Page 47 of Breaking Silence

“Just a few minutes. Called you guys before I even got out of the car.” He falls in beside me. “You just never know what you’re going to run into on the road these days, do you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Herman Morse. I run an insurance agency up in Wooster.”

I scan the surrounding woods, wondering if the perpetrator is still around, watching with the glee of some high-school prankster. But I know it won’t be that easy. “You see anyone else?” I ask.

“No ma’am. Just the Amish guy.”

I motion toward the green Cadillac parked behind the buggy. “That your car?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to go stand by your car and wait for me, okay? Don’t move around too much; there might be footprints we’ll want to preserve. I’ll need to get a statement from you.”

“Uh, sure.” He lingers a moment, glances toward the Amish man. “He’s pretty banged up. Shouldn’t you call an ambulance or something?”

“They’re on the way.” Reaching the young man, I kneel, take a quick visual assessment.

He’s pale and shivering. His lips are dry and tinged blue from the cold. Probably suffering from hypothermia and dehydration. His left eye is swollen shut. The other is the color of a ripe eggplant. I cringe when I see his hands. Both are swollen and blue. The fingertips are white and hard-looking; I suspect he may have some frostbite. His wrists are chafed and bloody, which tells me he’s been struggling to free himself from his binds for quite some time.

“How badly are you hurt?” Snapping the blanket open, I cover him with it.

“C-cold m-mostly.” He stares at me with bloodshot and glassy eyes. “I think my hands are frozen.”

Tugging my pocketknife from my belt, I cut the rope. He winces when his limbs break free. I can tell by the lack of movement in his hands that he can’t flex his fingers.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“All night.” A groan escapes him when he tries to rise.

I set my hands on his shoulders and ease him back down. “Just stay put a moment.”

“I need to unhook the horse. He’s old. Been tangled in the harness all night.”

“I’ll take care of him. You just relax a moment. I don’t want you moving around too much, in case you’re injured.” I motion toward the blood on his shoulders and chest. “Who did this to you?”

“T-two Englischers.”

“Do you know their names? Did you recognize them?”

He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”

I look him over, searching for signs of life-threatening injuries—blood, broken bones, stab wounds, bullet wounds. “What happened?”

He shrugs, looks away. “I was on my way to town for some lumber. They came up fast, blocked my way. When I stopped, they ambushed me.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“A truck. Blue. Old, I think.”

“Which direction did they go?”

“Toward town.”

I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for an older blue pickup truck. “Did they have a weapon?”

He shakes his head. “Just their fists.”