Chapter Twenty-Two
The road stretched in front of them, a ribbon of black marked by a string of disappearing mirages, water you never reached no matter how far you drove.
A thorny green landscape of elm and ash weighed down with dense, leafy branches; thickets of mulberry and fields of sharp-bladed grasses grew beside heavy stands of cottonwood at the edge of meandering creeks.
It was a foreign environment, unwelcoming to an outsider, reminding her why she loved the pine-forested hills of Seattle.
“You really think we’ll find someone out here who knows this man?” she asked, breaking the silence inside the car.
“It’s a long shot,” Ethan said. “But running on hunches is a lot of what my job is about. If we don’t find anything here, I’ll talk to the authorities in Beeville, see if I can find someone who’ll do some legwork in the Amish community there.”
“You worked in Dallas. Were you born in Texas?”
He nodded. “Little town east of the city called Sulpher Springs. My family had a ranch there, big one. Broke it up and sold most of it. Some of my cousins still raise cattle near there.”
“Your parents still live in Texas?”
“My mom died a while back. Dad remarried, moved to North Carolina. He just adopted his second wife’s kids.”
“Will you have time to see your cousins while you’re here?”
“I’d hoped to. Doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. Maybe I’ll bring Hannah back for Christmas, give them a chance to meet her if—” He broke off the thought and just shook his head.
“Don’t do that. You’re going to get things worked out with Allison so that you can spend more time with Hannah.”
He managed to smile. “I hope so.”
Val smiled back. “So . . . you were more city boy than cowboy.”
“I was always interested in law enforcement. My favorite cowboys were Texas Rangers. Most of the men in the family either have a military or police background.”
He flicked her a sideways glance. “I know you were born in Michigan. You told me your folks died in a car accident. I read that much in your file when I first started working for La Belle.”
“If you read my file, you got the cleaned-up version, what they gave to the press after I won the contest. It doesn’t mention my time in juvie.
” She had told him the rest, about her cousins and how she had gotten to Seattle.
She figured by now he knew everything there was to know about all of the models.
It didn’t bother her that he knew—not the way it had at first. Even if he didn’t trust her, she trusted him.
“So you were chosen Miss La Belle. I’m not exactly sure what that means.”
“The company picks a girl every year and awards her a six-month modeling contract. Being a La Belle model pays big. I entered on a whim, never thought I would actually win, but I needed money for school so I figured it was worth a try. I was chosen, and they gave me the number-ten spot. Until the murders, the job seemed like a godsend.”
Ethan kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw tightened. “We’re going to catch him.”
“But you think there are two of them. Two killers.”
“Yeah. And both of them are going down hard.” He didn’t say more, just checked the map on his iPhone, slowed the car, and turned off onto a narrow paved road.
Val smiled when she saw a yellow road sign up ahead with a picture of a horse and buggy. PASS WITH CARE was printed underneath.
“Looks like we’re just about there,” Ethan said, keeping the car at a respectful speed.
As they neared, she saw that it wasn’t much of a community, just nine or ten small farms spread out along the road. A couple of double-wides, several cabinlike structures. All the farms had barns and gardens.
Their first stop went quickly. A man opened the door, gave a headshake meaning no, and she and Ethan walked back to the car. The second stop was the same, except the door was opened by a woman.
Unused to strangers, two kids ran out into the front yard to watch as the Buick drove away. They looked like children out of an old western movie, the boy with his flat hat, coveralls, bare feet, and rolled-up pants, the girl with her long, full-skirted dress, white apron, and bonnet.
Farther down the road, a wooden house with a porch extending off the front boasted a sign that read BAKERY. Ethan slowed and eased the car off the lane, careful not to stir up dust.
As they had before, both of them climbed out into the heat, the air damp and thick, making it difficult to breathe. She had chosen comfortable clothes: loose jeans, a short-sleeved, pale blue V-necked T-shirt, and sneakers, and she was very glad she had.
They knocked on the door, which was open, and a petite, gray-haired woman in full Amish dress—long gray skirt and blouse, white apron, white bonnet with the strings hanging down—walked up to the other side of the screen.
The windows in the house were also open. Clearly, there was no air-conditioning.
The tiny woman spoke through the screen door. “May I help you?”
Ethan gave her a friendly smile. “I hope so. My name is Ethan Brodie. I’m a private investigator.” He pulled out his ID badge and flipped it open. “I’m looking for a man. He might have lived here ten, maybe fifteen years ago. There’s a chance he’s involved in a murder.”
As he had done at the other houses, he was being completely up-front, laying the facts out very clearly. Val had a feeling he was taking the right approach with people who lived such a straightforward, simple existence.
“This is a friend,” he said, easing her forward. “She’s helping me with the case. Her name is Valerie Hartman.”
She hadn’t heard her real name in so long it sounded foreign. She liked the way Ethan had said it that morning. At least he knew who she actually was.
“Please come in.” The woman stepped back to invite them into the wood-frame house. “I’m Mrs. Bruckner. It’s very warm today. Would you care for a glass of lemonade?”
“That sounds wonderful,” Val said, fighting an urge to fan herself as she began to really feel the heat.
The woman smiled and headed into the kitchen off the living room, her long gathered skirt floating around her ankles. The smell of yeast and cinnamon filled the air, making Val’s mouth water.
Through the opening, she could see a simple sink in a long wooden counter, the shelves underneath covered by a pretty yellow curtain. There was a small refrigerator off to one side. She had read somewhere that most groups used electricity, but there were certain rules they had to follow.
The woman returned with the lemonade, which was cold, homemade, and refreshing. Ethan took a long swallow, the muscles in his throat moving up and down. Why that looked so sexy Val couldn’t possibly guess.
“Tastes great,” Ethan said. “Thanks.” He didn’t try to hurry the conversation. Val had a feeling he thought the lady was about to tell him something important.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Mrs. Bruckner suggested.
She carried her own glass into the living room, then went back and got a tray of chocolate cookies.
They sat down on a dark green overstuffed sofa and chairs situated around a newer, wood-burning cast-iron stove.
A hooked rug in green and gold covered the spotlessly clean wooden floors.
Val couldn’t resist sampling one of the cookies. Ethan took one, too, and munched it down. They were buttery, chocolatey, and delicious.
“It really isn’t my place to talk to you about Byron,” the little woman said. “Normally, my husband would do that. But as I’m recently widowed, I have no other choice.”
“We’re very sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs. Bruckner,” Val said for both of them, meaning it, thinking how difficult losing a lifelong mate must be.
“Thank you. Now that you understand my circumstances, I feel it’s my duty to tell you what I know. I pray the man you are seeking isn’t Byron Mahler, but I feel no loyalty to him anymore.”
Ethan made no comment. Letting Mrs. Bruckner set the pace, he took a sip of his lemonade.
“Byron Mahler was born at his parents’ home in Ohio.
His mother and father were good Amish farmers who moved to Texas to begin a settlement.
With the weather and the harsh landscape it was very difficult, and a number of the families left the area.
Jacob Mahler refused to give up. One day, Ruth Mahler, Byron’s mother, just up and left.
She abandoned her husband and son and never returned. ”
The small woman’s hand shook as she took a sip of her lemonade.
“Byron changed after that. He was twelve at the time, just beginning to discover girls. After his mother left, he was bitter toward women of any age. He felt they were nothing but worthless creatures put on the earth to do a man’s bidding, particularly his.
He began to pick on the younger girls in school.
Several times he took liberties with their persons.
His father tried to intervene, but disciplining Byron only made him worse. ”
“What happened?” Ethan asked when she didn’t continue.
“When he was fifteen, there was a girl, a lovely young woman a year younger than Byron. He cornered her out in the barn and tried to rape her. Her brother stumbled onto him or he would have succeeded.”
“Fifteen.”
“That’s right. There was a meeting after it happened.
A very harsh punishment was handed out. Byron took the punishment, but he refused to apologize to the girl.
He said her sinful ways were to blame for his actions.
He was forced to leave. His father tried to get him help with friends in other communities, but Byron just disappeared. No one has seen him since.”
“Is his father still around?”
“No. Jacob built furniture. He taught his craft to Byron, but Jacob died a few years after his son left home.”
“Any other family? Anyone else here who might be able to give us information on Byron’s whereabouts?”
“Not that I know of. No one’s been in contact with Byron for more than ten years.”
“One last thing,” Ethan said. “As I look around, I don’t see any photographs. I’m guessing you don’t have any pictures that might include Byron Mahler.”
“Exodus 20:4, Mr. Brodie. Thou shalt not make any graven images. Though photographs are occasionally taken of us by outsiders, you will rarely see anyone face-on.”
“The police need to find this man, Mrs. Bruckner. I was at the home of the woman who was murdered. What happened to her was brutal beyond description. Would you consider talking to a sketch artist, allowing someone to come here and draw a picture of Mahler as you remember him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I can do that. At least not without speaking to the others. Perhaps they will agree. Murder is a serious crime. They will want to help if they can.”
“All right. In the meantime, could you at least give me a basic description? I understand Byron was only fifteen, but was he tall? Short? Blond? Dark? Anything would be helpful.”
The petite woman took a deep breath. For a moment, she closed her eyes, as if trying to dredge up memories.
“At fifteen, Byron was tall for his age and quite thin, a gangly young man who rarely smiled. He was dark-haired, but his eyes were a very pale shade of blue. Aside from that, he was an average-looking teenage boy. Oh, except for the scar on his forearm.”
Ethan straightened. “Tell me about the scar.”
“He and his father were cutting wood with a whipsaw when something went wrong. The boy was badly injured. The accident left him with a scar about ten inches long on his forearm.”
When the woman fell silent, Ethan dug out a business card and handed it over.
“You’ve been a very big help, Mrs. Bruckner.
With luck, we won’t need to involve you in this any further.
But if Byron Mahler is the man who murdered the young woman in Dallas, he needs to be stopped.
With what you’ve told us, we may be able to make that happen. ”
“You did the right thing,” Val said, reaching over to squeeze the woman’s hand. “I believe it’s what your husband would have wanted you to do.”
The woman’s eyes glistened. She brushed a drop of wetness from her cheek. “Thank you, dear, for saying that.”
Mrs. Bruckner walked them to the door, and they stepped out onto the porch. Ethan’s hand settled at Val’s waist as he guided her back to the rental car.