But I know the answer, and it’s as disturbing as the question itself. Some people hate for the sake of hating. They hurt others for the sake of hurting. In the three years I’ve been chief of police, I’ve seen both of those things in all their hideous forms. I’ve heard the explanations, too, and they’re as pathetic and ugly as the people who act on them: The Amish are stupid; they only go through the eighth grade. The Amish are dirty. The buggies slow down traffic and cause accidents. The Amish are a cult of religious fanatics. The diatribe goes on and on, as senseless as the people who spew it.
I hit Township Road 2 doing eighty. My rear tires fishtail as I turn onto the narrow asphalt track, so I back it down to sixty. Less than half a mile in, I see the horse and buggy. It’s parked at a cockeyed angle in the bar ditch, as if someone ran it off the road. The horse has managed to work the reins loose, but it can’t move forward or backward. Judging from the trampled ground, the animal has been standing there for quite some time.
I slide out of the Explorer. Anger is a knot in my chest as I take in the sight of the young Amish man. He’s sitting on the ground, his hands stretched above his head, his wrists tied to the buggy wheel. He looks to be in his early twenties. He’s not wearing a shirt. Someone—the Good Samaritan driver, more than likely—has draped a coat over him. His shoulders are bare and flecked with blood, and I pray he hasn’t been stabbed or shot. He’s wearing trousers, and I can see his work boots sticking out from beneath the coat. An older man wearing a navy jacket, dark slacks, and Walmart loafers stands next to him, looking upset.
Going around to the rear of the Explorer, I pull out a thermal blanket and a bottle of water I keep stored next to the first-aid kit, then start toward them.
The driver looks to be in his mid-fifties and has a receding hairline and a paunch. “I was going to cut the ropes, but I didn’t have a knife,” he tells me. “Poor guy says he’s been here all night. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
“How long have you been here?” I don’t stop walking, but continue on toward the buggy.
“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.”
“Did they say anything?”
“They called me names.” He shrugs, letting me know that didn’t bother him. “Took the Lord’s name in vain.” That bothered him a lot.
I nod, try hard to bank the fury rising inside me. “There’s an ambulance on the way.” I uncap the bottle of water, put it to his lips, and he takes a sip. “What’s your name?”
“Mark Lambright.” He looks down at his hands. His face contorts in pain when he tries to flex his knuckles. “I need to get home. My wife will be worried.”
“I’ll have someone go by your place and let her know you’re all right. Where do you live?” He cites a farm a few miles down the road after I give him another sip of water. “Can you tell me what the two men looked like?”
His eyes skate away from mine. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You’ve already got trouble.”
He doesn’t answer, and a sensation of déjà vu engulfs me. I recall the burning buggy incident, and I know this man isn’t going to cooperate, either.
“Mr. Lambright.” I take a deep breath, reel in my frustration. “I need to find the men who did this to you so that I can keep them from doing it again. You could have been killed.”
He motions toward his body. “As you can see, I’m okay.”
“What did the men look like?”
He stares down at his swollen, frozen hands.
“If you stick your head in the sand, whoever did this is going to get away and do it again. Next time, it could be a woman or child. They might kill someone. Is that what you want?”
He watches me with his one good eye, shakes his head. “I do not wish for anyone to be hurt. I just want to go home.”
I sit back on my heels, frustration churning inside me. In the distance, I hear sirens and I know the ambulance will be here soon. The sound of tires crunching through snow draws my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti’s Tahoe pull up beside my Explorer.
Rising, I start toward him. He gets out of the SUV, looking tall and dark against the smooth gray sky. He wears the long wool coat, no gloves or hat. His espresso-colored eyes meet mine as he crosses to me.
“You look aggravated.”
“Pissed is probably a more accurate description.” I tell him everything I learned from Lambright. “Felony assault at least. Maybe attempted murder. The problem is, he’s not going to be much help.”