Page 45 of Rage

“This isn’t your fault,” I tell him.

No one responds.

We fall silent. The couple look exhausted and broken. As if their souls have been sucked from their bodies and there’s nothing left but the shell.

I rise and set my hand first on Ellen’s shoulder and then on Doyle’s. “If you need anything or if you think of something I might need to know, please call me. Day or night.”

“No offense, Chief Burkholder, but I think I could live the rest of my days quite happily never speaking to you again,” Ellen says.

I set my card on the table and let myself out through the front door.

As I take the flagstone path to the Explorer, the remnants of their grief follow, a dark presence that’s as heavy and menacing as death itself.

“Damn it.” I hit the fob, slide behind the wheel. As I pull the door closed, I hear someone call out my name.

“Chief Burkholder!”

I glance left to see an Amish teenager jogging toward me from the barn. Sixteen or seventeen years old. Rail thin. His blue shirt is sweat stained. His work pants are dusty. I’ve never met him before, but his facial features tell me he’s a Shetler.

I roll down the window. At first glance I can tell he’s been crying. “Hi,” I say.

“Is it true?” he asks. “Aaron’s gone?”

I nod. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“How did he die?”

“You should probably go inside and talk to your parents about that.”

Blinking hard, he looks back at the barn as if wishing he were there instead of here, and I see him struggling to hold in emotions that are pushing at the gates to get out.

“Are you his brother?” I ask.

He nods. “William.”

The sibling Aaron had tried to give the money to.

A cop has to be cautious when questioning or even talking to a minor child. Asking questions about a case that will likely go to court is not to be done without the express permission of a parent or legal guardian.

I go with a statement instead of a question and wait. “You’re the one Aaron tried to give the money to.”

His eyes meet mine and he looks at me, hard. My mamm used to call that kind of eye contact deef awwa. Deep eyes.

“Everyone was talking bad about him.” Despite the strong façade, the boy’s voice breaks. “He was a good guy. He got that money fair and square.”

“How?” I ask.

“That landscape job he helped Samuel with. The one at that fancy Englischer club.”

“What club?”

He gives me a confused look. “The fancy one here in Painters Mill.”

“The Club at Paint Creek?”

He nods. “Aaron and Samuel are the ones put in all them trees. Thirty of them, I think. A hedge, too.” He looks away, swipes covertly at his eyes. “I wanted to help, but Sammy said I wasn’t old enough. He didn’t talk much about the job because the guy paid in cash. You know, so they wouldn’t have to pay taxes on it.”

It takes a moment for me to make the connection. I recall my conversation with Carter Brooks.