Page 31 of Rage

“I’d like to talk to you about your son Aaron.” I extend my hand to her and we exchange a quick shake. “Is he here?”

“Of course he’s not here.” She cocks her head. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Do you know where he is?” I ask. “Where I might find him?”

“Home, I reckon.” I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she knows I’ve already checked.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Been two or three weeks, I guess.”

“Seems like a long time,” I say. “Is that unusual?”

“Well, a little, I guess. But he works a lot, you know. Keeps busy.”

The sound of footfalls on the steps draws my attention. I look past her and see her husband coming down the stairs, fully dressed, lantern in hand, his eyes on me. “Was der schinner is letz?” he snaps. What in the world is wrong?

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Shetler,” I say.

Looking from me to his wife, he strides toward us. “Is there a problem?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your son,” I say. “Can I come in?”

The couple exchange a look. In the instant their eyes connect, I get the impression that they’re not completely surprised and that this moment is something they’ve expected—and dreaded—for some time.

“Ich zayl macha kaffi,” Ellen says, and starts toward the kitchen. I’ll make coffee.

A few minutes later we’re seated at the kitchen table. A propane floor lamp hisses from its place in the corner and throws off a generous amount of light. The window is open, but the house is stuffy and warm and I can smell the ammonia stench of the chicken operation outside.

“Is Aaron in trouble?” Doyle asks.

“No, but I’m concerned. No one has been able to locate him.”

Tightening his mouth, he looks down at the coffee in front of him and shakes his head. “Like she just told you, we ain’t seen him for a time.”

“Two weeks ago?” I ask.

He looks at his wife, then back to me.

“Three weeks,” Ellen amends.

They fall silent, neither of them making eye contact with me. Something not quite right, a little voice whispers in my ear, so I keep going.

“He hasn’t been at work for two days,” I say. “He didn’t call in.”

The couple share another look. They didn’t know, I realize, and for the first time since I arrived, they look alarmed.

“Are you sure?” Ellen asks.

“Aaron’s never missed a day of work,” Doyle says.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shetler, Samuel Yutzy was found dead this morning,” I tell them. “I don’t have the official ruling yet from the coroner, but I believe he was murdered.”

“We heard.” Doyle looks down at the tabletop. “Mein Gott.”

“Most awful thing anyone can imagine.” Ellen shakes her head. “Poor Leona.”

“I’m told Aaron and Samuel were close,” I say.