Savages. I mean, it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.”
“I need names,” I tell her.
“No one knows who they are.”
“What kind of group are we talking about?”
“They’re haters. Bullies. A lot of what they do is online. Anonymous, you know.”
“Who do they bully?”
“Anyone they don’t like. Take your pick.” She gives a sour laugh. “They’re equal-opportunity haters, Chief Burkholder. It doesn’t matter who they are. Anyone who rubs them the wrong way or crosses them or pisses them off. They’re vicious and secretive.”
“Have you ever been threatened?”
“Not until now.” She can’t quite hide the shiver that runs through her. She raises knowing eyes to mine. “Do you think they’re involved in what happened to Noah?”
“Maybe. Or what happened to you.”
She looks at her hands again, saying nothing.
Something there, I think. Something she doesn’t want to talk about.
“Do you know Christine McDowell?” I ask.
“I know of her.” She makes a face. “She graduated last year. She’s kind of sketchy.”
“Does she have anything to do with the Savages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone else I might talk to?”
“I just don’t know.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“All right.” I motion toward the phone on my desk. “Call your parents. I’ll load up your bike and drive you home.”
* * *
I try to get Ashley to open up and talk to me during the drive to her house, but she doesn’t bite. I suspect she knows more than she’s telling me—about the Savages or maybe even the attack in the park—but every time I broach the subject, she shuts down. Why would a young woman who claims to be in love with the victim of a crime refuse to tell the police what she knows?
I’m in my office at the police station, thinking about the case. I’m missing something, but it’s on the edge of my brain. My conversation with Ashley Hodges keeps running through my mind.
. . . it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.
I pull the two notes that were sent to her from my desk drawer and set them on my desk.
WE DON’T APPROVE.
YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.
Ashley told me she threw away the first note, but it said something like:
WE GOT EYES ON HIM.
Were they threatening Noah Kline because he’s Amish? Because he’s Amish and dating a popular non-Amish girl? Something else?
Opening my desk drawer, I pull out a photo of the knife and set it beside the notes. I look at the engraving.
SAVAGE.
Not a name, Ashley had told me, but a group of people. A gang. A clique. The Savages. When I asked her for more, she’d clammed up.
“What don’t you want me to know?” I say aloud.
I open the folder containing my notes. Starting at the beginning, I read. I’m midway through my initial interview with Ashley when I remember where I heard the word “cringey.” It was when I spoke to her father, Craig Hodges, and her brother Jason, after they walked me to the front porch. Jason said something to the effect that people at school thought his sister’s relationship with an Amish boy was “cringey.”
“Her older brother,” I whisper as I flip to the next page.
Jason had all but pointed the finger at Doug Mason. I think about Ashley’s clamming-up and I realize if her older brother is involved in something iniquitous, she would likely try to protect him.
Is it possible Jason Hodges, the son of a prominent and well-respected attorney, is a member of some shadowy high school clique?
Only one way to find out. Grabbing my keys, I head for the door.
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m standing outside the ornate doors of the Hodges’ home. I’ve knocked twice, but no one has answered. A glance at my cell tells me it’s not yet 5:00 P.M. More than likely, both parents are still at work. I consider calling them, but realize this is a conversation I need to have in person. The same holds true for Jason. All the better if he doesn’t know I’m coming. I resolve to try them again in a couple of hours.
I’m nearly to the station when a call comes in from my dispatcher. “Chief, I’ve got a ten fifty PI,” she says, which is the code for traffic accident with a personal injury. “County Road