Page 55 of A Gathering of Secrets

Easing the bike to the right, she pedaled faster, keeping the tire on the white line, giving him plenty of room. He didn’t pass this time. He hovered, moving ever closer. Fifteen yards. Ten. The truck he drove was a big thing with a noisy engine that stank of exhaust. It was too close. A couple of yards behind her. Then it was crowding her.

Slowing, she ticked the handlebars right. Her front tire slipped easily off the asphalt and onto the gravel shoulder.

“Go away,” she whispered beneath her breath.

The engine groaned. She glanced left, saw the hood. The grille swerved. The fender hit her knee. The impact knocked the bike sideways. The handlebars jackknifed and were yanked from her hands. The bike careened into the ditch. Then she was falling. A yelp tore from her throat when she slammed into the ground.

Neva lay facedown, gasping, the breath knocked out of her. Dirt in her mouth. Tufts of grass scraping her cheek. She tasted blood on her lip, and spit dirt. She rolled, got to her hands and knees, looked toward the road to see him jog down the incline. Eyes on her, intent and filled with rage.

“Leave me alone!” She was scrambling to her feet when viselike hands clamped over her shoulders.

“Shut up,” he snarled.

She was dizzy with fear as he dragged her up the incline toward his truck. She stumbled, tried to twist away, but he was too strong. At first she thought he was going to put her in the vehicle. Take her somewhere and kill her. But when they reached the pickup, he spun her around and shoved her against it hard enough to dent steel.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, you fucking little whore!” Lips peeled back, teeth clenched, he grabbed her arms, fingers digging into her flesh. He shook her violently, and slammed her against the vehicle again.

“I didn’t say anything,” she choked.

“You talked to the fucking cops!”

“I didn’t … I didn’t…” She ran out of breath, couldn’t find the words, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His face was so close she could feel the spit flying out of his mouth as he spoke. The wet stickiness of his sweat where his skin touched hers.

“I didn’t do any—”

His hand snaked up. Viselike fingers found her throat, dug in, squeezed hard enough to cut off the blood to her head. “Shut up and listen.”

She grabbed his wrists, tried to get him to loosen his grip, but his hands were like steel. Her vision went dim. Her knees buckled, but he held her up by her throat, shoving her against the truck.

Grinding his teeth, he loosened his grip slightly, yanked a folding knife from his pocket, snapped it open, and set it against her cheek. “If you open your mouth again, I will hunt you down and I will cut your throat. I’ll cut off your fucking head and bleed you like a pig. I’ll kill your friends. And I’ll kill your fucking parents. Do you understand me?”

She stared at him, frozen in terror, certain he was about to slit her throat, and no one would ever know the truth …

“Do you understand?” he roared.

She jerked her head.

Lifting her off her feet, he swung her around, and shoved her into the ditch. Neva reeled backward, arms flailing, and she landed hard on her back. She rolled, struggled to get her knees under her, raised her head.

He pointed the knife at her. “Don’t make me come back.”

Giving her a final, scathing look, he put the knife away, turned, got into the truck, and left her in a shower of gravel and dust and the bitter taste of her own fear.

CHAPTER 13

The graabhof is located on the township road west of Painters Mill. It’s nearly ten A.M. and, as I make the turn, I spot a convoy of black buggies headed toward the cemetery. Daniel Gingerich was well thought of among his brethren and they’ve shown up in force to pay their final respects. In the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder: How many of them know who he really was?

The actual funeral was held earlier at the Gingerich home. I drove past on my way to the station and, judging from the number of buggies in the driveway, I’m betting there were a hundred people in attendance.

I contemplated stopping in, but decided not to. Because the service was in an Amish home, I wouldn’t have been welcomed. Though they would have been too polite to ask me to leave, it would have been awkward. The family has been through enough.

Following that service, friends of the Gingeriches, other family members, and the hearse—which is a single-horse spring wagon—traveled to the graabhof where Daniel will be laid to rest. This is the rite I can attend without intruding.

At the intersection, I pull onto the gravel shoulder, shut down the engine, and get out. I’ve been to many Amish funerals over the years, not only as a family member or friend, but as a cop with concerns about traffic. Sometimes there are upward of fifty buggies and, invariably, some driver who’s in a hurry.

I raise my hand in greeting as another buggy passes, and then I go to the rear of the Explorer, dig into my box of traffic flares. It’s not a busy highway by any means, but there’s enough traffic to warrant reminding drivers to slow down.