Page 71 of Breaking Silence

“Uh, I don’t know. Red, maybe,” he replies. “Not sure what kind.”

I stare at him, aware that my protective instincts have been roused. Not the first time that’s happened since I’ve met these kids. Wanting to protect the innocent is a noble endeavor, but not the smartest frame of mind for a cop. After a while, those kinds of emotions just get in the way.

I look at Mose. The outside corner of his left eyeball is bloodred. The cut on his lip gapes like a tiny screaming mouth. At the very least, he’s going to need stitches. I can’t even imagine the other damage he might have suffered—broken ribs, internal injuries, a concussion. That’s not to mention the psychological harm. I’m appalled and ashamed that someone could do this to a teenage boy, Amish or otherwise. I know it’s stupid, but I feel somehow responsible, as if I should have been able to stop it.

“How did you get those marks on your back?” I ask.

Mose looks everywhere except at me. “Buggy whip.”

“They whipped you?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Ja. It don’t hurt much.”

“Where did this happen?” I ask.

Mose stares at the tabletop. “On the road between Bishop Troyer’s house and ours.”

“How long ago?”

He lifts his shoulder. “I don’t know. An hour or two.”

Shaking my head, I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for a red pickup truck. When I finish, I look at Mose. “What were you doing on the township road?”

His gaze skates away from mine. “Walking.”

“To where?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer.

“Here.”

“You know you were supposed to stay away, don’t you?”

“I know it.” When he looks at me, his expression is so filled with misery that it’s difficult for me to hold his gaze. “I had to come. This is my home. You’ve no right to keep me from it.”

I suspect his covert excursion had more to do with seeing Salome than with a sudden attack of homesickness, but I don’t press him on it. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the men who did this to you?”

Eyes fixed on the tabletop, Mose shakes his head. “They just called me names. Stuff like that.”

I nod, running it through my head. “Where did the buggy whip come from? They were in a truck.”

Mose shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe they got horses at home. Had some tack in the truck.”

A knock sounds at the door. Before I can rise, Samuel answers and two paramedics walk in.

Mose’s eyes widen when he spots them; then he turns his gaze to me. “I don’t want to go with them. I can’t. I want to stay here.”

“You’re injured. You need to get yourself checked out at the hospital.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Mose—”

“I want to stay here!” Panic flares in his eyes. “Why can’t I just stay here?”

Grappling for patience, I squeeze his arm. “Calm down,” I say, helping him to his feet. “I need for you to be smart about this. Do you understand?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Go with the paramedics. Get yourself checked out. I’ll meet you at the hospital later. Now go.” I nod at the nearest paramedic.