knew that if anything happened to Joey Ferguson in the coming days or weeks or months, he would be scrutinized. He might as well have the word “motive” tattooed on his forehead. He hadn’t missed the way people looked at him this morning when he’d walked into the office. Some of his coworkers had gone out of their way to say hello and ask him how he was doing. Others had steered clear, as if maybe they were worried he might prove all those rumors true and snap. None of them had had the guts to ask him how he felt about Ferguson’s release.
Tomasetti wasn’t too worried about it. He had a better handle on the situation this time around. A more solid grip on himself. He’d had three years to deal with his losses, to climb out of that black abyss of grief, and to extinguish the wildfire of rage that had burned him from the inside out. He’d come to terms with the past and learned to accept the unacceptable. He was fine with a capital F, and everyone who mattered knew it. That’s what he told himself as he headed north to a city he’d avoided for the better part of three years.
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