by Gaus, P. L.
Or had her story been all an act? What they knew of her was, essentially, only what she had told them. And what had she told them?
That a gang of Amish kids was in way over their heads with a Rumschpringe gone bad. That there was a grave in a red barn in the country. That John Schlabaugh had been a drifter. The worst kind of drifter, if she were right. That John Schlabaugh and Abe Yoder had gotten them all in enough trouble to last a lifetime.
SATURDAY, JULY 24
18
Saturday, July 24
6:15 A.M.
PROFESSOR Branden drove up the Doughty Valley to the Schlabaugh trailer and found a buggy pushed back under the hickory trees next to the barn. In a pasture behind the barn, a Standardbred horse munched on a tall mound of hay in a corner of the fence. When Branden inspected the buggy, he found a bloody hospital dressing on the floorboards, and bloodstains on the right side of the seat. In the barn, the tractor and farm implements stood alone in the center avenue. The two cars were gone.
Branden tried the door to the trailer and found it locked. He climbed back into his truck and drove down County 19 to Township 110, then looped back into the valley where the Yoders and Rabers lived. At Bishop Raber’s brick house, he found Cal’s truck parked amid several buggies. Cal and the bishop were seated in lawn chairs on the back porch with several solemn men, plates of bacon, eggs, and corn bread in their laps. Cal motioned with his fork for Branden to take a seat on a wooden chair next to him, and as Branden sat down, a lady in a long, green dress and flowered kitchen apron came out onto the porch and asked the bishop if their visitor would be having breakfast too. Raber looked at Branden, and Branden nodded and thanked her. She went back inside, letting the screened door slap shut, returning with a heaping plate for the professor and a cup of coffee that she put on the porch boards beside his chair. After he had taken several bites and drunk some coffee, Branden said, “I think Jeremiah Miller picked Abe Yoder up at the hospital,” and explained what he had discovered at John Schlabaugh’s barn.
Raber asked, “Was there a lot of blood?”
Branden shrugged. “Enough. He’s got to be hurting. I’m not surprised that Abe left the hospital. I’m not even surprised that Jeremiah helped him do it. Abe could have called Jeremiah, or Jeremiah could have just showed up. Nobody would notice two Amish kids in a buggy. If Jeremiah had taken his car, that would be different, so they obviously thought this through together. What I wonder, though, is where they have gone. What they plan to do.”
Cal said, around a mouthful of corn bread, “Jeremiah will know that Sara was taken. Maybe they think they can do something about that.”
“I’m surprised he can travel,” Branden said. “Abe, I mean.”
Raber asked, “Both cars were gone at John Schlabaugh’s place?”
Branden nodded, ate a bite. “One was Jeremiah’s, as I remember. Who owns the other one? Remind me.”
“John Miller,” Raber said. “He lives out by Gypsy Springs School, on the other side of Saltillo.”
Branden laid his plate on the porch boards and took up his coffee. He stared at the cup a while, took a sip, and said, “Cal, I’d like to borrow your truck.”
“Sure. Why?” Cal said.
“Bruce Robertson and I have a little something cooked up for later this afternoon, and it’d look better if I showed up in a carpenter’s truck. Working man. That sort of thing.”
Cal fished out his keys, saying, “You’ll need to get some gas.”
Branden traded keys and said, “If things work out, we may be able to locate Sara Yoder. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth the gamble.”
Raber said, “I’m going to visit families this afternoon with the preachers. Is there anything you want us to do?”
With level conviction, Branden said, “Yes. I want you to pray.”
19
Saturday, July 24
1:15 P.M.
DRESSED for the afternoon in a red work shirt and black jeans, Branden pushed through the rusty bar door. His leather belt sported the Smith & Wesson logo. He wore an old pair of work boots, and the cuffs of his jeans came down over both the boot tops and a small ankle holster carrying a stainless AMT Backup pistol in the diminutive caliber .380.
Inside the door, on the left, a jukebox played a fast-paced country song, and on a small dance floor covered with sawdust, a middle-aged couple was doing a vigorous two-step.
Beyond the dance floor, further to the left, a row of wooden booths ended in a metal door marked Office. One young couple sat in the last booth, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer in the dim light.
Branden stepped back to the bar, got a draft beer, and took it to a front corner booth, to the right of the entrance, where he’d be out of the line of sight of anyone coming into the bar. As he sat down, he spoke quietly into his microphone, “Seven cars out front, five people in view, counting the bartender.”
Three fans spaced evenly in the ceiling made slow, quiet turns in the air. The only windows were glass blocks set high in the walls, admitting a small fraction of the bright afternoon light. The wood floor was old and irregular. In the center of the bar there were rustic pine tables and chairs, all empty, and on Branden’s right there was another row of booths lining the wall. The bar itself ran the length of the back wall, with a dozen empty barstools standing in front of it. It had a black Naugahyde bumper, and on the left stood several tall levers marked colorfully with the logos of the beers available on tap. Behind the bar, the liquor bottles were lined up on a long shelf in front of a wall-length mirror.
Robertson was down the road a mile or so, in a high school parking lot, listening in his blue sedan, receiver on the dash, an earplug in his ear. Behind the school, Ricky Niell was parked in a Holmes County cruiser with one other deputy.
While Branden waited, three older men came in and took a booth on the right, two down from Branden and closer to the bar. Two were in blue service uniforms, and the third wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a red ball cap. Red Cap went to the bar and spoke to the bartender, and then sat down with the other two men.
The jukebox switched to a country waltz, and the dancing couple sat down in one of the booths along the left wall. The bartender, a large, florid man in a white shirt, jeans, and black leather vest, came out to the booth with the three men. He leaned over the table, took some folding money from Red Cap, and slipped it into the left front pocket of his jeans, under his waist apron. Then he passed a small plastic bag from his right jeans pocket to the man. The three men sat for a minute and then left quietly.
Nursing his beer, Branden sat for half an hour and described the comings and goings inside the bar. Five people came in, transacted quietly with the bartender, and left without having a drink. The dancing couple fed quarters into the jukebox, took another turn with a two-step, and left after paying their tab.
The young couple on the left moved to the bar and sat to talk quietly with the bartender. He listened, leaning forward on the bar, then shook his head and stepped back. The young man waved him closer and put several bills on the bar, and the bartender scooped them up, seeming annoyed.
He went through the door marked Office and came out with a middle-aged man in a well-tailored gray suit. Gray Suit spoke with the young couple and went back into the office, having instructed the bartender to wait. When he came out, Gray Suit walked up to the young man on the barstool, pushed the folding money roughly into the boy’s shirt pocket, shoved him off the stool, and ordered the boy and girl out of the bar. Before he went back through the office door, Gray Suit spoke angrily to the bartender, who backed up, slipped in behind the bar, and started washing out glasses in the sink under the bar. In the mirror behind the bar, Branden saw Abe Yoder and Jeremiah Miller coming through the front door, dressed English from head to toe.
Jeremiah was in blue Wranglers with no belt. The pocket of his light blue sport shirt held a pack of cigarettes. His black track shoes had the Nike swoosh. Abe Yoder was wearing black designer jeans with a wide lea
ther belt. He had pulled up his pink-and-gray-striped, button-down shirt so that it hung loose on the left side. He was in white running shoes with elaborate, angled soles.
Jeremiah walked straight back to the bar, stopping once to turn and measure Abe Yoder’s progress behind him. Abe followed slowly, his left arm stiff against his side, favoring his left leg as he maneuvered between the tables.
Branden whispered into his microphone, “Abe Yoder and Jeremiah Miller just walked in,” and held his hands, fingers locked, in front of his mouth, elbows propped on the table for cover.
When Yoder made it up to the bar, the bartender had already started arguing loudly with Jeremiah Miller. Yoder joined in the argument, and Branden heard the bartender shout, “Get out!”
When neither Yoder nor Miller gave any indication that they intended to leave, the bartender came out around the end of the bar, his face flushed with anger. Yoder backed up as the man advanced, and bumped his left hip against one of the barstools. He doubled over, holding his left side with both hands. The bartender, ignoring Yoder, took Jeremiah roughly by the arm and started marching him toward the door. Abe got a grip on an ashtray with his right hand and threw it hard against the mirror behind the bar, shattering it and a half dozen bottles on the liquor shelf.
Gray Suit pushed through the office door, took hold of Yoder’s shirt collar, and threw a heavy punch into Yoder’s ribs. Yoder folded to his knees and was hauled, gasping, to his feet. Then the bartender marched both Miller and Yoder out the door to the parking lot.
When the bartender came back through the door, Branden handed him a five and said, “Keep the change.”
His back was to the bar, and he didn’t see Gray Suit advancing on him as he handed over the bill. Gray Suit crooked his left arm around the professor’s neck in a chokehold from the back and threw a vicious right-hand punch into Branden’s side. Branden’s knees gave way and he sagged into the chokehold. Another quick punch took Branden to his knees. He passed out briefly. When he came to, the man had him pinned face down on the floor, his arm cranked painfully up against his back, a kidney taking the full weight of his attacker’s knee.
Gray Suit fumbled with Branden’s ankle holster, pulled out the AMT Backup, and cracked it onto the back of Branden’s skull, growling, “Nobody brings a gun into my bar!”
Gray Suit pitched the little silver pistol to the bartender, pulled Branden to his feet, and slammed him out through the metal door into the parking lot. The bartender came out, and Gray Suit barked, “Back inside, Jimmy!” and smashed the edge of his hand against the back of Branden’s neck.
When the bartender was gone, Gray Suit said, “I saw you talking into your shirt, dummy. You the law?”
Branden said, “Figure it out for yourself.”
Gray Suit spun Branden around and took him with both fists by the front of his shirt. A quarter inch off his nose, he whispered, “That was for Jimmy’s benefit. Tell Arnetto I still don’t know where the X lab is. Tell him to find that lab before he does anything that’ll blow my cover.”
BY THE TIME Branden made it to the back of the parking lot, Jeremiah was helping Abe Yoder into his Chevy. He looked up, saw Branden, recognized him, and froze. Branden started forward, cradling the back of his neck, and Jeremiah ran around the front of his car, jumped behind the wheel, and sped off toward Gahanna.
Standing on the gravel parking lot, Branden reported, “Yoder is hurt—punched in the ribs. Miller is driving your way in a white Chevy Nova.”
Branden hobbled to Cal’s truck and eased himself into the driver’s seat to follow the Nova. A mile down the road, he saw that Ricky Niell’s cruiser had forced Jeremiah’s Chevy over onto the school parking lot. When Branden pulled up, Yoder was slumped down in the passenger seat of the Chevy. The sheriff’s deputy was already leaning in through the open door, pressing a large gauze bandage to Abe Yoder’s side. Branden limped up to Miller’s car, saw the blood on the compress, and turned back to the cruiser.
Jeremiah Miller sat sideways in the backseat of Niell’s cruiser, holding his head in his hands, feet out on the pavement. Ricky Niell, in the front passenger seat, was making a radio call for an ambulance.
Robertson stood beside his blue sedan with a radio microphone in his hand, making another call. When Branden came up to him, Gray Suit from the bar was rolling a red Lexus by the scene, eyeing the Holmes County cruiser with obvious agitation and talking on a cell phone.
Branden lifted his chin at the passing car to draw Robertson’s attention to it without staring at Gray Suit, and said, “That guy’s from the bar. Works in the office. He’s DEA, from what I can tell. Gave me a message for Arnetto. If he’s smart about being undercover, he’s calling Samuel White. We’re going to have to take Abe Yoder someplace where he can’t be found. They still think he has their briefcase full of drugs.”
Robertson read the license plate on the passing car and took out a small spiral notebook to write down the number.
“They sell more drugs in that bar than booze,” Branden said, rubbing at the pressure in his temples. “It was a stupid play for Yoder to let himself be seen down here if he couldn’t return the briefcase.”
“This is Tony Arnetto’s territory,” Robertson said. “If we take Yoder to Mount Carmel East, I can get a face-to-face with Arnetto this afternoon.”
Branden opened the back door of Robertson’s car and flopped onto the seat on his back, feet sticking out.
Robertson said, “You gonna be all right, Mike?”
“In a minute.”
“Why’s your ankle holster hanging out loose?”
“That’s thanks to Tony Arnetto’s undercover man. He helped me dispose of the AMT in an unsafe manner.”
20
Saturday, July 24
3:00 P.M.
“THE man in the gray suit is my guy!” Arnetto barked. “He’s my agent. What did you think you were doing?”
Robertson and Branden were seated in a small conference room on the second floor, above the emergency suites, at Mount Carmel East Hospital, in the eastern suburbs of Columbus. Arnetto stood with his back to the glass window of the conference room door, blocking entrance to anyone who might try to interrupt them. Branden met Arnetto’s hostile gaze squarely. Robertson fought for control of his emotions.
With forced calm, Robertson said, “You’re overreacting.”
Branden glanced sideways at the smoldering sheriff, enjoying the full irony, despite the unpleasant circumstances, of Robertson’s accusing anyone of that particular mistake. He laid his palms flat on the conference table, and said, “Sara Yoder deserves more than this. We were trying to help her.”
“What if Samuel White had been there?” Arnetto complained, and sat down across from them at the table.
“He wasn’t,” Branden said. “And because I was there, we now have Yoder and Miller in custody.”
“The man you saw in the gray suit is Robert French, from St. Louis. We brought him here as a fresh face to infiltrate White’s operation. He had some believable credentials from St. Louis after a successful undercover stint there in the mob. They still think he’s a right guy with them. So he won’t blow both covers, he’s telling Samuel White that those two Amish kids came into the bar this afternoon. He’s telling White that Yoder was taken by ambulance to the hospital, and that a sheriff’s cruiser was involved. Before we leave this room, White will have someone in the emergency room to check Yoder out. It won’t matter that I’ve got agents down there with him. Someone will tell White where Yoder is. You can bet on that. Then, they’re going to take him out.”
“French doesn’t have to tell White anything,” Robertson said, knots of muscle jumping in the corner of his jaw.
“Yes he does!” Arnetto said. “If he doesn’t, the bartender will. And I’m not ready to move on those arrests yet. I told you, it’s got to be organized meticulously. French needs time to try to locate White’s Ecstasy lab. We’re sending in someone else from St. Louis with a bigger Ecstas
y order than White normally handles. We think that’ll flush out his labs for us.”
Robertson argued, “You don’t have to get the lab. Just take out White, the bar, the Gahanna house, everything you’ve got. If that doesn’t turn up Sara Yoder, then we can interrogate White.”
“You think White would turn her over to us? Admit to kidnapping on top of everything else?”
“He would if you made him a good enough deal.”
“If you think I’m going to make any deals with White at this stage of the game, you’re an idiot.”
Ricky Niell pushed in through the glass conference room door, and escorted Jeremiah Miller behind Arnetto to a seat at the head of the table. He caught Robertson’s eye, tipped his head at Jeremiah, and sat down between Arnetto and Miller.
Across the table, Robertson considered Niell’s gesture and appeared to capitulate. To Arnetto, he said, “OK, Tony. I don’t like it, but we’ll do it your way.”
Arnetto got out of his chair, puzzled by what had transpired. He looked long at Jeremiah, as if he were considering holding him on charges. To Robertson, he said, “Stay clear of this, Bruce. Give us until Monday.”
Robertson signaled acquiescence with a wave of his hand. “Monday,” he said, eyes focused on the flat of the table.
Arnetto left.
Robertson turned to Niell and said, “This had better be good.”
Niell said, “We need to let Jeremiah talk with the professor.”
Robertson shot, “He can talk to me!”
Not fazed by the sheriff’s hostility, Ricky said, “Jeremiah has assured me that if he can talk to Mike for a while, he’ll tell us everything he knows about Abe Yoder, John Schlabaugh, and Samuel White’s briefcase full of drugs. What he didn’t know before, he’s learned from Abe Yoder today. You’re going to want to hear what he has to say. But first, he wants to talk with the professor.”
