An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(13)

“Did he seem all right?” I ask. “Was there anything bothering him?”

“He was fine. Same as always.”

“Has he had any disagreements or arguments with anyone recently?” I ask.

The girl blinks back tears and shakes her head. “Aden never argues with anyone. He’ll agree with you just to keep the peace. He was kind that way.”

The older woman removes a tissue from her pocket and hands it to her daughter. “What about the business with that old truck?”

My police antenna cranks up.

“Oh.” Emily takes the tissue, uses it to wipe her eyes. “I almost forgot. Such a stupid thing.”

“What truck?” I ask.

“Aden and Wayne bought this beat-up truck.”

“Wayne Graber,” Clara puts in.

The roommate, I recall.

Emily nods. “They bought it from an Englischer in Millersburg,” she tells me. “Aden and Wayne are good with mechanical stuff; they can fix anything. So, they figured they could make repairs and sell it. Make some money, you know. They went to work on it, like guys do. Got the thing all fancy-looking and sold it for two thousand dollars to Vernon Fisher.” Her brows knit. “But after Vernon had it for a few weeks, the truck stopped running. Vern got mad and stopped paying. So Wayne and Aden went over to his house in the middle of the night and repossessed it.”

I pull out my notebook. “Vernon Fisher?”

“Lives up in Painters Mill,” Clara says.

The name is familiar. I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled Fisher over for speeding at least once. If memory serves me, he’s from a well-thought-of Amish family and recently purchased a defunct gas station off the highway.

“Vernon fell in with a bad crowd.” Clara huffs. “Been on rumspringa for over a year now. Drinks and smokes like a fiend. Lives out by that trashy old gas station. Hangs out with a bunch of no-gooders. Don’t think his parents will ever get him baptized or married.”

“How much money are we talking about?” I ask Emily.

“I think Vernon paid six hundred dollars. Still owes fourteen hundred. Aden said Vernon wants his six hundred back.”

It’s exactly the kind of dispute that could escalate into something ugly.

I write all of it down. “Emily, did Vernon and Aden argue or have words about the truck?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Vernon ever threaten Aden?” I ask. “Or Wayne?”

The girl stares at me, her mouth quivering as her mind tries to make sense of my questions. The meaning behind them. After a moment, her face crumples. She lowers her face into her hands and breaks into sobs.

I wait and try a few more questions, but she’s inconsolable. I leave her sobbing, her arms on the table, her face buried.





CHAPTER 4


I hail Dispatch as I pull out of the Bylers’ lane, make the turn onto the county road, and head north. “Ten-twenty-nine.” It’s the ten code for “check for wanted.” “Vernon Fisher.” I spell out the name.

“Stand by,” comes Lois’s voice.

Keys clatter and then she comes back. “Speeding citation two years ago. OVI in Holmes County,” she says, using the acronym for the “operation of a motor vehicle while intoxicated.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“Got it right here, Chief.” A couple more clicks and then she recites a Painters Mill address.

“I’m ten-seventy-six,” I respond, letting her know I’m en route. “Who’s on this afternoon?”

“Pickles.”

Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is semiretired now. He’s north of eighty years old and spends most of his time working the school crosswalk—and occasionally confiscating cigarettes from students who think they’re going to cop a smoke on his watch. The people who know him—and those of us who work with him—do not underestimate Pickles. He may be in his golden years; he may be moving a little more slowly; he may lie about his age. But beneath the grizzled exterior are fifty years of law enforcement experience, a commendation for undercover narcotics work, and the instincts of a man who’ll lay down his life to save your ass.

“Tell Pickles to ten-twenty-five.” Which is the code for “meet me there.”

“Ten-four.”

I rack the mike, then pick up my cell and speed-dial Glock. He picks up instantly. “Did anyone find a bolt or arrow?” I ask.

“Negative,” he says. “We set up a grid and checked every tree and field and ditch within two hundred yards of the scene, Chief. We got nothing.”

I tell him about my conversation with Doc Coblentz. “If there were entry and exit wounds, how is it that there’s no bolt on scene?”

“Maybe the shooter took it.”

“From what I hear, it’s not easy to extract a bolt.”

“That’s true,” he says. “I went crossbow hunting a few years ago with a friend of mine. He got a buck. When he retrieved his bolt, he didn’t pull it out. He pushed it through. And it took some doing.”

I suppress a shiver before it can take hold. “Is Doc Coblentz still there?”

“Left ten minutes ago. Released the scene to us. Crime scene techs are still processing. I don’t think they’re getting much.”