Page 27 of Breaking Silence

I’ve met Sheriff Rasmussen several times since he was appointed. A former sheriff’s deputy from Canton, he’s low-key and no-nonsense, two personality traits I greatly admire, especially when it comes to small-town politics. City and county law-enforcement agencies work together closely here in Painters Mill. The sheriff’s office has a small budget and pretty much runs on a skeleton crew. We pick up the slack, taking county as well as city calls. I’m wondering what prompted two phone calls in one day as I shrug out of my coat and head toward my office.

I get Rasmussen’s voice mail and leave my cell number. Without hanging up, I dial Tomasetti. I get voice mail there, too, so I leave a message. Sighing, I vaguely wonder if they’re talking to each other. After checking e-mail, I snag my coat and head toward Pickles’ cubicle. I catch him coming out, a cup of coffee in hand. “Anything on Slabaugh?” I can tell by his expression that he found something.

“Two years ago, Adam Slabaugh was arrested on a domestic.”

“Well, that’s interesting. Conviction?”

“Charges were dropped.”

“Who was the complainant?”

Pickles offers a “cat that swallowed the canary” grin. “Solomon Slabaugh.”

“Nice work,” I say, but my mind is racing. “Want to go talk to him?”

“I’m game.”

Pickles ducks back into his cubicle, sets his cup on the desk, and grabs his parka. We’re on our way to the door when Lois stands up and raises her hand like a traffic cop. “Whoa!”

Pickles and I simultaneously stop and turn.

Giving us the hand signal to wait, she finishes her call and disconnects. “Chief, I just took a call from Ricky Shingle. He was out on Sampson Road and saw a buggy on fire and a runaway horse.”

The first scenario that comes to mind is a spilled kerosene heater or lantern. “Anyone hurt?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Where on Sampson Road?”

“At the Painters Creek bridge.”

“Call the fire department. Get an ambulance out there, too. We’re on our way.” I look at Pickles. “I think Adam Slabaugh can wait.”

“Me, too, Chief. Me, too.”

* * *

Dusk has fallen by the time we turn onto Sampson Road. It’s a little-used dirt track that runs parallel to Painters Creek, crossing over the stream twice and then snaking north through a heavily wooded area that’s prone to flooding in the spring.

Only one Amish family lives out this way, so I head directly to the Kaufman farm. I’ve met Mark and Liza Kaufman a handful of times over the years. They’re a quiet couple with three teenage children. They’re of the Old Order, devout, and they tend to avoid contact with the English as much as possible.

I don’t have to go far to find what I’m looking for. At the mouth of the gravel lane, the charred remains of a four-wheel buggy on its side are smoldering in the bar ditch like a pile of firewood. A plume of gray-black smoke billows into the cold air. A few yards away, several Amish people stare at my vehicle as if I’m there to cart them off to jail.

“This ought to be interesting,” Pickles remarks.

“That’s one word for it.” Hitting the emergency lights, I park the Explorer on the shoulder and we get out.

“How in the hell would a buggy catch on fire?” Pickles grumbles as we start toward the group.

“Maybe a lantern or heater tipped over.” But I don’t think that’s what happened. Most Amish know all too well the dangers of fire and are cautious when handling flame or any kind of accelerant.

Winter-dead trees curl over the gravel lane like curved, arthritic fingers. In the distance, I hear the sirens of the fire department. I walk around a dozen or more hoof marks that are sunk deeply into the muddy ground—the kind of mark a terrified horse might make while trying to escape danger. I find myself hoping no one was seriously injured.

“Mr. Kaufman?” I call out when I’m a few yards from the group. “Is everyone okay?”

Mark Kaufman is a stern-looking man with shrewd, intelligent eyes and an angular face, which gives him a gaunt countenance. His steel-wool beard reaches nearly to his belt. He wears a black coat, a straw hat, and black work trousers. He stares at me with unconcealed displeasure as I approach.

“Is anyone hurt?” I ask, rephrasing my question.