Darker Than Desire (33 page)

“You
don't.” David shook his head, staring off into nothing as he recalled the way Abraham had spoken to him, late into the night.
You must understand, son, what they did to you wasn't your fault. You must …

The words had run together after a while.

But Abraham had all but drilled those words into David's head.

“You may not understand,” he said, his voice gruff. “But Abraham did. He knew more about the evil, the shit that can go wrong inside a man's head. How messed up a person can get and how cruel and evil they can be.”

For a long moment Thom was quiet, and then he nodded. “You're right. We don't understand, although I think, because of Abraham, we understand better than others. Jacob was unwell. Many people suffered because of it, but they all turned their backs, turned a blind eye. Sarah suffered for it—that is why Abraham left.”

Why Abraham left—

Pieces clicked together.

Abraham Yoder and twelve other families had broken off from the larger community that made up most of the Amish population in this small county. That had been years ago, before David had come here. They'd formed their own district. A new bishop was chosen. A few new families drifted in, from either the other district or other states, and they had grown. David had never known what exactly caused the rift.

Until now. “That was all about
Sarah
?”

“No.” Thom shook his head. “It was about her father. About Abraham's father. About things they had done … and how the other families just turned a blind eye. Abraham saw it—his uncle, his father's brother, had struck her so hard, she fell down, broke an arm. Abraham intervened, but they would have allowed her to go back home to him. Abraham wouldn't allow it. He took her to get her arm set. There were questions and he answered them. Police came. I don't know what happened—this all happened before I was born, but he told me once I was old enough. The police spoke with those who had seen, spoke with Sarah's father, Jacob. Eventually, they decided it was an accident.”

“An accident.” David clenched a hand into a fist. “How could—”

Then he stopped, looking away. Who knew that answer better than he did? People will often find a way to rationalize the things they didn't like to look at. “What happened?”

“Abraham took Sarah. He just walked into the house and carried her out. When Jacob tried to stop him, Abraham put her down, turned around and struck him. Others tried to stop him, but he warned them he'd put just as many on the ground. He wouldn't leave a child there to be abused, and he wouldn't be stopped.” Thom paused for a long moment, and then he sighed, shaking his head. “Nobody attempted to stop him and he picked up Sarah. He told them that there was discipline and then there was cruelty. He wouldn't stand by and watch a child be abused. It was time for things to change.”

“Change doesn't come easily.” David could picture it, so easily. It was something he could see Abraham doing, even striking a man to defend a child. He'd try other ways, first. Abraham was a man of peace, but he was also one who would do much to protect the innocent. David had seen that with his own eyes. “They wouldn't change.”

“No.” A sad, bitter smile canted up Thom's mouth. “I heard from one of the men who came to us later—he said Jacob seemed possessed, raged like he would kill Abraham, and they had to physically restrain him to stop him. He…”

Thom stopped talking for a long, quiet moment, and then, as if the words were dragged from some dark, ugly place, he said tightly, “He killed his wife. That is not what they say, but it is what happened. She was found facedown in the pond behind their house a few weeks later and there were bruises around her neck. Jacob killed himself. If they hadn't protected him, his wife would be alive. Several families left with Abraham and others followed in later weeks. You know much of the rest.”

David nodded, lowering his gaze to study the picture of Sarah. “And he raised Sarah as his own.”

“Yes. He loved her like she was his own—to Abraham and Ruth, Sarah
was
their child. She would have been seven, I think. My older brother said she was odd in the first few years and then it was like she became a different child. She talked more. Played.”

Thom moved to stand by David, going through pictures and newspaper articles. “I don't know where she found much of this. I didn't know she'd even remembered.”

“How do you know about it? About any of this?”

Thom slid David a wry look. “You might not be curious about things and you might not like to talk. But I ask many questions.”

She wouldn't have forgotten all of it, David suspected. Some part of you always remembered that cruelty. That pain. That misery. Slowly, he put the picture back inside the box, tucking it away. Then he covered it up with the other pictures and articles. One small square floated free and he picked it up, went to toss it in the box, but as he did it flipped over and he found himself staring at his face.

It was a close-up. A recent one. He even knew when—those dark clothes weren't anything he'd worn out around town. He'd only worn them once in fact.

The day of Max's funeral.

She'd taken a picture of him, put it in her box of secrets.

It flooded him with foreboding.

My older brother said she was odd in the first few years.

He said they were unwell.

Alarm screamed inside David's head. Looking up, he met Thom's eyes.

“Where is she?”

Thom looked away, his voice grim and flat. “I was hoping that perhaps you could tell me.”

*   *   *

The first time she saw him, she loved him.

Nobody could understand him, his pain, his suffering or his trials, the way she did.

He'd come to her bleeding and broken and she'd helped ease his misery.

He was still broken and he'd come to her … soon. She'd help him, like she always did. She'd make sure he understood this time.
I should have told him
, she thought. Always she'd kept those secrets hidden within her heart, and that was her failure. She'd never let him know, but she wouldn't hide it anymore.

Not now.

But first …

But first she had to cut all the ties that tried to pull him away from her.

Because she'd been so impatient, so rash, she had to be more careful now.

She'd left the truck, parked inside one of the older barns. There was no way she could drive it, not now. People had seen her, seen the truck. She'd cleaned it. She knew how to take care of that. It gleamed now, but she couldn't risk anybody seeing the truck again.

She had to wash the clothes, hide them away until she needed them again. But she'd do it later. Other things were more important now.

In her simple dress, with her hair pinned up, she felt more focused. Felt like herself. If people looked at her now, their gazes would just bounce away like they always did.

It had been different wearing the other clothes, wandering around with her hair hanging free down her back.
Wicked
. It had felt wicked and thrilling, but it had been for a purpose and it wouldn't do any good to appear in public that way now.

Not after seeing the paper. She'd seen a copy on the way into town when she stopped to fill up the gas tank. With a dry mouth and shaking hands, she'd read the article about Clay Brumley's death, Taneisha Oakes' attack. People were looking for her. Nobody had really
seen
her. A blond woman, between thirty and fifty years old, a black truck.
If you have information, please call the Madison Police Department
.

The police. They wanted people to call the police?

She was just doing what needed to be done. But people might not understand that, so she'd have to be careful. She understood that. It wasn't safe to pretend to be anything other than who she was now. Just Sarah.

She'd finish everything up now, but she'd do it as who she was.

Just Sarah.

It is more dangerous
. She tried to push the fear away, tried to quell that whisper, because she knew it didn't matter how dangerous it was. She'd do it all over again to protect him, to get him away from those who would come between them.

He'd understand. Once they spoke. She knew she could make him see.

I had to do it.
Sometimes even the very meek must turn into the lion. Abraham had done that for her. Now it was her turn.

Abraham
 … something bitter burned in her heart and tears stung her eyes.
He was your lion. You became his Judas.

“No!” She shook her head, wishing she could cover her ears to block that voice. But she was driving—driving because her beautiful Caine had taught her. Even though the others wouldn't have approved, he'd taught her, given her this measure of freedom.

She'd done it for him, for Caine. She'd done everything for him.

Abraham was gone because he'd tried to stand between them. Because he hadn't understood.

“I didn't want to do it. But he made me.”

Forcing herself to stop thinking about it, she looked around, startled to realize she was already there. It seemed like she'd just turned the massive old car onto the road.

Her hands shook as she climbed out of the old car, easing the door shut. It was mid-morning, but this street was quiet. She left her car there, two streets away from her destination. She couldn't park any closer, not if people were looking for her. They might recognize the car or somebody could notice the license plate. All these people did was gossip and talk about one another.

Since she couldn't expect people
not
to gossip, she didn't want to risk having her car closer.

It was an older car but clean and well cared for. The strip of buildings on this side of the street heading down toward the hospital had once been homes, but they'd been converted into offices, many of them for doctors. Her car shouldn't gain much attention here.

Her hands shook as she shut the car door and moved to the sidewalk. Blood crashed, roared in her ears. This was the very last thing. The very last.

Then we can be together.

The longing she'd held inside, the answer to every prayer she'd prayed for years. Her heart knotted in her chest, just to imagine it all coming to pass. She clasped her hands in front of her as she crossed the street. Sarah casually checked up one sidewalk, then down the other. Somewhere close by a door opened and she heard voices, but she didn't look back.

There was nobody in front of her and that was all that mattered.

One more street.

And then she was there, closing in on the house where Caine's whore lived. It was a pretty house, old, with two stories and windows that needed to be washed.
Lazy, then, as well as immoral.

You deserve so much better,
she thought, the ache spreading through her heart as she moved slowly down the street. There were no cars. She saw nobody as she closed in. Sybil's car wasn't in the driveway. Sarah had been watching her, learning when she left the house, when she returned.

Right now, the woman would be at the office where she worked, instead of being here and caring for the boy who lived with her, caring for the house.

Sarah's heart thudded in her chest and she moved up the narrow path to the driveway, around to the privacy of the backyard, certain that somebody would say something.

But the air remained quiet. Nobody came rushing to look for her.

She waited there, a full twenty minutes, her back pressed up against the small garage. From there, she could see the driveway, see the windows of Sybil's house, but none of the other houses. If she couldn't see those houses, they wouldn't be able to see her.

When those twenty minutes had passed, she breathed out a sigh. If somebody had seen her, they would have already called the police. Still, even though she knew that, her belly was twisted into knots as she moved up closer. She hadn't seen any of those signs that might indicate an alarm system. She knew about those. Nothing like that was needed at home. Nobody
there
would need them. They respected one another too much to ever need such a thing. But here, with the English, who knew what to expect?

She held her breath as she turned the doorknob. It was locked. She expected it to be, so she moved over to the window. She didn't want to break anything if she didn't have to, but she would. All the kitchen windows were locked. Frustration mounted as she backed away and looked again.

There
—

She saw the basement window and hope flared back inside her heart. The first one was locked. So was the second.

But the third …

She breathed out a sigh of relief as it gave under her hands.
Thank You
, she said silently as she eased back to study the window. She needed to go through feet first. She poked her head in first, waited, listened. There wasn't any sound, nothing to indicate a dog, anybody inside the house. She whistled softly, waited. There wasn't so much as the clatters of nails against the steps.
A dog would be very bad
.

Her heart hammered so hard she thought she might be sick, as she started to wiggle through the window. It was a tight fit, her dress catching as she worked through, having to force her hips and then twist to get her breasts and shoulders through.

Panting by the time she got her feet on the floor, she struggled to fix her hair, straighten her
kapp
. Blood roared in her ears, making it hard to listen to the silence of the house. Hurriedly she moved across the floor and pressed herself to the wall, eying the steps, half-expecting to see a shadow.

It was mid-day. Nobody should be here.

But what if somebody was?

The steps were silent; the lights remained off. Slowly, her heart rate returned to normal and she smiled, peace spreading through her like a river.
A sign. Another sign.
Every time she'd taken a step to bring Caine back to her, she'd feared getting caught, feared somebody would see her, bring things to a stop. But it hadn't happened. God smiled on her. He knew that Caine should be with her—He
wanted
it. Nothing could come against her, not now.