A Sister's Hope (42 page)

“Give me a few minutes to think about this some more.”

Martha woke up in a cold sweat. She’d been dreaming that someone had broken into the barn, taken the wrench and glove she’d hidden in the hayloft, and had set the barn on fire. What if it was true? What if—

She threw the covers aside, jumped out of bed, and raced to the window. From the second floor guest room at Grace’s house, she could only see the top of Dad’s barn. No smoke or flames shot out from it.

Martha leaned against the window ledge. That dream had been so real. She drew in a deep breath and tried to relax. What she needed most was some assurance that she was doing the right thing in trying to solve the mystery of the attacks.

Last night, before Martha had gone to bed, Grace had told her that the sheriff had stopped by that day and said he thought he might know who was responsible for the attacks and that he’d let them know more when he could.

Martha shuddered as a new realization hit her. If the sheriff thought he was getting close to catching the one responsible, then he couldn’t be the culprit.

She turned on the battery-operated lamp by her bed and picked up the Bible lying on the nightstand. How long had it been since she’d read God’s Word and sought guidance from Him?

She opened the Bible to Proverbs, one of her favorite books. Her gaze went to the third chapter, verses 5 and 6. She read the passage out loud. “ ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ ”

“I haven’t been doing that, Lord,” she murmured. “I’ve been trying
to take matters into my own hands and haven’t trusted You to direct my paths. Maybe what I need to do is go out to the barn, get the evidence I have hidden in the hayloft, and take it to the sheriff in the morning.”

Martha removed her nightgown, put on a dress, slipped into her sneakers, and tied a black scarf over her head. If Luke was in the barn, as he said he would be, she wanted to explain to him her decision to turn over the evidence to the sheriff.

With that settled in her mind, she grabbed the flashlight from her nightstand and tiptoed out of the room so she wouldn’t wake Cleon, Grace, or the children.

Downstairs, she slipped quietly out the back door and hurried into the night air.

She found the barn unlocked and figured Luke must be inside, but when she stepped through the doorway, a sudden chill shot up her spine. She thought about that morning several months ago when she’d been doused with white paint because someone had rigged a bucket of paint above the door. Instinctively, she looked up. There was nothing.

I’m just being paranoid,
she told herself.
Everything’s fine. ‘Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord,’
she quoted from Psalm 31:24. It was a verse she’d learned as a child.

“Luke, are you awake?” she called, shining her flashlight toward the hayloft.

Woof! Woof!

“Quiet, Heidi; it’s only me.” Martha recognized her female sheltie’s bark and figured she must have taken the dog by surprise when she’d entered the barn.

Holding the flashlight in front of her, she moved toward the back of the barn where the kennels were located. Heidi wagged her tail when she saw Martha, and Martha was glad to see that everything was okay. She just needed to talk to Luke and get the evidence she’d hidden under the mound of hay in the loft.

She reached through the wire fence and patted the top of the dog’s head. “Go back to sleep, girl. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Martha made her way to the ladder leading to the hayloft and climbed up. “Luke, are you up here?”

No response.

She shinned the light around but saw no sign of him.
I wonder where he could be? Maybe he’s in one of the empty stalls.

She dug through the mound of hay, opened the box, and picked up the wrench and glove.

Thump! Thump!

“Luke, is that you?”

No response.

There was a muffled grunt, and then an arm reached out and grabbed her around the waist.

“Luke, I—”

Slap!

Martha gasped as a hand connected to her face. She dropped the glove, but her fingers tightened around the wrench.

“You’re gonna pay for every year I suffered. You and your family are gonna pay!”

Martha swallowed against the bitter taste of bile rising in her throat. Even without seeing the man’s face, she knew who it was.

R
osemary punched her pillow and tried to find a comfortable position. She’d been tossing and turning in bed for nearly two hours. She couldn’t seem to relax, couldn’t keep the negative thoughts out of her head. What if Judith never got better? What if the attacks continued and they never found out who was doing them? What if Roman had put himself in danger by hiding out at his house?

The words of Romans 12:12 popped into her head:
“Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer.”

Rosemary slipped from her bed and went down on her knees. “Heavenly Father, the attacks against my brother and his family have affected each one in a different way. I pray that You will give everyone a sense of peace and the faith to put their hope in You. Help them learn patience in waiting for answers and remind us all that our strength comes from You. Amen.”

As Rosemary got to her feet, she made a decision. She would get dressed and drive over to Roman’s house. Since she couldn’t sleep anyhow, the least she could do was keep him company during his nighttime vigil.

“Did ya hear what I said? You’re gonna pay—each and every one of you has gotta pay!”

“What are you talking about?” Martha pointed the flashlight at John. “Why are you dressed in Amish clothes?”

He yanked on her arm, pulling her over to a bale of hay, and shoved her down. She smelled alcohol on his breath, and his clothes reeked of smoke. How odd. She’d never known him to drink or smoke. But then, she didn’t really know him that well. None of them did. John had moved to the area a few years ago and opened a woodworking shop nearby. He’d been helpful and kind—like any good neighbor should—but they didn’t really know him.

John sank down beside Martha and clutched at his head. “He. . . he made me do it.”

“Who made you do what, John?” Martha hoped her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

“It. . .it’s Roman’s fault—Harold said so.”

“Who’s Harold?”

John groaned. “Said it was ’cause I liked wood. Said I reminded him of Roman.”

Martha had no idea what John was talking about or why he was dressed in Amish clothes, but she knew by the tone of John’s voice that he was deeply troubled.

“Say, where’d you get that?” John pointed to the object Martha held in her hand.

She glanced at the wrench and wondered if she dared—

“I said, where’d you get that?” He leaned closer and snatched the wrench out of her hand.

“I. . .uh. . .Luke found it in the field after my dad’s shop was blown up.”
Luke. Oh, Luke, where are you?
Martha shined the flashlight around the hayloft. She couldn’t see a mattress. If Luke was here, there should be a mattress. But if Luke wasn’t here, why had she found the barn door unlocked? The padlock wasn’t broken. Could John have crawled up a ladder and entered the barn through the small window in the hayloft like Luke had last night? Or could he. . .

“Gimme that!” John snatched the flashlight out of Martha’s hands, clicked it off, and tossed it on the floor. “What was Luke doin’ in the field with Harold’s wrench?”

“Who is Harold?”

“Harold Crawford—my stepdad.” John sounded more coherent.

Maybe the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off.

“Did the wrench belong to your stepdad?”

“Harold’s dead. Mom gave me his tools. Guess she figured I needed somethin’ to remember him by.” John’s tone was bitter, and a groan escaped his lips. “I’ve got a lot more’n a few tools to remember Harold by.”

A shaft of light from the moon shone in through the hayloft window, and Martha’s mouth went dry as she saw John run his fingers over the bridge of his crooked nose. A nose that had obviously been broken at some point.

She looked at the wrench in his hands and thought about the initials she’d seen engraved there.
H. C. Those must stand for Harold Crawford.

Martha didn’t understand why John had brought up his stepdad, or how the man’s wrench had ended up in their field. She was about to ask, when John leaned forward and began to sob. “No! No! Don’t hit me no more, Harold. Ple–ease it’s not my fault. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

Martha wasn’t sure what to do. John was clearly upset, but he’d also been drinking. Should she try to run away from him or stay here and try to offer comfort?

She reached out and touched John’s shoulder. “Did your stepdad abuse you, John?”

John’s head jerked up, and he leaned so close to Martha that she could feel and smell his hot, putrid breath on her face. “Harold—worked for Roman—’til he got fired.” His words were short and choppy, and he spoke to Martha as if she were a stranger.

“Who got fired?” Martha asked.

“Harold.”

“My dad fired your stepdad?”

“Roman fired Harold.”

“How come?”

John rubbed his forehead with one hand and clung to the wrench with the other hand. “Harold came to work late—after he’d been drinkin’.” He paused, drew in a quick breath, and released it with a
shudder. “Got fired—went out drinkin’ some more—came home—beat the stuffing outta me and Mom.”

Martha gasped as a light began to dawn, but John spoke again before she could comment. “Harold begged Roman—‘Gimme my job back’—Roman said no—Harold drank even more.”

“Did Harold try to find another job?”

“Said he couldn’t find one. Moved us to Oregon ’cause that’s where his brother lived. Said he might have a job for Harold.” John clutched Martha’s arm, and his nails dug into her flesh. “Harold hated Roman for firin’ him. I hate Roman, too! It’s
his
fault Harold drank. It’s
his
fault Harold beat me and Mom when he got drunk.” John touched the side of his nose again. “I never shed a tear at his funeral, neither.”

“I’m sorry you and your mother were mistreated, but—”

“Roman’s gotta pay! It’s Roman’s fault Harold couldn’t find a job. It’s Roman’s fault Harold hated me! Roman’s gotta pay for every year we suffered!”

Martha’s heart pounded so hard she heard it echo in her head. “Are. . .are you the one who’s done all those horrible things to us?” she asked, already knowing the answer but not wanting to believe it. Ever since John had moved to Holmes County and opened his own woodworking business, he’d been nice to them, loaning Dad tools, buying Martha’s dog, and offering his assistance in any way it was needed. It was unthinkable that he could have done such hateful things. It was as if he were two different people—one kind and helpful, the other hateful and full of revenge. John Peterson was a sick man who obviously needed help.

“I did most of those things.” John emitted a high-pitched laugh. “Made it look like it was Luke.”

It was all coming together. John had befriended Luke and then tried to make it look like Luke had been the culprit so no one would suspect it was John.