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Authors: P. L. Gaus
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so much younger. With a determined struggle for bravery written in her expression, she declared, “I can’t pray anymore, Pastor Troyer. And I can’t cry.”
Cal took a step toward her, but she backed away. Bunching fists at her side, she said, “If Ruth is really dead, she will never be able to tell me why she was crying last night. So, if God is watching, you just tell him that I can’t cry anymore. And tell him that he doesn’t have to bother with any more of my prayers.”
10
Monday, April 4
6:30 P.M .
WHEN PAT Lance knocked at the screen door on the Zooks’ front porch, she was dressed in a navy blue pantsuit with a plain white blouse buttoned demurely at the top. Her detective’s shield was clipped to the lapel of her suit jacket, and she held her electronic tablet at her side, intending to type notes as she spoke with the men. A teenaged boy came to the door, looked blankly out at her, and turned back into the house. Wondering why he hadn’t spoken, Lance nosed up to the screen and watched him walk down the long hallway to the kitchen. Lining both sides of the hall, she saw Amish folk seated with their heads bowed in prayer. None of them seemed to notice her.
Eventually, an older woman in a dark blue dress and white day apron walked forward from the kitchen at the back, drying her hands on a plain white linen towel. She came out through the screen door, and Lance stepped back to allow her to pass.
“I am Mrs. Zook,” the woman said, glancing at Lance’s badge. “Ruth was my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Lance said earnestly.
Mrs. Zook didn’t reply.
“May I use your first name?” Lance asked. She sat in a rockerand laid her tablet across her knees, fingers poised to type as she looked up to Mrs. Zook for an answer.
“Mrs. Andy Zook,” the woman said.
“But your first name?”
Hesitating, Mrs. Zook held to a formal posture and replied, “Irma.”
Lance typed her name. “I was hoping to speak with Alvin Zook, and to your husband.”
“My husband is praying,” Irma said with wooden weariness. “Alvin is in the kitchen.”
“Can you ask them to come out?”
Irma hesitated. “I can speak with you myself, Deputy.”
Eyes fixed on her tablet, Lance asked, “Did you speak with Ruth after she came home?”
As if deflating, Irma lowered herself into a rocker beside Lance. “I did not, Deputy,” she confessed. “Her grandfather Alvin brought her home from the bus at Sugarcreek, and she went right up to her room. Alvin said she was tired, but I still should have gone up to her.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Irma,” Lance said. “If I can help…”
Irma shook her head and stared at her hands in her lap. Knotting her fingers into her kitchen towel, she whispered, “I should have gone up to her.”
Lance lifted her fingers from her tablet and reached a gentle hand over to Irma’s wrist. “Irma, I will do everything I can to find out who killed her.”
Mrs. Zook looked to Lance and back to her hands. “What good will that do, Deputy?”
“It’ll be justice,” Lance said.
“Justice, in place of a life?” Irma asked. “How is that a fair trade?”
“It’s all I can offer.”
“I know. We understand the finality of death as well as any people do.”
Lance let a quiet moment pass. Irma gazed out across the frontlawn and seemed to watch traffic on 557 without seeing any of it. Gently, Lance asked, “Irma, may I speak with your husband?”
“I can only ask,” Irma said. “He is praying.”
“Really, Mrs. Zook, I need to speak with Alvin, too. Both of them.”
When Irma Zook went back into the house, Lance typed a few notes on her tablet. After ten minutes alone on the porch, she stood and nosed back up to the screen. At the end of the long hallway, she saw short Alvin Zook standing beside a middle-aged Amish man seated on the last chair on the right. Lance knocked softly on the door, and Alvin looked up. The man he had been speaking with
Cal took a step toward her, but she backed away. Bunching fists at her side, she said, “If Ruth is really dead, she will never be able to tell me why she was crying last night. So, if God is watching, you just tell him that I can’t cry anymore. And tell him that he doesn’t have to bother with any more of my prayers.”
10
Monday, April 4
6:30 P.M .
WHEN PAT Lance knocked at the screen door on the Zooks’ front porch, she was dressed in a navy blue pantsuit with a plain white blouse buttoned demurely at the top. Her detective’s shield was clipped to the lapel of her suit jacket, and she held her electronic tablet at her side, intending to type notes as she spoke with the men. A teenaged boy came to the door, looked blankly out at her, and turned back into the house. Wondering why he hadn’t spoken, Lance nosed up to the screen and watched him walk down the long hallway to the kitchen. Lining both sides of the hall, she saw Amish folk seated with their heads bowed in prayer. None of them seemed to notice her.
Eventually, an older woman in a dark blue dress and white day apron walked forward from the kitchen at the back, drying her hands on a plain white linen towel. She came out through the screen door, and Lance stepped back to allow her to pass.
“I am Mrs. Zook,” the woman said, glancing at Lance’s badge. “Ruth was my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Lance said earnestly.
Mrs. Zook didn’t reply.
“May I use your first name?” Lance asked. She sat in a rockerand laid her tablet across her knees, fingers poised to type as she looked up to Mrs. Zook for an answer.
“Mrs. Andy Zook,” the woman said.
“But your first name?”
Hesitating, Mrs. Zook held to a formal posture and replied, “Irma.”
Lance typed her name. “I was hoping to speak with Alvin Zook, and to your husband.”
“My husband is praying,” Irma said with wooden weariness. “Alvin is in the kitchen.”
“Can you ask them to come out?”
Irma hesitated. “I can speak with you myself, Deputy.”
Eyes fixed on her tablet, Lance asked, “Did you speak with Ruth after she came home?”
As if deflating, Irma lowered herself into a rocker beside Lance. “I did not, Deputy,” she confessed. “Her grandfather Alvin brought her home from the bus at Sugarcreek, and she went right up to her room. Alvin said she was tired, but I still should have gone up to her.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Irma,” Lance said. “If I can help…”
Irma shook her head and stared at her hands in her lap. Knotting her fingers into her kitchen towel, she whispered, “I should have gone up to her.”
Lance lifted her fingers from her tablet and reached a gentle hand over to Irma’s wrist. “Irma, I will do everything I can to find out who killed her.”
Mrs. Zook looked to Lance and back to her hands. “What good will that do, Deputy?”
“It’ll be justice,” Lance said.
“Justice, in place of a life?” Irma asked. “How is that a fair trade?”
“It’s all I can offer.”
“I know. We understand the finality of death as well as any people do.”
Lance let a quiet moment pass. Irma gazed out across the frontlawn and seemed to watch traffic on 557 without seeing any of it. Gently, Lance asked, “Irma, may I speak with your husband?”
“I can only ask,” Irma said. “He is praying.”
“Really, Mrs. Zook, I need to speak with Alvin, too. Both of them.”
When Irma Zook went back into the house, Lance typed a few notes on her tablet. After ten minutes alone on the porch, she stood and nosed back up to the screen. At the end of the long hallway, she saw short Alvin Zook standing beside a middle-aged Amish man seated on the last chair on the right. Lance knocked softly on the door, and Alvin looked up. The man he had been speaking with
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