by Gaus, P. L.
“How do you know it was Greyson’s pistol?” Branden asked. “There weren’t any fingerprints.”
“No prints that were obvious,” Robertson said. “But you know those Rugers? The way the hammer springs are wedged into the pistol’s grip at the backstrap? Difficult to reinsert? Well, we had a gunsmith disassemble the thing and lifted a print of Greyson’s index finger off the spring housing.”
Branden whistled in admiration. “Have you got the warden at Trenton figured out yet?”
“Yeah, Mike. I’ve got that guy cold. Turns out that when I first called him after Bromfield’s murder, asking about Jesse Sands, he withheld mention of Nabal Greyson’s name. He knew they were connected, big time—Greyson and Sands, and he should have come across with that. But he should also have suspected about Eric Bromfield. Just kept his mouth shut and made us put it all together ourselves. He’s going to lose his job by the time we get done with him in the newspapers.”
“I got the stonewall from him, too. His lieutenant figured different, and sent me that fax,” Branden said.
“And Jesse Sands?” Caroline asked.
“He’s already down at Lucasville,” Robertson said.
Niell stirred and said, “I’ve got to start a shift.” He glanced a question to Robertson.
Robertson asked Branden, “Can I catch a ride in that new prairie wagon you’ve got there?”
Caroline said, “Sure, Bruce.” Robertson waved Niell on, and Niell drove away toward Millersburg.
Now, the roofing boards were going down on the peaks. Robertson lifted his binoculars to his eyes, scanned and said, “Tall fellow working next to Cal.”
Branden said, “So?”
“Tall, blond Amish men are about as common as thirsty fish.” Branden shot Robertson a look.
“Just want to meet the fellow, Mike. Cal wasn’t any help at all, but Hawkins did me a favor. Put me onto Greyson for Bromfield.”
“That’s all Hawkins ever wanted to do, Bruce.” Branden gazed a while longer, then turned to Caroline, and signaled her by tilting his head in the direction of the cabin in the glade. She made an excuse about the women at the cabin and walked down the slope.
Branden turned to Robertson and said, “Bruce, you were wrong about Hawkins at first, and you were wrong to doubt Cal at all.”
Robertson gave a snide protest. “Cal could have helped more.”
“Hawkins and Cal are cut from the same cloth, Bruce.”
“So?”
“Do you have any idea what Cal did in Vietnam?”
“Medic. So what?”
“Do you know that he holds medals from that war?”
“Yes.”
“The Congressional Medal of Honor?”
Robertson covered his surprise, but not before the professor saw the truth in his eyes. “Sure,” Robertson said, offhand.
“You didn’t know,” Branden asserted. “Cal’s never told anyone about it. I didn’t know until Hawkins told me.
“Bruce, you’re having trouble seeing Cal for who he is, because you grew up with him. All you can see is a kid, an old play-ground friend.”
Robertson began to argue, but the professor cut him off with an upraised palm.
“No, Bruce. It’s true. When you were first hunting Hawkins, you were harder on Cal than he deserved.” He waited a moment while he looked sternly into the sheriff’s eyes, and then he continued. “You played a cowboy song for me about a horse the other day.”
“Ian Tyson. ‘Milk River Ridge,’” Robertson said, glad for the change of subject.
“And why’d you say you liked it?” Branden asked gently.
“Competence. Courage. Fidelity. Steadfastness.”
“Right, Bruce. The kind of trustworthiness a man can depend on.”
“And?”
“And that’s what Cal Troyer has been doing these last few years for David Hawkins.” He let the sheriff mull that over and watched the barn finish up.
Most of the men were down from the roof. There was still a scattering of work inside, but overhead the roof was finished. As the men gathered their tools and looked their work over, two remained on the peak, Cal Troyer standing next to a tall, blond Amish man with a deep farmer’s tan.
Robertson stood quietly beside the professor and turned his thoughts inward. He watched Cal shake the tall man’s hand on the rooftop, and he watched them climb down together from the peak.
Branden took up his point again. “At first, you thought Hawkins had killed Eric Bromfield and was planning to kill Jesse Sands. But did you ever bother to find out what Sands said to Hawkins that night at the jail? What it was that set Hawkins off?”
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me, now.”
“I can tell you word for word,” Branden said with confidence, “but I’d rather tell you what Sands meant. Essentially, Sands told Hawkins to think it through and he’d see that someone else was responsible for her murder. He said that his killing her wasn’t the worst betrayal, even though he had pulled the trigger.”
“We know Sands killed her.” Robertson said, interested.
“How do we know that?”
“Greyson caught him running out of the house.”
“Right. Now, when Lieutenant Brown of the Trenton State Prison sent me that fax, I found out that Greyson was tracking Sands because Sands had raped and institutionalized his fiancée.”
“That’s not new, Mike.”
“He was there, Bruce, when Sands went into that house. And when Janet Hawkins went in later.”
Robertson nodded. “He beat our guys to Sands.”
“Seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it, Bruce? A stranger arrives on a 911 before the police can get there, in their own town? He must have been there all along. From the first.”
Robertson cursed.
Branden continued. “He followed Sands there and then stood outside as Sands shot Janet Hawkins. That let him capture Sands for a murder, when he otherwise would have had him only for breaking and entering.”
Robertson cursed vehemently.
“So,” Branden said, “Greyson’s betrayal of Janet Hawkins was more appalling than her murder. Greyson murdered Eric Bromfield because Eric had put Sands and Greyson together, and if that became known, it wouldn’t have been long before you would have asked what Greyson had been doing there that night, before the police arrived.”
“I once told Sands I’d be glad to throw a switch on him,” Robertson said. “Seems now like we ought to do Greyson first. As it stands, though, the state’s going to save some money on Greyson.”
Branden waited for an explanation.
Robertson said, “Have you ever talked to Greyson?”
“Twice,” Branden said. “The second time under less than pleasant circumstances.”
“Notice his voice? Scratchy?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got throat cancer,” Robertson said. “By the time he’s been sentenced on the weapons charges, not to mention the Bromfield murder, the man will be bedridden. Nabal Greyson is going to die, in jail, of throat cancer, before the end of the year.”
Branden shook his head distastefully.
Caroline came up the grassy slope toward them, her long dress caught by a gentle afternoon breeze. The work on the barn was finished. Buggies were loaded up and driven slowly away, back along the lane, past the stand of sycamores, and up over the rise near the windmill. Soon, there remained only the immediate family of Rabers, forty-seven in all, and the men began to gather in front of the cabin and on the cabin’s new front porch.
Caroline reached them and said, “I spoke to Abigail Raber. We’re invited to supper.”
Robertson asked, “Can I get a lift into town, first?”
Caroline said, “You too, Bruce.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Abigail and David Raber have invited you, themselves,” Caroline said. “You’re invited, Bruce, along with us.”
Near the cabin, Cal Troyer stood up and encouraged t
hem down the slope with a wave of his arm.
As they walked down the slope, Robertson asked, “You still going to fire your cannon, Mike? Fourth of July?”
Caroline said, forcefully, “Oh, no, he’s not.”
Branden shrugged and tapped at his cast. “Can’t haul the thing out to the cliffs.”
As they walked in tall grass toward the Raber cabin, Robertson said, “Cal and I will haul it out for you, Mike. Seems I need to have a long talk with the pastor, after all.”
1
Monday, August 7 4:15 P.M.
PROFESSOR Michael Branden, driving a black Amish buggy, worked his horse at a walk along Walnut Creek Township Lane T-414, just north of Indian Trail Creek in Holmes County, Ohio, on a sweltering Monday afternoon early in August. Coming up to one of the short stretches of blacktop laid in front of a house to cut the dust, he slowed the horse and rolled gently onto the pavement. The buggy rocked and swayed from side to side on its light oval springs, and the iron wheels cut sharp lines through the tar blisters in the blacktop. The horse’s hooves gave hollow plopping sounds that switched back to a lighter clicking in the dust and gravel after the blacktop played out beyond the house. The sky was cloudless, the sun hot, and beyond the thin line of trees that bordered the lane, the fields seemed withered and spent, the crops stricken with thirst.
Branden was dressed to outward appearance as an Amishman. The Amish clothes and broad-brimmed straw hat with a flat crown were his own, bought two summers before, when he had worked on a kidnapping case involving an Amish child. He was wearing shiny blue denim trousers over leather work boots, a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black cloth vest, unfastened in front.
Under his vest, he had hooked a deputy sheriff’s wallet badge over the belt he wore instead of the traditional suspenders, a concession to English style so that the heavy badge and three pairs of handcuffs would ride securely at his waist. The belt also held a beeper, though locating a phone in those parts of the county would be a task.
The professor brought the rig to a stop, took off his straw hat, poured a little water from a plastic bottle over his wavy brown hair, and rubbed at it vigorously. Then he laid his hat on the seat, and while he dried his tanned face and neck with a red bandanna, he straightened the rest of the gear riding beside him.
There was a black radio handset from the sheriff’s department, turned off for the task at hand. A Holmes County map from the county engineer’s office, folded to the square of Walnut Creek Township. An elaborate Contax RTS III SLR camera with a long Zeiss lens, tucked securely into the corner of the buggy seat. On the floorboards under the seat, a Smith and Wesson Model 60 .357 Magnum revolver in a black leather holster.
With a light slap of the reins, Branden started the horse again. About a hundred yards further up the lane, he pulled into the drive of a new two-story Amish house and stepped the horse to a stone watering trough. A door on the upper floor opened as he stopped. Lydia Shetler, dressed in a plain, dark-blue dress and black bonnet, came out onto the top porch of the house and asked, “Any luck, already?” with the classic Dutch accent of the region.
The professor shook his head and said, “Mind if I water the horse?”
Lydia intoned, “If it suits you,” and leaned over with her elbows on the porch rail to watch.
The porch, set on tall posts, was level with the second floor of the house. The area under this high porch was latticed in front with a rose arbor, which made a shady breezeway at ground level. The family’s laundry was hung out for the day, drying on clotheslines in the breezeway.
Branden climbed out, and as the horse snorted and drank water, Lydia asked, “How much longer do you figure to make these rides, yet, Herr Professor?”
“Till we get them,” Branden said and laughed. He slapped his hat at the dust on his ankles and added, “Or until the sheriff gets bored with the idea.”
Lydia nodded as if to say that she understood the sheriff’s impulsiveness well enough, and asked, “Are you sure only our two families know about your business?”
“Why? Have you heard anything on the gossip mill?”
“Not a word.”
“Then I suppose I’ll still keep riding. As long as nobody at either end lets it slip.”
“I haven’t heard any mention,” Lydia repeated, and went back inside. Branden mounted into the buggy, swung around on the wide gravel lane, and walked her out to T-414 again, continuing east toward the little burg of Trail.
This was his fifth afternoon drive in two weeks, traveling the northern edges of Walnut Creek Township on the center-east edge of Holmes County. His assignment was to be the decoy in Sheriff Bruce Robertson’s strategy to catch the two Amish-clad teenagers who were making a reputation for themselves that summer by robbing the Peaceful Ones. Disguised in rubber goat’s-head masks, they rode up to the slow-moving buggies on their mountain bikes and demanded money. Surprisingly large sums had been involved, and Sheriff Robertson now had his decoy in place. Professor Michael Branden, Civil War History, Millersburg College, a duly sworn reserve deputy, with a buggy, a costume of Amish clothes, a radio, an ample supply of handcuffs, and a very expensive camera. Also a revolver, just in case.
As the professor rattled along slowly in his buggy, a pickup shot by in the opposing lane. In the cloud of dust left in its wake, two Amish teenagers passed from behind on mountain bikes. Branden took up his camera and fired off several frames on motor drive.
Branden tensed a bit, wondering what he would actually do if the young bandits ever did approach him demanding money. He wasn’t at all certain that the sheriff was right about this one. Amish or English, they wouldn’t be that easy to apprehend. “They’re Amish, Mike,” Robertson had said. “They’ll just stand there when you show them your badge.” And if he took their picture or stepped down from the buggy to confront them? What then? They’d take off on their bikes.
That’d be it, Branden thought dourly. They’d scatter, and he wouldn’t have a chance of chasing them down in the heat. The professor shook his head, laughed halfheartedly, and wondered about the ribbing he’d take from the regular deputies if the sheriff’s little game should play out as he suspected it might, with him giving chase through fields or over hills, losing them both.
Chagrined, Branden rode the rest of his shift haphazardly back and forth along T-414, radio off so as not to give him away. As the supper hour approached, he headed south on T-412 to return the buggy to its owner. As he brought the buggy into the Hershbergers’ drive, one of the middle sons, Ben, stepped out of a woodshop at the side of the property, slapping sawdust off his long denim apron. He waved to Branden and came down the steps to a hitching rail beside the gravel drive. The drive curved gently around a well-tended volleyball court and dropped with the slope of the land into a wide valley, passing the north side of a weathered white house. Three stories and gabled, the historic building had a round sitting room and cone-shaped roof set at the corner, where a large covered porch began at the front and wrapped around the side. Grandmother Hershberger sat peacefully in an oak rocker on the elevated porch, a small mound of potatoes on the floor at her side, peeling long, curling skins into her lap. Branden tipped his hat, and she glanced briefly at him with reserved acknowledgment. As Ben came forward and took the horse by the bridle, Branden turned on his handset radio and heard Sheriff Bruce Robertson shouting, “Two ambulances. Maybe three! Hell, Ellie, send five.”
“Fire’s on their way, Sheriff,” Ellie Troyer said, her voice frayed with tension.
“It’s a mess, Ellie,” Robertson’s voice cracked staccato over the radio. “One buggy, maybe more. Can’t tell yet. A semi jack-knifed. Cab upside down in the ditch. The trailer has taken out at least one car and it’s burning now,” followed by, “For crying out loud, Ellie, where are my squads?”
“On their way,” Ellie said, managing to sound calm.
“Schrauzer’s unit is up there right in the middle of the whole thing,” Robertson shout
ed into the microphone. “Can’t see him anywhere. Going closer, Ellie. Get those fire trucks down here NOW!”
The mic clicked off for a minute or so and then Robertson called in again, more subdued. “Get the coroner, too, Ellie.”
Branden pulled his buggy up sharply, set the hand brake, scrambled down onto the driveway, and took the radio off the buggy seat. He paced in a circle on the drive as he made his call. “This is Mike Branden. Over.”
Ellie’s voice came back. “Signal 39.”
“Township 412 at the Hershbergers.” As he spoke, he gathered his things from the buggy and walked quickly to his small pickup.
“It’s right there, Professor,” Ellie said. “You’re practically on top of it. 515 south of Trail.”
“Roger that,” Branden said and started his engine. “515 south of Trail. Ellie, I’ll be right there!”
He pulled the door closed, fish-tailed on the gravel lane, waved at Ben, and heard Robertson come over the radio.
“Mike, you come in from the north. South of Trail. That’ll put you on the other side. I’m farther south, the other side of the pileup, and I need someone on your side to stop traffic.”
“I’m coming up on Trail now,” Branden said, steering with his left hand, holding the handset to his ear with the right.
“Turn right at Trail, Mike,” Robertson said. “Slow. We’re down in a little valley and if you don’t come in slow, you’ll run us all over.”
Branden dropped south out of Trail on 515, came around a sharp curve and over a hill, and saw a tall plume of black smoke beyond the next rise in the road. He came up to the top of the hill, stopped abruptly, stepped out of the truck, and leaned forward on the open door, shaken by what he saw some hundred yards below.
A semitrailer rig sprawled across the road, the cab overturned in the right-hand ditch, the trailer laid across the road on its side, its rear wheels spinning slowly over the left-hand ditch. The truck driver lay twisted on the pavement beside the overturned cab.
