LITMIR.BIZ

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you do, I’ll buggy you there and back, or if I’m working away, get someone else to. You shouldn’t be out alone.”

      “As soon as Naomi’s married, she’s giving me my old horse and buggy back. By then, maybe all this will be over. By the way, the Plain and Fancy is where Sheriff Freeman’s ex-wife is staying.”

      “Sheriff Freeman’s ex-wife is back in town? But the thing is, I’ve been trying to decide whether to get the sheriff or our mutual friend Linc in on this feather clue or not. I don’t want to falsely accuse Arrowroot or get him stirred up again over Indian rights to our land. But this feather says he needs a closer look.”

      “That’s pretty flimsy evidence. Maybe we could talk to him about something else, just psych him out.”

      “I like the sound of that ‘we,’ if it doesn’t include Agent Armstrong. But no, I don’t want you around Arrowroot. Listen. There’s more. That day in Harlan Kenton’s butcher shop, before their argument, I heard Arrowroot say the large mound—mound, not hill—with the Amish graveyard on it had once been holy land his people used for sacrifices.”

      “Human sacrifices? Did they bury people there, too?”

      “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

      6

      THE NEXT MORNING, SETH DROPPED MARLENA off at the Eshes and told Mrs. Esh he’d be back to continue reroofing in about an hour, but he didn’t tell her why. He’d decided to talk to John Arrowroot without tipping him off by questioning or accusing him about the feather, let alone about shooting people in the cemetery.

      After Seth had questioned his daad last night about what he knew of Arrowroot’s Erie Indian tribe, he’d come up with a few facts that might point to him as a suspect. Which tribe Arrowroot claimed was a bit confusing as the Erie had supposedly been wiped out years ago by their enemy, the Iroquois. But many of the Seneca tribe were descended from Erie blood, as Arrowroot claimed to be.

      The Erie had been farmers and hunters who once flourished in this area, living in small groups. That, Seth thought, sounded like his own people. But the tribe were fierce warriors, known for their skill with poisoned arrows.

      So, Seth told himself, Arrowroot deserved watching, not only because he wanted Amish land returned to Seneca-Erie tribal members, but because he could have been the cemetery shooter, especially if that hill had once been sacred to his tribe. Maybe he’d been there for some special, secret ceremony and thought Amish or goth intruders were defiling it. If Seth picked up any proof, he’d tell the sheriff or Linc Armstrong. Right now, he didn’t need the FBI Goliath jumping in with both feet and stirring up this man against the Amish again. If Seth could prove Kevin Pryor’s killer was John Arrowroot, that would get him out of the way for good.

      Seth buggied down the main street of Homestead, getting caught at the single traffic light. He’d seen the Dutch Farm Table Restaurant was busy already. Though he’d fixed oatmeal for Marlena and himself this morning, his stomach rumbled. No way he wanted her hooked on those sugary, boxed cereals just because they were easy to serve.

      He turned down Fish Creek Road, passing the Rod ‘n’ Gun shop, which was attached to its owner’s one-floor house. The shop was run by Elaine Carson, a former U.S. army officer who bled, as she put it, “red, white and blue.” A big American flag flapped in front of her store with a shooting range out back. Linc had told Seth he’d asked to obtain her list of customers who’d purchased high-velocity rifles in the past two years, but since both Amish and English around here hunted in droves, he’d given up on that tactic.

      Seth shook his head as he passed by. His people were grateful for the country that was their home, but too much patriotism spelled idolatry to them. Elaine Carson was way over the line on that, even though Amish kids loved the fireworks she shot off every Fourth of July. Elaine, he’d heard, thought the Amish, who didn’t vote or serve in the armed forces, were ungrateful to the U.S. of A., though she sure tolerated their business.

      Seth turned Blaze onto Valley View Road several miles southeast of town and went up and down two hills until he reached the narrow, unpaved road that led to Arrowroot’s property, hidden in trees on a hill. That day he and his father had found themselves hunting near the man’s house, they’d gone up to the door and asked for permission to be on his property. It was a friendly, common question, since hunters often traveled from farm to farm with, “Mind if we hunt here a bit?” The answer was always “Sure, don’t mind a bit.”

      “Yes, actually, I do mind,” Arrowroot had told them, standing in his front door and glaring through thick glasses that magnified his dark eyes. “You Amish have my people’s land. Isn’t that enough for you?”

      “Sorry to bother you,” Daad had said, immediately backing off. “And sorry you’re bothered by our owning land in these parts.”

      “These parts should be returned to their rightful owners. The U.S. government had no right to sell it to settlers, but there will be a day of reckoning.”

      “I’m sure there will,” Daad had replied calmly. It was another of the countless lessons Seth had seen of his people’s pacifism, their turn-the-other-cheek philosophy in action. But he figured even then that the day of reckoning his father agreed on was Judgment Day for everyone, not the return of land to a historic tribe of Native Americans. Still, the Amish felt for any group that was persecuted by a government.

      “Whoa, Blaze,” Seth said, and reined in. At least he’d recalled one other important thing about John Arrowroot that he was planning to use right now. The roof of his single-story, sprawling house needed new shingles. Seth needed the work—and, as Hannah put it, to psych out this man.

      Seth wrapped the reins around a low tree limb and climbed down from the buggy. He saw someone glance out at him from behind a dark curtain in the front window, the one with the large, painted feather that looked identical to the one stuck in Hannah’s window. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake to try to look into this on his own. But he wanted to help Linc Armstrong solve the shootings schnell—that is, fast—so he’d get out of here and leave the Amish—and Hannah—alone.

      Ray-Lynn was relieved that Jack came in for breakfast with the FBI guy because then she didn’t have to spend time with the sheriff. Until he came to her to explain what was really going on between him and his ex-wife, she didn’t trust herself not to just bawl like a baby. Still, his eyes sought her as she bustled about the restaurant doing her best to keep busy away from the men’s booth. But when she could, with a swift, sideways glance, she watched him, too. At least Lily Freeman had not shown her face here.

      Elaine Carson, who owned the Rod ‘n’ Gun store, came in, wearing her usual black jeans and leather jacket. The woman rode a motorcycle at times—noisy, darn thing—but Ray-Lynn could see her bright red pickup with the American eagle and stars-and-stripes flag decals parked out in front. Unlike most women, she sat at the counter.

      “Hi, Ray-Lynn,” Elaine called out. “Got some pancakes and sausage on the griddle for a hardworking woman?”

      “I recognize one when I see one. Right away.”

      “Any more news about the shootings? Kinda miss that newspaper, despite who ran it. Oh, I see the powers-that-be over there, so I’ll ask them.”

      Taking her freshly poured coffee with her, Elaine strode over to Jack’s booth. She was tall and angular with straight, short brown hair and no makeup. Ray-Lynn took the opportunity to seat an English couple in the next booth, but she didn’t have to strain to hear since Elaine seemed to have one level of volume, and that was loud. Ray-Lynn wondered if she was hard of hearing from her army days or working the shooting range, or if she’d never gotten over the decibel level for giving orders.

      “Gentlemen—officers of the law,” she addressed the two men. “Sorry my customer list was a mile long, but you gotta understand the culture around here. I’m sure the sheriff has told you, Agent Armstrong. I mean, everyone hunts, Amish and English alike, right, Sheriff? Even

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