Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(17)

Edward and his son stand in the kitchen. The older man looks perturbed. Big Eddie looks on the verge of tears. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” he whines.

I ignore him. “Is there a basement?” I ask.

The older man shakes his head. “No.”

I take a moment to make eye contact with both of them. “I’m going to have a deputy take a look around the pasture and field. Is that all right with you?”

“That’s fine,” says the elder.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” I say, and then I’m through the door.

Glock meets me at the Explorer. “Anything interesting in the barn?” I ask.

“Just a girlie magazine up in the loft, Chief.”

Rolling my eyes, I put the vehicle in gear and start down the lane.



* * *



I’ve just made the turn onto Township Road 4 when my cell chirps. I tug it out of my pocket, glance at the display. T.J. “Chief, I’m out here at Dick Howard’s place on Township Road 14 and Goat Head Road. Dick says he saw a pickup truck he didn’t recognize drive past his place right about the time the kid went missing.”

My interest surges. That intersection is just down the road from the Schattenbaum place. “Make or model?”

“No and no. Said he glanced out the kitchen window when he was fixing a sandwich and didn’t pay much attention.”

I think about the tire tread marks. “Full-size pickup?”

“Yeah.”

“Color?”

“Light. White or tan.”

“Did he get a look at the driver?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Tell him to call if he remembers anything else. Glock and I are talking to RSOs. Keep at it.”

“You got it.”

I tell Glock about the call. “We’re on our way to see Lester Nisley,” I say. “He’s an RSO and Swartzentruber. Still on parole.”

“Sounds promising.”

“We’ll see.”

Lester Nisley lives with his parents on a hog farm four miles south of the Schattenbaum place. The smell of manure hits me as I make the turn into the lane. Next to me, Glock mutters something unseemly and rolls up his window.

Most Swartzentruber Amish don’t use gravel for their lanes, and the Nisleys are no exception. We bump down a rough dirt road fraught with ruts. A quarter mile in, the lane opens to a turnaround situated between a clapboard farmhouse and two barns. The one to my right is a low-slung hog barn. Farther back is an old white bank barn with its front sliding door standing open. The house is to my left; it’s a plain farmhouse with no flowers or shutters or landscaping. An enormous garden encompasses most of the side yard. A dozen or so pairs of trousers hang from a clothesline. A weathered outhouse is situated just off the backyard.

“I feel like I’ve just gone back in time a hundred years,” Glock says as we get out.

“Some Swartzentrubers are more Old Order than others,” I tell him, but I’m thinking about the tire-tread marks found in front of the Schattenbaum place. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of a vehicle, tire tread, oil stains, whatever.”

Movement at the door of the hog barn snags my attention. I see a man silhouetted against lantern light inside. He’s wearing a flat-brimmed hat, standing in the doorway, watching us.

We start that way.

A second man has come up beside him. A younger version of the older man. Neither of them speaks or makes an effort to greet or welcome us. Instead they stand there, legs cocked, and watch us approach. The second man is slighter of build; his beard is of the barely-there variety, his bowl-cut blond hair sticking out from beneath his flat-brimmed straw hat. Father and son, I think.

I’ve seen the elder Nisley around town, but I don’t recall ever speaking to him. His expression reflects a standoffishness I’m no stranger to. One that tells me I’m an outsider and he hasn’t yet decided if I’m welcome on his property. He’s got angular features, an unkempt beard hanging off the lower half of his face. A thin mouth. A toothpick moving up and down as he works it against his teeth with his tongue. Neither of them looks terribly concerned about the police showing up at eight o’clock in the evening.

Glock and I reach the men. “I’m looking for Lester Nisley,” I say.

The elder man jabs his thumb at the younger man. “You found him.”

I turn my attention to the younger man. “Lester, is there a place we can speak privately? I need to ask you some questions about your whereabouts earlier today.”

The older man straightens, puts his weight on both feet. He’s just realized this isn’t a routine visit.

The younger man shrugs. “I reckon we can talk right here.”

“Where were you between noon and five P.M. today?”

“I was here all morning.” Tipping his hat, he scratches his head. “Went to the feed store around noon.”

“Were you with anyone?” I ask. “Or were you alone?”

“I went by myself.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

He looks at me as if he’s not quite sure what “corroborate” means. “My datt,” he says after a moment. “Guy at the feed store. I got a receipt in the house.”