The Silent Order Read online

  Lance threw his cigarette on the grass and ground it with his toe. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry.”

  “I’d like a decent dinner for once.” Lance leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. “Onion soup, maybe. A nice whitefish.”

  “I hate fish.”

  “And Crêpe Suzette.”

  Rollin’s stomach growled, but it wasn’t like there was a restaurant open at this hour. Even if there were, it wouldn’t deter him. “So go find yourself some fancy place to eat—tomorrow night.”

  Lance reached up and plucked his jacket off a branch. “I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I think you’re crazy, boss,” he said as he pushed his arms through his jacket.

  “Get in line.”

  “We should have told the captain we were staking out this place tonight.”

  “Malloy doesn’t care a bit about surveillance. He wants proof.”

  It was a lie, but he hadn’t wanted to tell Malloy or anyone else except his partner about what might happen tonight. All it took was one person to overhear, a person with loose lips, and they’d never find out what was going to transpire on this hill above Mayfield Road.

  Right now, he wished he hadn’t even told his partner.

  Lance shoved his hands in his pockets. “We all want proof, but we ain’t gettin’ any tonight.”

  “We’ll wait here all night if we have to.”

  “You’ll wait here.” Lance stepped out from behind the tree, and Rollin wanted to slug him. “I’ve got to get my beauty sleep before spending another ten hours with you.”

  “No amount of sleep is going to make you beautiful.”

  Lance laughed. “I like you, Wells.”

  “I might like you if you’d stick this out.”

  “No can do.” Lance punched his shoulder. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow.”

  The kid was grinning tonight, even as he was tossing in the towel. What kind of person smiled as he admitted defeat? This wasn’t idealism. It was insanity, and he was pushing Rollin over the brink as well.

  Lance took another step. “You comin’?”

  “Nope.”

  “You need your beauty sleep even more than I do.”

  Rollin fingered the pistol in his holster. He’d never been tempted before to use it on a fellow cop. “I’ll take you to get some fish this weekend. Over at Marie’s or the Hotel Cleveland.”

  Lance spun around to face him. “What’d you say?”

  “You stick with me for one more hour, and I’ll buy you a decent meal.”

  Lance crossed his arms. “I don’t want to go to dinner with you.”

  “Feeling’s mutual,” he muttered.

  “But if you pay for a ritzy dinner for a dame and me,” he said, “I’ll take her out on the town in my new machine.”

  “Fine,” Rollin said. He was tired of Lance talking about his new Chevy. Tired of hearing Lance talk, period. “But you have to clamp that trap of yours shut for an entire hour.”

  “A half hour…”

  The churning sound of an engine cut off his words. Lance’s head whirled toward the sound, but his feet didn’t move.

  “Get back,” Rollin hissed.

  Lance sprang toward the tree, ducking behind branches, as an automobile crept up the hill. Rollin watched a black Cadillac as it parked under a willow tree about thirty feet in front of them, beside the tombstone with the angel. The tree dangled limbs over the front window like it was trying to lure its occupants out of the car, but none of the four doors opened.

  Rollin saw the second vehicle before he heard it. A tan coupe, it was moving even slower than the Cadillac as it rounded a bend and parked on the other side of the road, closer to a cliff above the lake.

  Rollin’s fingers brushed over the leather holster again, and he felt his Colt 45 strapped to his hip.

  Two more automobiles worked their way up the hill, but both of them stopped short of the hilltop, parking in the shadows of the mausoleum. Rollin squinted, trying to see the models of the cars, but he couldn’t tell in the darkness.

  Which of the men had brought reinforcements—and why?

  The front doors of the Cadillac snapped open and four shoes hit the dirt and grass with a soft padded sound. The tan coupe’s door creaked open as well, and he watched Antonio Cardano step out into the night air. A twig cracked as Antonio crossed the narrow lane, toward the two men who stood like soldiers beside the towering angel and the grave she guarded.

  In spite of the warm summer night, the three men were dressed in dark overcoats. Even with a pistol at his side, Rollin suddenly felt naked. There was no telling what kind of arsenal each of those men hid under his coat. Probably enough to take down half of Cleveland’s police force.

  The men faced each other, and Rollin held his breath, listening. Lance had one foot behind him like he was preparing to run down the other side of the hill, and Rollin placed his hand on Lance’s shoulder with a quick shake of his head. If Lance ran, the men would pop them off before sunrise.

  His last partner never left him, not for a good night’s sleep or because he was afraid. And no matter how scared he was, Lance wasn’t going to leave him tonight. This job wasn’t made for those who were scared of their shadow or the shadows of men like Club Cardano and his family.

  “You’re a smart man for coming alone, Junior.” Rollin recognized the raspy voice of Leone Puglisi, the boss of the Puglisi family.

  Antonio shrugged, his voice strong. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

  Leone’s laugh sent a chill down Rollin’s stiff spine. “Sergio and I want to talk about a little deal with you and your family.”

  Rollin watched Antonio step back. “We’re not looking for a deal.”

  “It’s not about looking for a deal, my friend.” Leone brushed his hand across the front of his coat, leaning toward Antonio. “It’s about needing one.”

  “We don’t need your assistance.”

  Leone clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “You’ve lost three people in the past month alone. Profits are down.”

  Antonio shrugged again. “It’s only a hiccup.”

  “Hiccups can be fatal.” Leone rolled his thick neck. “All we want to do is offer you a little protection, a brother helping a brother.”

  “Protection?” Antonio’s laugh sounded weak. “At what cost?”

  “The cost would be minimal, and I can guarantee your distribution will increase, along with your profits. We could call it a partnership.”

  “We’re not looking for a partner either,” Antonio said, and Rollin almost smiled. He could relate.

  “Maybe I’m not making myself as clear as I should.” Leone took a step closer. “This is an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “You mess with me, Leone, and you’ll start a war.”

  “Where have you been, Junior?” Leone’s voice chilled. “The war’s been raging for a year.”

  At one time locals called Leone Puglisi the Sugar Baron of Cleveland, but there was nothing noble about him. Rollin had heard rumors for years of plots to kill Leone. Last year, Captain Malloy gathered enough evidence to put the man behind bars, but he wasn’t in prison for long. The Puglisi family figured the Cardanos assisted the cops with the evidence against their leader. The Cardano family figured the Puglisis were trying to take over their share of the sugar business.

  Rollin figured both families were right.

  Leone walked out the prison doors in June, and the tension between the Cardanos and Puglisis was even worse than before he went to the pen.

  Rollin watched a man quietly climb out of one of the vehicles beside the mausoleum, followed by another six or so men. The men left their car doors open as they swarmed the tombstones and trees along the edge of the hill. For an instant, Rollin considered running away, but instead of retreating, he hugged the tree even closer.

  Leone stepped forward. “We need your answer.”
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  Antonio turned and started walking away. “I’ll think about it.”

  Leone’s bodyguard reached out and grabbed Antonio’s arm, stopping the man. Across the hillside, Rollin watched the darkly cloaked men step out from behind the tombstones, their weapons poised.

  “You better think fast,” Leone said.

  Antonio didn’t turn. Shrugging off the hand, he kept walking toward his coupe, but when Antonio opened the door, Leone reached into his coat. Rollin never saw his gun.

  A deafening blast rocked the hill as gunshots splayed across the tombstones. Rollin ducked behind the tree, his mind racing, but his feet didn’t move. He and Lance were no match for a mob of armed Sicilians.

  When Rollin separated the leaves again, he saw the powerful head of the Puglisi family and his bodyguard on the ground.

  “Who’d they get?” Lance whispered.

  Rollin hushed him.

  Seconds later, the men surrounded Antonio, and the group marched like a regimented troop toward the bodies. Antonio kicked Leone, and his body rolled over.

  “Good work, fellas.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, sarcasm weighing his tongue. “Now, let’s get rid of them.”

  In a flutter of arms and legs, the men gathered around the large bodies, struggling to lift them. The retribution from the Puglisi family would be brutal…or at least Rollin thought it would. With Leone dead, the entire organization along Mayfield Road would change. And perhaps change was exactly what Antonio and his gang wanted.

  The regiment dragged the dead men to the side of the hill, and one of the dark coats kneeled down by the men’s feet, tying something around them. The mob heaved both bodies over the edge, and a splash echoed across the hillside.

  The men stepped back.

  Antonio spoke first. “I don’t want to read a word of this in tomorrow’s papers.”

  Heads nodded, gathering around him, but Rollin didn’t hear anyone else reply.

  “We aren’t going to lose our focus,” Antonio said. “And we are not partnering with anyone.”

  “What about Sugar Creek?” one of the men asked. Rollin arched his neck, struggling to hear the man’s response.

  Antonio was quiet for a moment. “Sugar Creek is more of an alignment.”

  “Without the Puglisis?”

  “The Puglisis are irrelevant.”

  Irrelevant? The families of the men feeding the lake’s bottom fish wouldn’t settle for irrelevancy.

  Antonio slid into his coupe, and the eight hatchet men stalked back to their vehicles beside the mausoleum. Their cars bled into the night as they cruised over the hill.

  “Are they gone?” Lance whispered.

  “Not yet.”

  Antonio had climbed into his car, but he didn’t start it. Seconds passed, and when everyone else was gone, Antonio stepped out again, cradling something in his arms. He crossed the street, back toward the tombstone with the angel, and he crossed himself as he rattled off a short prayer in Italian. Then he set something on top of the grave.

  Back in his car, Antonio putted down the hill, but Rollin continued to wait, five minutes and then ten. He tugged his tie close up to his neck. “Let’s go see the damage.”

  They proceeded cautiously around the stones, across the grass. On the other side of the road, the two of them looked over the cliff at the pristine water below, the calm ripples on the lake’s surface reflecting in the starlight.

  His partner lit another cigarette. “At least they rid the world of one more Puglisi.”

  “I wish it had been a Cardano.”

  “Next time.”

  Rollin crossed the street again, toward the spiraling column where the men had met, to see what Antonio had left behind.

  “Give me one of your matches.”

  “I thought you didn’t want a smoke,” Lance said as he held out a match.

  Rollin took the match Lance offered and struck it against the stone. The smell of sulfur mixed with the sweet aroma in the bouquet Antonio had rested against the grave. The blaze in his fingertips flickered, and he held the firelight up to the epitaph on the stone.

  Dear God.

  His fingers shook as he reached, tracing her name in the cold stone, and then his gaze wandered up to the top of the tombstone, to the angel watching over Mayfield. He hoped the angel was taking much better care of the woman buried here than he was of the bribery and fighting down below.

  CHAPTER 2

  Icy water tingled Katie’s toes, and she picked up her pale blue skirt, splashing her son with a swift kick across the surface of the creek. Henry dodged the stream of water, but both of his hands plunged into the creek, and he showered her white kapp and face.

  “Henry Lehman,” she exclaimed as she wiped the water off her cheeks. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to respect your elders?”

  “You’re not an elder, Mamm.” He picked up a stick and twirled it. “But you are old.”

  “Why you…” She reached out and ruffled the curly hair that, in spite of her rigorous combing, refused to lie flat on his head. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute, Henry.”

  He scrunched his lips into a silly face and crossed his eyes. “I’m not cute.”

  “Cute and kindish.”

  He puffed his chest out. “I’m not a kind anymore.”

  The hem of Katie’s skirt grazed the water as she hopped to another rock. Above the pebbles and willow trees, white clouds sprayed the wide sky, and the scents of honeysuckle and sweet hay filled the warm air. August was her favorite month. Work eased a bit as they waited to harvest the corn, and she loved the long sunny days and stolen hours playing with her son.

  No matter how fast Henry was growing, he would always be a child in her heart, and she desired the same things for him as any good mother does for her child—to be safe and secure and content with the life God had given him. One day he would be a man, and she prayed he would be a man who loved his family and respected those around him. A man who feared God and God alone.

  The putter of an engine interrupted her thoughts, and Henry hopped out of the water, watching the path that led down to the creek. A motorist would be hard pressed to get their vehicle up that bumpy trail, but she’d stopped trying to guess what an Englisher—an outsider—would or wouldn’t attempt to do. A tourist might have gotten lost on the main road and tried to take a shortcut back. Or maybe it was a car full of teenagers looking for fun.

  The whirring sound grew louder, jarring the stillness, and Katie stepped up onto a rock that jutted from the water. The stone’s warmth felt good on her wet feet, but her pulse raced at the growing noise.

  Henry looked back at her, his blue eyes wide. “What is it, Mamm?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The cattails along the waterside began to dance as a breeze gusted up the creek, and the cascading leaves on the willows joined their dance. Something flashed in the sky, and Katie’s eyes narrowed when she saw the airplane over the trees, not forty feet above them. Metal glistened in the sunlight, and the plane’s bright green skin looked like papier-mâché pasted around its body. The pilot dipped one of the yellow wings, and she shivered as a dark shadow crossed over her and Henry.

  Then the plane disappeared.

  His mouth agape, Henry turned toward her. His lips quivered, but no words came out of them.

  Both her fists flew to the safety of her hips. “That was an airplane, Henry.”

  “An airplane.” He said the word slowly. Reverently. “How—how does it stay up?”

  “It has an engine, like an automobile.”

  Henry blinked. “Automobiles don’t fly, Mamm.”

  “Some can almost fly.”

  His eyes searched the sky again for the plane, but the sound had tapered off into a faint buzz like that of a pesky fly. She’d seen that look before on his face when they were in Sugarcreek and a luxury Peerless or Packard drove into the village. He and the other boys stopped their games and practically drooled with admiration. The older m
en watched the automobiles as well, but most of them kept their admiration in check.

  With God’s mercy and wisdom, Henry would be different from other men. She would gently guide him until he saw how dangerous the machines—and the outside world—were.

  Hopping off the rock, she crossed the creek and placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. “People get hurt in airplanes, Henry.”

  He slowly turned away from the sky to meet her gaze. “Sometimes people get hurt in buggies too.”

  She sighed, pulling him into a tight hug. Then she released him to look in his clear eyes. “Are you certain you’re only eight?”

  He stepped back, crossing his arms over the bibs of his overalls. “Mamm…”

  “Because you are way too smart for eight.”

  His chest puffed out a couple inches, and he pounded it. “I’m almost nine.”

  “I’m sorry, Henry.” She shook her head solemnly, glad he wasn’t asking any more questions about the flying machine. “I’m afraid I will have to forbid you from turning nine.”

  “You can’t forbid me.”

  “Oh yes, I’m quite certain that I can.”

  He laughed. “You are the one being kindish, Mamm.”

  With a grin, she stuck out her tongue at him. “No, I’m not.”

  His eyes on her, Henry reached down into the creek and swooped his hands through the water, soaking her arms and her apron. Then he turned and ran down the stream.

  “Come back here,” she yelled, hopping from stone to stone as she chased after him.

  Her heart swelled. More than anything in the world, she was grateful for her son.

  “Katie?”

  When she heard her name, she turned and slid across the stones. Her arms flailed on both sides of her, searching for a tree limb, a hand, anything to hold onto, but there was nothing there. The world seemed to sink under her as she fell back into the water.

  The creek water soaked her skirt and cooled her skin, but her face burned. In the blur around her, she saw Henry turn back to her, yelling to see if she was hurt. As she shook her head, she felt a man’s strong hand on her shoulder, the man who had called out her name. Jonas Miller.