A Dark Path #2
I’m familiar with that particular byway.
The locals call it Devil’s Graveyard due to the number of accidents and the treacherous nature of the road.
It’s a narrow, twisty stretch that traverses the hills and ravines southeast of town.
“That’s quite a distance,” I say easily, guessing it to be at least eight or nine miles. “Are they traveling in a buggy?”
“Ja.” She nods. “Our daughter, Christina, is with them, too.”
“Do any of them have a cell phone?” I ask.
Though most Amish church districts—the Swartzentruber sect in particular—do not allow the use of personal cell phones, I always pose the question. Some church districts make allowances—for business purposes. And, of course, a few individuals have been known to bend the rules.…
“No cell phone,” Wayne replies.
Rachel startles when a gust of wind rattles the window behind me. “They’re elderly,” she says. “I’m afraid they got caught in this storm.”
“Cemetery Road is a tough haul in a buggy even on a sunny day,” Wayne adds. “Buggy horse is a good one, but she’s getting on in years, too.”
“It’ll be dark soon,” his wife says. “That’s a terrible road to be caught on after dark, especially in a buggy.”
“I can do a welfare check,” I offer. A glance at the wall clock tells me it will be fully dark in an hour.
Rachel’s expression relaxes a degree. “We hate to run you all the way up there in this weather, Chief Burkholder, but we sure would feel better if you checked on them.”
“I’m happy to help.” I flip open my notebook. “What’s their address?”
She rattles off the location and I jot it down. “Since you don’t have a cell, I’ll swing by your farm after I check on them,” I say.
I’m expecting a hasty thank-you and exit so I can be on my way, but the couple doesn’t move. I glance up from my notebook to see them exchange an apprehensive look. The kind that tells me there’s more to the story than I’ve been told.
I lean back in my chair. “Is there something else?”
When I make eye contact with Wayne, he glances away. Rachel bites her lip, her eyes flicking to her husband and then down to her hands twisting in her lap. “It’s our daughter, Chief Burkholder, Christina. She’s had some … problems. You know, family things.”
Wayne shoots her a disapproving frown. “That’s a private matter.” He grumbles the words in Deitsch but makes no effort to silence her, which tells me he’s concerned enough about the situation to breach that Amish wall of silence.
“What kind of problems?” I ask.
“Christina has had some trouble with her beau,” she blurts.
“An Englischer,” Wayne adds.
“Beau” is the Amish term for boyfriend.
My cop’s antennae crank up. “What happened?”
“Well, Christina doesn’t want to see him anymore,” she tells me. “She tried to break it off, but he’s not having it. He keeps coming around, bothering her, and he’s angry to boot.”
I pick up my pen. “What’s his name?”
“Tyler O’Connor,” she answers.
Something jangles in my memory as I write it down. I’ve heard the name before. A speeding ticket, if I recall. “He drive a pickup truck?” I ask.
Rachel nods. “It’s a noisy souped-up thing. Mamm says he drives by their place all hours.”
“The boy’s a druvvel-machah,” Wayne interjects. Troublemaker.
Rachel sets her hand over his. “Tyler is angry, Chief Burkholder. He said he was going to get back at Christina for breaking up with him. Said he was going to make her pay. Now, he won’t leave her alone.”
“Has he made any specific threats?” I ask.
The Amish woman hesitates, closes her eyes for a moment. “He said if he catches her with another boy he’s going to kill her.”
“Was the sheriff’s department called?” Even as I ask the question, I know the answer.
Both sets of eyes hit the floor. “No,” Wayne confesses.
The answer doesn’t surprise me. Having been born Amish myself, I know all too well most Amish prefer to handle problems like this on their own.
“That’s when we decided it would be best if she moved in with her grandparents,” Wayne says. “I thought if she was farther away, Tyler might leave her alone.”
“She’s close to them,” Rachel puts in, “especially her grohs-mammi.” Grandmother.
“The move didn’t help,” Wayne tells me.
“In fact, things got worse.” Rachel tightens her mouth. “Tyler followed her home from the shop where she works one evening, accosted her in the driveway, tried to force her into his truck.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“She got away, but…” She shakes her head. “Mamm and Datt have started locking their doors at night.”
Wayne takes it from there. “The boy’s been driving past their farm, pulling in all hours. Watching them, I guess. Watching her.”
“Stalking is a serious offense,” I say.
Nodding, the Amish man indicates his wife. “Her parents are too old to be dealing with this sort of thing. I thought it best if Christina moved back home with us.”
The Amish are generally tight-lipped when it comes to family matters, especially when things go wrong. The reason they came to see me is because this has become serious—dangerous, even—and they’ve run out of options.
“Do you think Tyler is capable of harming Christina or her grandparents?” I ask.
The two exchange a worried look.
Wayne’s gaze meets mine. “Tyler O’Connor walks in step with the devil, Chief Burkholder. I’ve no doubt that when the sun goes down, that boy hears the tap of cloven hooves. That’s all I’ve got to say about it.”
The Petersheims are barely out the door when I grab the keys to my official vehicle and stride into reception. I find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, manning phone lines that are busier than usual, likely due to the storm. “Get me everything you can find on Tyler O’Connor.”
“You got it, Chief.” Spinning to her computer, she taps a few keys.
I spell the last name. “I need his address. Find out if he has a record. Any open warrants. Known associates. Find out what he drives.”
“Yep.” She plays the keyboard like a musical instrument.
I look out the window, frowning at the rain pouring down the glass. “Who’s on patrol tonight?”
“Skid,” she tells me, referring to my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore.
“I’m heading to the Petersheim farm up on Cemetery Road for a welfare check,” I tell her. “Possible stalking situation.”
She casts me a worried look. “Be careful out there, Chief. Skid says the creek is up and the fire department was just called for a high-water rescue.”
“Roger that,” I mutter, and go through the door.
Cemetery Road is the last place you want to be during any sort of inclement weather.
Wind buffets the Explorer as I creep along just below the speed limit.
A combination of cracked asphalt and dirt, the roadway is twisty and narrow with blind curves galore, all of it set on a steep grade guaranteed to put even an experienced driver’s heart rate into the red zone.
The good news is that the rain has slowed.
For now. The bad news is that the wind has picked up.
If the clouds roiling on the western horizon are any indication, there’s more of both on the way.
The speedometer hovers at thirty miles an hour as I negotiate a hairpin curve.
I crank it up to forty-five on the straightaway.
According to my GPS, I’m three miles from the Petersheim farm.
There’s been no sign of the couple or their buggy.
No horse droppings or wheel marks. Because of the glowering cloud cover, dusk has settled in early.
I’m reaching for the floodlight mounted outside my door when an animal darts in front of my vehicle.
I stomp the brake hard. The Explorer slides sideways.
I turn in to the skid, but the wheels hit mud and the vehicle goes into a sickening tailspin.
“Shit!”
The front wheels drop as I leave the road. A dozen trees blur past. An instant later, the front end slams into a massive trunk. The impact throws me against my harness. The airbag slugs me in the face and chest like a giant fist.
For an instant the world goes silent and still.
The first thought that strikes my brain is that I’m not injured.
I can’t say the same for the Explorer. It sits at a severe angle, nose down.
Through the windshield I can see that the hood is buckled and has become unlatched.
The engine died on impact. A steady stream of steam pours from the radiator.
“Nice job, Kate.” Bracing, I reach for my safety belt, release it.
Gravity shoves me against the steering wheel.
Cursing, I prop myself up with one hand, reach for the door with the other.
The hinges groan when I force it open. The wind drives rain into the cab, soaking me instantly.
Beyond, I see a jungle of bramble, weeds, and saplings as thick as a man’s calf, all of it glistening with water and undulating in the wind.
I look around the cab, locate my Maglite on the floor, and snatch it up.
There’s no easy way for me to reach my equipment box in the rear, so I clamber into the back seat.
Once there, I fold down the seatback and reach through to open my equipment box.
Flipping on the flashlight, I rummage until I find what I need, yanking out my raincoat and several emergency flares.
Twisting, I wriggle backward into the front seat.
When I’ve got everything I need, I push open the door and shimmy through the gap.
Outside the vehicle, I feel my boots sink into mud up to my ankles.
Rain lashes me as I slip into the slicker, flip up the hood.
I’m looking around for the most expeditious route up to the roadway when the sharp bark of a canine startles me.
I spin, not sure if I’ll find friend or foe.
Relief swamps me when I spot the big yellow Labrador looking down at me from the road above.
“You’re not the guy who ran me off the road, are you?” I say aloud.