A Prayer for the Night

by Gaus, P. L.

  “How am I gonna find that?”

  “Knock it off, White. You’ve met Johnny Schlabaugh out here half a dozen times that I know of.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll give you an hour. Then I’m gonna disappear, and you can kiss your junk good-bye.”

  “I’ll need a couple of hours, anyway.”

  “You’re wasting my time, again, White. One hour. Becks Mills. Be there.”

  WHITE pulled a late-model Toyota 4Runner onto the gravel lot in front of the Becks Mills grocery store and found a black Amish buggy waiting for him at the edge of the store’s security lighting, with a young Amish man on the seat. White climbed out of the Toyota, palmed a small automatic handgun, and approached the buggy cautiously. Five feet off, in dim light, he brandished the weapon and said, “Either you’ve got what I want, or you’re a dead man.”

  Sounding unimpressed, John Miller replied, “Give me a break, White. If you want your drugs and money, climb aboard.”

  White looked around slowly, scanning for danger, and moved cautiously to the edge of the buggy. He pointed the gun at Miller’s head and climbed awkwardly up to the seat beside him. To Miller, he said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this isn’t going to turn out how you planned.”

  Through the part in the black curtain separating the front of the buggy from the back, Andy Stutzman pointed the muzzle of a side-by-side, double-barreled shotgun at the back of White’s head, saying, “I think a 12-gauge coach gun trumps a peashooter any day of the week, White.”

  White cursed and turned slowly to face the gun. Andy planted the muzzle behind White’s freckled ear, pushed his head back around, and said, “Over your shoulder, now, White, hand that thing back to me.”

  White held his gun up to the side of John Miller’s head and said, “How’s about I just kill your friend here?”

  Andy cocked both hammers on the coach gun and said, “You want to die, do you, White?”

  “You’re Amish. You’re not gonna kill anyone.”

  “I’ve left home, White. I can never go back. Wouldn’t live Amish now if I could.”

  “You’re drunk, kid. I can smell it on your breath.”

  “Been drinking, yes. But drunk, no. And my trigger finger is as twitchy as a squirrel’s tail. So I suggest you hand your gun back here, and we can get busy with the reason we’re out here.”

  “OK, let’s do it,” White said, and handed over his gun.

  “Next, White, so I know you won’t pull a fast one, put your hands behind your back.”

  “Why?”

  Andy poked the muzzle hard against the back of White’s skull and snarled, “Do it!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” White said, and started to turn in his seat.

  Andy threw a rapid twist on the shotgun and clipped White behind the ear with the butt of the gun.

  White groaned and slumped forward, and John Miller grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and held him upright. Andy laid the shotgun on the floorboards in the rear of the buggy, secured White’s wrists behind his back with handcuffs, and hauled White by his shirt collar onto his back, in the rear of the buggy. He stepped over him, and climbed with his shotgun into the seat where White had been sitting. White, squirming sluggishly on his back, muttered, “You’re dead. You got that? You’re a dead man.”

  Andy said to John, “Let’s get going.”

  As John pulled out onto the blacktop of Holmes County Road 19, a second buggy appeared from the surrounding darkness and took a position in front. A third buggy materialized and fell in behind John’s rig. Andy’s car appeared from the back of the grocery store and followed.

  Andy took another tug on his whiskey bottle and shouted, “Up to the school, boys! We’re almost done!”

  WHEN White fully regained consciousness, he was being hauled out of the back of the buggy in the dark at Gypsy Springs schoolhouse, just over the hill from Saltillo. Andy Stutzman had a hold of his arms, still shackled behind his back, and two Amish boys had his feet. As he cleared the buggy, Andy flipped him out into the gravel.

  White hit the gravel face first, cursing, and Andy kicked him on the side of his head with the edge of his boot.

  White spat out gravel and swore. To Andy he said, “You’re a drunk, kid. You got your own friend killed, and for nothing. It’s your own fault!”

  Andy shouted “No!” and took a firm hold on White’s belt. He rolled him onto this back, and hissed, “I’m gonna kill you.” He planted a knee beside White’s head and knotted his fingers into a handful of red hair.

  John Miller, dressed in traditional blue denim, stepped forward and laid a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “This is not the way, Andy. This wasn’t the plan. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

  Andy produced a folding knife, flipped out a long blade, and took the grip in his fist as if he were going to stab it down on White’s neck. In the moonlight, the boys crowded closer and saw White’s eyes bulging wide at the sight of the blade.

  John Miller made a grab for Andy’s arm, but Andy wrenched free of Miller’s grasp and shouted, “He killed Johnny! Don’t you understand? Johnny tried to save me. I’ve got to do this to square it with Johnny.” He craned his neck to look up at Miller, shiny tears streaming tracks down his cheeks.

  John leaned over and whispered in Andy’s ear, “You’re not going to involve us in a killing, Andy. We didn’t bargain for this.”

  White protested, “You can’t just ...” and Andy cracked him across the nose with the butt of the knife.

  One of the Amish boys backed up from White and Stutzman, shaking his head. The second took hold of John Miller’s sleeve and pulled Miller back toward the buggies, saying, “Nicht recht, John. Nicht recht.”

  John slowly backed up a couple of paces and said, “It’s not right, killing a man, Andy.”

  “What do you want from me, John? I’m the only one willing to face this punk. He killed Johnny! Don’t you get that?”

  “You’re drunk, again,” said Miller. “This is not our way.”

  “Do you really think you can live your entire life as a pacifist?”

  “Why did White kill Johnny, Andy?”

  “He is evil. That’s reason enough for a guy like him.”

  “Jeremiah said that Abe saw you lunge at White.”

  “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that.”

  “What if you hadn’t been the aggressor? What if you had not lunged at him?”

  Groaning, “It’s not my fault.”

  “Did you think you could stop him from beating Johnny? Did you think you had that power?”

  “You weren’t there. You’d have been useless.”

  “You’re talking about murder, Andy! Murder plain and simple.”

  “Payback, John! It’s just payback.”

  “It is wrong.”

  “I can’t live Amish. My family won’t even talk to me anymore.”

  “Even the English would say this is wrong.”

  “English know a little more about justice than Amish do.”

  “Justice is not ours to demand.”

  “It is!”

  “No, Andy. We do not expect justice in this world.”

  “Name one thing, John, that would be better.”

  “Peace, Andy. Peace is better.”

  “Then I guess you’re all ready for Amish beards. They’ve got you brainwashed.”

  “Your guilt about Johnny has blinded you to peace.”

  “I’m not guilty about anything. And I’m not a hypocrite, either, preaching about peace. The only reason Amish have peace to squawk about is because there are plenty of English people willing to fight to keep the peace. Hypocrites! Aren’t willing to do anything about it for themselves. They let the English do it all. Do what is necessary so cowards can live in peace.”

  “I don’t care what you think. You shouldn’t have lunged at White, and it’s tearing you up. And you shouldn’t be planning to kill White now.”

  “Then
you’d better all clear out. This English trash caused all our problems, and I’m going to do something about it for once.”

  “You’re wrong, Andy. We did all this to ourselves. We wanted the drugs. We wanted the wild life. We left out homes to find the world. The guilt is ours.”

  “I didn’t kill Johnny. White did that.”

  “Who even knew there was a Samuel White before Johnny went to Columbus for the drugs?”

  “Are you saying it’s Johnny’s fault?”

  “It’s all our faults, Andy. Yours, mine, everyone’s.”

  A sigh. “You’d better clear out of here, John. Just get out before it’s too late.”

  John Miller motioned for the other Amish lads to leave. Two boys got into one of the buggies and drove up to the blacktop, disappearing into the dark with a clatter of hooves on pavement. Ben Troyer stayed put. John stepped back a little from Andy and said, “Do you really think this will give you peace?”

  “Forget peace! I want justice.”

  “There can be no justice without peace.”

  “Like I said, you’ve been brainwashed.”

  “Amish know this truth of peace better than anybody.”

  “Then I’ll settle for English justice, such as it is.”

  “If that’s what you want, turn White over to Robertson.”

  “Get out, John, while you can.”

  “Turn him over to Robertson, Andy.”

  “I’m not going to argue anymore. It’s all on me now.”

  “Then you wait until we clear out of here, Andy. You’re on your own.”

  “So get out!” Andy growled. “Get out if you can’t take it.” He wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve and jerked White’s head off the ground, fingers knotted in his hair. He smashed White again in the face and glared at his friends. “Get out! Get out of here!”

  “What about the stuff?” Miller asked from his buggy. “We all brought our gadgets, like you said. We thought this was going to be peaceful.”

  “Dump it all out on the ground,” Andy whispered. “Just dump it all out and leave. I’ve got to do this, now. While I’ve still got the courage. It’s all on me, John, from here on out. Tell the sheriff you were never here.”

  30

  Monday, August 2

  Dawn

  PROFESSOR Branden sat before sunrise at the cliff’s edge, at the back of the Brandens’ lot, on their oak bench, sipping a mug of strong coffee. When dawn broke free over the eastern hills, the sun hung in the morning mist like a fuzzy peach, the valley below suffused with yellow and gold. It had become a habit for him that summer to enjoy the sunrise there with Caroline.

  As he was finishing his coffee, Caroline came out to him in her bathrobe, carrying a carafe of fresh coffee. She had his cell phone, and she told him, as she sat down, that a message had beeped in while she was getting out of bed. Branden keyed in his codes and read two lines of numbers, GPS coordinates:N 40° 31.318’

  W 81° 51.288’

  Latitude and longitude.

  He showed the message to Caroline, and said, “This is out by Saltillo.”

  “That’s all it is?” she asked. “Just the numbers?”

  “That’s all,” he said and closed the phone. “Coordinates.”

  “Someone wants you to go there?”

  “That’s as good a guess as any.”

  Together, they rose, went inside, dressed in jeans and matching blue shirts, and drove Caroline’s Miata down to the red brick jail at Courthouse Square. When they entered by the north door, they found Ellie Troyer behind her reception counter. Italian opera boomed through her wall from Bruce Robertson’s office. A vibrant and confident soprano voice carried splendidly through the wall, and Ellie seemed unsure whether to smile or frown. In the next refrain, Robertson’s brute bass voice picked up with the soprano, and mangled the harmonies. Despite his damage to the music, his enthusiasm offset his impact on the soprano’s rich, expressive renderings. Ellie Troyer spread her arms and smiled, saying, “What can I say?”

  “How long’s he been like this?” Branden asked.

  “Missy took him to a Sarah Brightman concert over the weekend,” Ellie explained. “Now he’s got some Italian language tapes so he can teach himself to understand the lyrics.”

  “That must have been some kind of concert,” Caroline said.

  Branden said, “Before this, his favorite music was cowboy songs about Wyoming and Montana.”

  “If you get him started in on this topic,” Ellie said, “you’re gonna be here a while.”

  Caroline touched the professor’s arm and said, somewhat imploringly, “Maybe we don’t need to bother him, Michael.”

  Branden said, “Ellie, we need to use the GPS receiver from the Schlabaugh case. Any chance of getting that, without interrupting Caruso in there?”

  Ellie laughed, said, “Follow me,” and led down the hall, past Robertson’s office door. In the squad room, she keyed open a locker and took out a plastic crate marked “Schlabaugh.” From the crate, she produced the GPS receiver, and locked everything else back in the locker.

  Branden signed for the unit, giving his badge number, and drove out to the high ridge at Saltillo. With Caroline’s help, he compared their location with the coordinates from the cell phone message. He looped around the triangle and turned west onto County 68. After a quarter mile, they came to the lane that cut down from the blacktop to the Gypsy Springs schoolhouse. As they turned in, the figure of a tall, redheaded man was visible, his arms pinned back, his body strapped to the backstop of the softball diamond behind the school.

  When they got down to the softball diamond, they found Samuel Red Dog White trussed and bound to a white upright pole of the backstop. His head was lifted high, and his windpipe rattled dangerously as he labored for breath. His neck was wound with several loops of a bungee cord, and the cord was hooked at both ends, on either side of his head, to the fencing of the backstop. It had a stranglehold on his larynx, and White couldn’t talk. By the sound of it, he could barely breathe.

  Caroline stood back, and the professor advanced to the edge of a pile of gadgets that had been stacked at White’s feet. Branden leaned over, braced himself on the fencing, and unhooked one side of the bungee cord. He unhooked the other side, and released the tension on the cord. White retched and struggled for air. To his chest was pinned a note, printed in pen on wide-ruled grade-school paper: “So he will know what it was like for Sara.”

  Branden took a step back and toed several items in the pile at White’s feet. Then he turned to Caroline and said, “It’s OK. He can’t move.”

  Caroline came up behind her husband and stared at the sign pinned to White’s chest. She knelt and lifted an iPod music player from the pile at his feet. Her eyes carried questions, and Branden shrugged.

  The professor opened his cell phone, called Robertson, and told the sheriff that he’d need to get out to Gypsy Springs School with a couple of deputies. Then he knelt and started sorting through the items that had been stacked on the ground, apparently as an offering.

  There were two CD players and a scattering of music disks, mostly rock and roll, rap, or hip-hop. Three GPS receivers were wedged into the stack. Four cell phones. Pornography magazines and videos. Two boom boxes. A video camera and several videotapes rubber-banded together. There was also a black revolver and a sawed-off shotgun. Boxes of ammunition. A small TV and two VCR players. A PDA. Computer disks. Whiskey bottles. And a video game box, all of it arranged on top of a knee-high pile of English clothes, belts, sport shirts, dress slacks, and loafers.

  Branden stepped back and whistled in admiration.

  Caroline asked, “What does it mean?”

  Branden ruffled his brown hair and said, “It means that most of those kids have quit their Rumschpringe.”

  BY THE TIME Bruce Robertson had White cut down from the backstop, word had spread. Buggy traffic increased on 68, people being as curious as they are. A group of a dozen onlookers on foot had ga
thered along the blacktop, and a few adventuresome youth had come down the slope of the schoolyard to have a closer look.

  Bishop Raber cut his rig out of the procession, and came down the lane to the softball diamond. He parked to the side, and watched Ricky Niell push White’s head down to deposit him in the backseat of a black-and-white cruiser. White’s hands were cuffed behind him, and there was less room in the backseat than was comfortable for a man of his size. When White tried to protest, Ricky slammed the door shut on him and walked away.

  Bishop Raber walked slowly to the pile of English gadgets and clothes that had been stacked at White’s feet. He stood for a long time, gazing with satisfaction on the symbolism of the offering.

  Eventually, Professor Branden joined him. “Everything is there, just as we found it.”

  “Yes,” Raber said, “it is over.”

  Bruce Robertson, in uniform, joined them and said, “All right with you, Bishop, if I just get rid of this stuff? Give some of it to Goodwill?”

  Raber nodded. “We have no use for such things, Sheriff. I’ll find out who did this, if you want me to.”

  Robertson stroked his chin, smiled, and said, “That won’t be necessary.”

  The bishop left, urged his horse up the grade, and went about dispersing the crowd that had gathered on 68.

  When the sheriff’s photographer had finished with the scene, and everything had been catalogued, Niell drove White into town. A second cruiser followed with the gadgets and clothes.

  Caroline had stepped aside while the deputies worked, and the sheriff and the professor found her sitting on the wooden steps of the schoolhouse.

  As they came up, she said, “Is that going to be the end of it?”

  Robertson took off his uniform hat and wiped out the sweatband. He looked at the professor and said, “What do you think?”

  Branden answered, “I think Tony Arnetto is going to be happy we got White.”

  Robertson said, “I’m not sure Arnetto is the happy type. At any rate, we know Samuel White killed John Schlabaugh.”