Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“Yes.” Her smile is real this time. “It is lovely.”

I drop my hand and ask the question that’s been eating at me since Tomasetti waylaid me in the bar with his riddle about Pete the cop. “Sarah, have you told anyone about Daniel Lapp?”

She brushes a speck of thread off the quilt. “I do not wish to speak of that, Katie.”

“Did you tell someone about Lapp?”

Lowering the quilt, she stares at me as if I’ve just pulled out my pistol and shot her dead-center. “I did what I had to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“I prayed to God for guidance. When I woke yesterday morning, I knew I would find peace, that you would find peace, in the truth.”

A keen sense of betrayal cuts me. “Who did you tell?”

“I sent a note to Bishop Troyer.”

“What did the note say?”

“The truth.” She looks down at the quilt. “That you know who the killer is.” The words send a flood of panic through me. The scene at the bar with Tomasetti flashes in my mind’s eye. For an instant, I’m so stricken, I can’t catch my breath.

“I am sorry if this hurts you, Katie. But I felt very strongly that telling the truth was the right thing to do.”

“You don’t know the truth!” Turning away from her, I begin to pace. “Sarah, how could you?”

“Your police friends can help you find Daniel now,” she offered.

Heart pounding, I rub my hands over my face and try to calm down. “Did you sign the note? Do they know it came from you?”

“I did not sign my name.”

I try to think through the ramifications, but my brain is so muddled by exhaustion, I can’t think past the panic clenching my chest.

“Katie, what happened?”

I stop pacing and look at her. “Bishop Troyer took the note to the town council. Maybe the mayor. Now, they’re suspicious of me. Are you happy now?”

“I am not happy to see you hurting. All I want is for Daniel Lapp to be caught.”

“We don’t know that he’s the killer!” I shout.

She glances nervously toward the door. “Please do not shout.”

Trying hard to fend off the fingers of panic crawling all over me, I draw a deep breath. “Sarah, I need to talk to you about what happened that day.”

She starts to turn away, but I set my hands on her shoulders and force her to face me. “I need you to remember. Think back to that day. Is it really possible Daniel Lapp survived?”

“If he’s back, then he must have survived.” Her fingers flutter at the neckline of her plain dress. “You saw him, too.”

The human mind is a powerful thing. Like the body, it possesses protective mechanisms to safeguard it against trauma. The abject horror of what happened that day was branded into my brain and will remain there forever. But I remember few details of the rape, even less of the shooting. The one thing I do recall with vivid clarity is the blood. On the curtains. On my hands. An ocean of it glistening on the floor.

Too much blood for anyone to have survived .

“There was too much blood,” I whisper.

“What?”

I look hard at my sister. “Did you go with Datt and Jacob to the grain elevator?”

She stares back, her expression stricken. “No.”

“How do you know they buried the body?”

“I heard Mamm and Datt talking. In the barn. A few days after it happened.”

“What did they say?”

“ Datt told Mamm he put Daniel in the hole where no one would ever find him.”

“In the hole?” My heart tap dances against my ribs. “What does that mean? What hole?”

“I do not know. A well, maybe. I did not ask.”

In the hole . . .

The words tumble in my head like sea glass in a kaleidoscope. “I have to go.” Sarah looks alarmed. “Where?”

“To find Daniel Lapp,” I say, and hit the stairs running.

CHAPTER 25

Following the chief of police on some half-baked hunch probably wasn’t a very good idea. With the temperature dropping fast and the snow coming down in earnest, John figured it fell into the downright stupid category. He was reaching for the ignition key when headlights cut through the darkness, telling him a vehicle was coming down the lane. “Shit,” he muttered.

He’d parked a dozen yards from the mouth of the lane, but he’d be lucky if she didn’t spot him. If she looked hard enough before turning onto the road, she’d see him. He might be a good liar, but he’d have one hell of a time explaining this. Leaning against the seat back, he watched the Explorer barrel down the driveway. It hit the road with enough speed to fishtail and then sped toward town.

Relieved, John started the engine, turned up the heat and put the Tahoe in gear. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was following her. Kate Burkholder hadn’t done anything wrong. Aside from not calling in the feds or the state for help, she was investigating the murders much the same way he would have had he been in her shoes.

It was the appearance of the mysterious note that had aroused his suspicions. Mayor Brock had delivered it just that morning. Had it come from anyone other than an Amish bishop, John might have written it off as a hoax. It was, after all, ludicrous to believe Kate knew the identity of the killer as the note had claimed.

But over the years John had learned to trust his gut. Right now it was telling him she was hiding something. Did she know the killer? Was he a relative? A lover? Was he Amish? Was she protecting him?

The questions gnawed at him as he followed her toward town. It was after nine P.M.; she was probably going to call it a night. That was fine by him. He could use a hot shower and some food. Not to mention a drink . . .

But Kate didn’t turn onto Main Street. Instead she headed south on the highway, a little too fast considering the road conditions. Curious, John fell back to a discreet distance and followed her into Coshocton County.

“Where the hell are you going?” He punched off the headlights as she turned onto a little-used road. Surprise rippled through him when she pulled into an abandoned grain facility. Intrigued, he watched the Explorer disappear behind the building. John parked a hundred yards away and shut down the engine.

“What are you up to, Kate?” he muttered.

The only answer he got was the tinkle of snow pellets against the windshield and the nagging insistence of his own suspicions.

I know coming here is a mistake. Chances are, I’ll dig until I’m exhausted, frostbitten and disheartened, and still not find what I’m looking for. In some twisted way, I want to believe proof of Daniel Lapp’s death will exonerate me for not telling anyone he could be a suspect in these murders.

Gathering the shovel, the pickax and my Mag-Lite, I enter the structure through the rear door. The place seems different now that I’m alone. The wind tears at the loose sheet metal outside and whistles through every crack, filling the place with the ghostly moans and groans of some Halloweenesque haunted house.

Cold nips at my face as I walk the length of the building. Though I was raised in farm country, I’ve always been foggy on the mechanical workings of the grain elevator. After that night with Jacob, however, I hit a couple of Web sites and learned the basics. Fifty years ago, trucks loaded with wheat or corn drove through the overhead door and onto the platform to be weighed. Once the truck was weighed, the driver pulled forward and dumped the load of grain into the “boot pit.” The empty vehicle was weighed again and the driver was paid per pound for the weight difference.

“So where the hell is the boot pit?” I say aloud.

The overhead door shudders with a gust of wind. I hear snow pinging against steel. Picking up the Mag-Lite, I shine it around the weigh platform. The boot pit grate should be nearby. I set down the flashlight and ram the tip of the shovel into the ground where I think the truck drive-through aisle might have been—and a hollow thud sounds.

Using the shovel like an oar, I scrape away dry earth and spot a rotting piece of plywood. Dropping to my knees, I use my hands and tear at the ground like a crazy woman. I hear gasping sounds echoing off the walls. It scares me when I realize those sounds are coming from me. Unearthing the plywood, I drag it aside. Hope leaps through me when I see the rusty grate. The boot pit is about eight feet square and twelve feet deep. The elevator leg has long since been removed, but the hole was never filled. Grabbing the flashlight, I shine the beam into the pit. I see chunks of broken concrete, loose dirt, gravel and a pile of broken boards.

I use the shovel to pry at the grate, but the heavy piece of steel doesn’t budge. I keep a cable in my vehicle during the winter months and use it for hauling stranded cars out of snow. It strikes me that I can use it to move the grate. Grabbing my keys, I run to the Explorer and back it up to the grate. When the vehicle is in position, I snatch up the cable and secure the hooked end to the Explorer’s undercarriage. I clip the other end to the grate. Sliding behind the wheel, I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and give it gas. The cable goes taut. The engine revs. The tires spin and grab. Steel screeches against steel as the grate is pulled from its ancient nest.

I drag it about three feet, then kill the engine and get out. Snatching up the Mag-Lite, I shine it into the hole. It’s too deep for me to jump; the last thing I need is a broken ankle. Realizing I can use the cable to rappel down, I unhook the end from the Explorer and drop it into the pit. I toss the shovel in next. Finally, I sit on the edge, grasp the cable and lower myself into darkness. The air smells of earth and dust and decay. The instant my feet touch the ground, I swing the flashlight beam around the pit. A rat skitters across a pile of weathered boards.

The shovel lies on the ground a few feet away. I pick it up and use it to tap on the pile of wood. I’m not unduly frightened of rodents, but I don’t want one jumping on me. Propping my flashlight on a cinder block, I start dragging boards aside. Dust curls up to irritate my nose and eyes, but I don’t slow down. I lift a length of sheet metal and toss it aside. A rotting two-by-six crumples in my hands. I look down and find myself staring at several small pale objects in the dirt.

I snag the flashlight. My blood freezes in my veins when I realize the objects are teeth. Nearby, I discern a tattered scrap of fabric. Is this what’s left of Daniel Lapp? Squatting for a closer look, I identify several ribs still attached to a length of spine. Then I spot the skull and I know. Daniel Lapp is dead. The knowledge fills me with a bizarre mix of relief and dread. I’d been certain he was the killer. But if not Daniel, then who?

I don’t know how long I stand there. It’s as if this revelation has paralyzed me. The logical side of my brain tells me to bury this part of my past and go home. Forget about Lapp and concentrate on finding the killer. Salvage what’s left of my career. I begin dragging wood over the remains. When that’s done I go to the cable and proceed to climb out of the pit. I’m in good shape, but it’s not easy. I’m nearly to the top when I catch a glimpse of movement above. Too large to be a dog or raccoon. Someone’s there. Shock jolts me with such force that I nearly lose my grip. I freeze, my body shaking, my thoughts reeling.

Did someone follow me?

I look up, but see nothing. I hear myself breathing hard. My hands ache from clutching the cable. I’m aware of my gun against my side. But even armed, I’m in a vulnerable position. If someone wanted to harm me, this would be a prime opportunity.