Page 67 of Breaking Silence

Two fire trucks are in position and three firefighters hose the blaze. A buggy and two ambulances are parked haphazardly in the driveway a bit farther back from the barn. Several members of the Hartzler family, some of the children not much older than five or six years, have formed a chain and are passing buckets of water from the well to a smaller outbuilding to keep it from catching fire, as well.

I park out of the way, about thirty yards from the barn, but even from that distance I can feel the heat. The steady roar of the flames mingles with the rumble of the diesel engines of the fire trucks, forming a deafening chorus. I’m aware of Tomasetti parking behind me, but I don’t wait for him. I approach the nearest firefighter, who’s manning the water pump.

“Anyone hurt?” I ask.

“We still haven’t located Ed Hartzler. Family’s pretty upset.”

The fire crashes like a giant beast on a rampage. Timbers sizzle and crack. The flames are both hideous and beautiful as they consume the one hundred-year-old structure. “Do you guys need anything?”

“We’re good, Chief,” he says. “Coshocton County’s on the way.”

I leave him to his work. I stop next to Tomasetti, who’s standing a few feet back, and tell him about Hartzler.”

“Hope he’s not in there.”

“The barn is going to be a total loss.”

We turn to look at the human chain. The Hartzler family, still clad in pajamas and nightshirts, try desperately to save what looks like a chicken house. But with a fire this size, their efforts may be futile; nothing can save the structure if the fire chooses to devour it. I only hope Ed Hartzler isn’t inside the barn, because there’s no way anyone could survive.

I start toward the family. I see a dozen faces, all of them red with tears and sweat and the cold. There are children and teenagers, a skinny old man, and a pregnant woman. I’ve met Ed and his wife, Sarah, several times over the years. Twenty years ago, I went to school with Sarah. They have a big, extended family, including at least one set of grandparents. As I take in their frightened faces, all I can think is that this isn’t going to end well.

For a moment, I consider jumping in and helping them carry water, but the effort is so futile, I decide against it. Instead, I approach Sarah Hartzler. She’s in the middle of the chain. Her face is shiny and wet. She wears a white nightgown that’s smudged with dirt and soaked with water at the hem. Judging from the size of her abdomen, she’s at least six months pregnant.

“Sarah.” I say her name twice before she looks at me. I can tell she doesn’t want to stop lugging water. But the skinny old man, the grandparent, I realize, walks over to her. “Sarah, we will haul the water. Go with Katie. Try to get some rest.”

“No, Papa.…”

Momentarily breaking the chain, he takes her hand and guides her toward the back porch of the house. Tomasetti and I trail behind them, not speaking. The old man stops at the concrete porch steps and orders her to sit. “You rest now. We’ll see to the fire.”

Sarah collapses onto the step.

The old man turns to me, his expression grave. Knowing he wants to talk to me out of earshot of his daughter, I walk several feet away and he follows.

“Ed was in the barn,” he tells me, watching the flames. “Our mare was about to foal, so he took a blanket and slept out there. He thought it would be tonight.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes the sweat and soot from his forehead. “Ed got the horses out. He went back in for the milk cows, but I didn’t see him come back out. No one can find him.”

I hit my lapel mike and order all available men to the scene for a search of the area surrounding the barn. When I look at the old man, I realize we both fear it’s too late for his son-in-law. “Any idea how the fire started?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Ed is very careful with the lanterns.”

“Did you see anything?”

He gives me a look that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up. “I keep my bedroom window open. Something woke me. When I looked out the window, I saw the flames. Katie, I saw two people running from the barn.”

False hope skitters wildly through me. “Edward?”

He grimaces. “At first, I thought so. I called out.” His hand trembles when he raises the kerchief to his face. “One of them turned and looked at me, but they kept on running. They were Englischers.”

He says the word with a hefty note of distaste. “Did you recognize them?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you see their faces? Their clothes? Can you give me a description?” The questions tumble out of me too quickly.

The old man takes it in stride, shakes his head again. “It was too dark. They were running too fast. All I could think about was Ed.…” He lowers his head.

Behind me, I’m aware of Sarah crying openly now. “Where’s Edward?” she sobs. “Someone find him.”

She knows, I think, and suddenly I’m furious. Another family shattered on my watch: eight children left fatherless, a young Amish widow forced to raise them alone. I can’t prove it yet, but after hearing what the old man had to say, I’m convinced this was no accident. The hate crimes have officially crossed over into murder.