Forsaken (10 page)

Another body was found.” Mike's voice came through the cell phone.

“Amish again?” Roc steered the Mustang with one hand, keeping his eyes on the dark road and the swath of light the headlights provided. He'd taken to patrolling the farms and small businesses located in Lancaster County, moving through Bird-in-Hand, Intercourse, and Promise.

“A homeless guy in Philadelphia. Same MO. Neck wound. And—”

“Do you think the perp is on the move?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Roc didn't have a clue either. He'd had a composite sketch drawn up on the couple he'd met in the alley, but he wasn't sure why. What would be the charge if he managed to find them? Drinking chicken's blood? Not that he had proof. Strange behavior? He was an eyewitness. Something didn't sit well with Roc. Something had happened that night in the alley, and he wasn't sure what. Had to be some mind trick, some illusion, but Roc was at a loss as to know what exactly had happened.

With few clues except a mad dog run amok, or so it seemed, someone who liked to take a bite—actually a chunk—out of necks, Roc powered up his determination. “Let me know if anything else happens or turns up.”

“You staying in Promise?”

“Until I have reason to move on.”

Roc tossed the cell phone in the passenger seat and continued to drive down the narrow back roads, his gaze scanning left and right for anything that might alert him. But there wasn't much to see. It was pitch dark. The Amish appeared to be abed and a-snooze or else working on expanding their families. It was after all, close to Intercourse.

Other than the Mustang's headlights catching an opossum, which froze in the middle of the road, making Roc steer around it, he hadn't come across anything suspicious. Without any lamps or traffic lights on these back roads, the moon and stars provided the only illumination. Thankfully, the moon was full and bright and the stars plentiful tonight.

For several nights, he'd driven through the farm country, past the Amish homes, businesses, and farms, hoping he'd see something and yet hoping he wouldn't. The folks here deserved to have the peace they so desired. And for some crazy reason, he felt protective of them. Even though the latest body wasn't Amish, Roc sensed there was a connection. And that gut instinct of his that had served him well in his cop days was throbbing like a red alarm.

He drove through Bird-in-Hand and Intercourse until he came to Promise, driving extra slow as no one seemed to be on the roads this late. The houses he passed were dark, the shades drawn, and, he hoped, the doors locked. These folks didn't have security alarms; most had dogs, though they were more the friendly type than the sound-the-alarm barking kind. These folks' security came from an undying faith in the Almighty to protect them. Roc preferred the nine-millimeter solid steel kind of faith that he could hold in his hand.

A flash of a light off to his right grabbed his attention, and he slowed the Mustang even more, leaning over the steering wheel, trying to peer across the dark field where moonbeams slanted downward. Sure enough, what looked like a disembodied light bobbed and weaved like a drunken firefly. It had to be a flashlight or lantern of some kind.
Who would be out this late? In this cold? And why?

Roc pulled the Mustang to the side of the road and parked, grabbing his Glock as he sprang out of the car, and closed the door quietly. Rather than following the path of the light, he gauged where he anticipated the light was headed and ran along the road, his boots cushioned by dry, fallen grass, and then he cut across a field to bisect its potential path. He crouched low beside a fence and the light came toward him from the right, not directly but about fifty yards south. At that angle, he would catch sight of who was out here. For several minutes, he remained still, silent, searching. It was so quiet. Where were the crickets? The hum of business and traffic? Maybe the cold had frozen everything. Roc felt the cold tunnel deep into his bones, but his heart pumped hard and fast in anticipation of a chase.

A rustling noise to his left startled him, and Roc's head snapped in the direction of the noise. The bobbing light froze. With the faint moonlight behind him, he could make out a dark shape, but it wasn't a tree or pole. It had bulges and bumps, not the smooth line of something artificial. But was this man or beast? When the shape moved, he knew it was a man. The shape shifted forward then halted. Roc reached for his gun. He transferred his weight from one foot to the other, just enough to prepare to spring forward, then the shape whirled away and made a crashing sound as the man's footsteps pounded through the dry brittle grass and brush.

Instantly, Roc was on his feet and giving chase before he could even formulate a thought. He ran a good hundred yards, leaping over fallen trees, tripping on something and scrambling back to his feet, across a mushy patch of ground and into a stand of trees. A branch grabbed at him, and dry, brittle leaves scratched his face when he came to a stop beneath a covering of trees that the moonlight couldn't penetrate. The darkness became denser, the shadows deepened.

The only sound was Roc's breath, as he sucked it in through his teeth. Not even a breath of a breeze stirred the patches of dry grass or bare branches and withered leaves. His sides heaved and a muscle pinched just above his lower rib. Then the whispers seemed to coil about him, as if the leaves were chattering among themselves. A bad feeling sunk into him. Was this a trap? Like in the alley? Roc made a slow turn, his gaze darting forward, back, right, left, frisking brush and trees, searching shadows.

“Are you following me?” the voice came from behind Roc.

He whirled around, aiming his Glock. The man stood in a leafy shaft of moonlight but Roc recognized him. “Akiva.”

“The question is:
who
are you?” But before Roc could answer, the man continued, “Roc Girouard.” He tilted his head sideways. Shadows and moonlight played across the man's face, distorting his features. “But who is Roc Girouard? No longer a police officer, are you? More a drunk than anything else. So why such a keen interest in the Amish?”

Roc gritted his teeth. His trigger finger itched to tighten. It would only take a fraction more of tension to fire a bullet straight at Akiva. “What's your interest here?”

“Are you playing at police detective work again?” Akiva shook his head and tsked. “Didn't you learn anything? Did you not understand my warning? You cannot stop us. Wasn't Emma's death proof of that?”

The words felt like a punch straight into Roc's chest, and he fell back a step. His heart stopped then began to pound with a fierceness that pumped molten anger through him and tightened his grip on the Glock. “You have a death wish?”

Akiva tipped his head back and laughed. “If that were but possible.”

“It's very possible.” Roc took a step forward, then another.

The laughter stopped and those dark eyes bore into him with an intensity that made sweat emerge on Roc's brow. Akiva took a step in Roc's direction, then another.

“Don't move,” Roc said. “I
will
shoot.”

The man's lip curled with disdain, and he took another step, then another.

Roc squeezed the trigger. It was a simple reflexive move, one he'd done a thousand times on the shooting range and only occasionally aimed at a perp on the run, never straight at man's chest. The second the bullet hit Akiva, the man's body crumpled forward, folded in on itself. It seemed to shrink and collapse inward and then, with a flutter, took flight and disappeared before Roc could fire again.

Hannah's nerves stretched tight like the clothesline. Every skipping leaf and creature stirring in the brush made her pause and listen, turn and peer into the darkness. She swung the flashlight, the yellow eye searching trees, bushes, fence posts, and hay bales. Her breathing sounded loud in her own ears.

But there was nothing out there. She was alone. The moon shone brightly until a cloudbank swept over it. Now it was darker, colder.

When she reached the fence rail, she stuck the flashlight back in her apron and climbed the slats. Her foot caught in the folds of her skirt, twisted, and she wobbled at the top, turning awkwardly, careful to keep the ball of her foot on the thin, narrow board. She managed to hike a leg over the top rail, then the next, as she turned to face the way she'd come, and pushed off, jumping to the ground. Her skirt billowed outward, and the dry grass and fallen leaves softened her landing and tickled her calves and ankles.

It was then, facing the way she had come, that she saw a shape, not twenty steps away, just a shadowy form in the weak, scattered moonlight that resembled man more than tree or beast. Clouds shifted, moving over the moon. Her heart thumped feebly in her chest, the sound pulsing in her ears. The knife she sometimes brought was home in the safety of its drawer. She yanked the flashlight from her apron and swung the light around, arcing the yellow beam across the shape then jerking it backward until it hit pale blue eyes.

“Levi Fisher!”

He squinted, raising his arm to ward off the intrusive light. “Hannah. 'Tis all right. It's only me.”

He moved toward her like it was perfectly normal for them to run into each other in a cemetery in the middle of the night. His footsteps made crashing sounds through the dry brush.

Hannah planted a fist on her hip, her heart settling back into a normal cadence but her temper sparking. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“You were following me,
ja
?”

He stopped at the fence, not climbing over, simply hooking an arm over the top rail. “I'm protecting you.”

“From what?” She turned her back on him, huffed out a breath, then faced him again, her heel digging deeper into the dirt. “Why? There is nothing here.”

“Nor is Jacob.” His broad brimmed hat shadowed his face and she could not make out his expression, not that she could have read him anyway. “Go ahead and do what you came to do.” A weariness sank into his voice that she didn't usually detect. “I'll wait. Then I will see you home.”

“I don't need you out here, Levi. Go home. I want to be alone.” Her body tightened with anger. This was
her
place, the only place she had to grieve. Jacob might not be here physically, but she felt him nonetheless. In a more reasonable moment, she might have seen the absurdity of her reaction, but she couldn't seem to contain herself.

Levi ducked his head and started to climb the fence. “Hannah—”

“I am not yours, Levi Fisher.” Her words hung in the air like a wintry frost.

“A memory cannot warm you, Hannah.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A moment of silence passed between them. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, and she wished it would disappear and douse her in darkness. “Well then,” Levi muttered, “if that's the way of it.”

“It is. You can go home, Levi. Do you hear me?” Her voice gained strength.

She watched him walk away, his shoulders squared, his back straight, until his shadow merged with the night. Guilt stalked her but she refused to give in to it. Levi had no right coming here, following her. She'd never given him any indication that she was interested or wanted his protection. When she could no longer hear his footsteps, she knew she was alone again.

But now the solitude she once knew in this place felt shattered, the jagged pieces of her security and grief fractured into tiny slivers and shards. She felt exposed. How long had Levi been following her here? Had he heard the poems she read? Seen the tears she shed?

She moved through the tombstones, her footsteps halting. Levi was not a rebel; he wouldn't stay where he wasn't wanted, not like Jacob. Yet a tingling plucked at the nerves along her spine, just like they had in the barn earlier. It felt as if someone watched her, a sensation she couldn't erase even as she rubbed the back of her neck to dismiss the chill bumps.

Then she came to his grave and settled at the side of the stone, tucking her legs beneath her and spreading her skirt and cape over her to ward off the coolness of the night. She positioned the flashlight at the base of the granite, and a shaft of light sprayed upward, bathing Jacob's name. Words lodged in her throat and she covered his name with her hand—her way of greeting him. The cold stone was as hard, as determined, and as eternal as her love.

The air bit her skin, and she curled her fingers inward, tucking her hand in her sleeve. Memories nipped at her but she could do nothing to shield herself from them. At times they comforted, wrapping around and strengthening her, but lately the memories sank into her like sharp teeth. Jacob's contagious smile, mischievous and playful, caused her heart to ache. It was the kind of ache that came when her toes thawed after being outside in the wintry elements—a pulsing throb.

It had been a warm day in late summer, two years ago. Changed, different, and more serious than ever before, Jacob had returned the month prior, from his journey traveling to New Orleans to pay homage to his favorite authors. In a way, he had aged, not with gray streaked in his hair or sudden lines on his forehead, but with a weary tension coiled in him. He had purpose and was ready to be baptized. Actually, he had been in a hurry to make his commitment to God and the community, asking the bishop to move the district's baptism up by a few weeks, but it always came in late fall, after harvest was over, and there was no moving the bishop. And so he'd waited.

Beneath the warmth of the sun, her heart had felt light with the knowledge that everything she did took her one day closer to being with Jacob for the rest of their lives. That particular day, she was busy with the wash, hanging it out on the line for drying, when a buggy approached the house and she recognized it as the bishop's. Dat met Will Stoltzfus on the drive. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The sun still shone. Her heart continued beating. And yet, her world changed. She simply hadn't known it yet.

When the bishop climbed back into his buggy and turned his horse down the drive, Dat stood for a few minutes before slowly turning and walking, not toward the house or the barn, but toward Hannah. It was her first inkling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Hannah.” Dat's tone sounded deep and rough.

She stood still, a wet shirt dangling from her hands.

He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. Was it for her or for him? Whatever the exact reason, a tremor took hold of her and shook her with such force she thought her knees might buckle. With a slow, heavy thumping, her heart pummeled her breastbone. “Jacob…”

The second Dat said his name she knew. Maybe it was the dip of his voice or the crackling sound in his throat like that of splintering glass, or maybe her heart sensed it was about to break. Did she actually hear the word “died”? It was all blurry now, those next few minutes…hours, days, weeks, and months spun around her. All else that Dat added was drowned beneath the roar in her ears, and then her knees dipped.

Dat grabbed her arm, keeping her upright, and murmured comforting words she couldn't even remember. Somehow, together, they made it to the house. Mamm was there, fussing, hugging, and crying as if she had lost one of her own. Hannah laid her head on the kitchen table, feeling like her purpose and hope had drained out of her fingers and toes, and a heavy weight descended on her. Numbness spread through her limbs. But there were no tears. Not from her. Not yet.

“We must go to the Fishers,” Mamm said from what seemed like far away.

“No.” Dat's voice sounded curt. “They have already had the burial.”

Unable to lift her head from the table, she swerved her gaze toward Mamm, who asked the questions that couldn't form on her own tongue.

“Already? So soon? But when did the accident occur?”

The accident
.

Jacob's father was a carpenter, making chairs, tables, swings, and birdhouses; his oldest son, Levi, was to inherit the business, but all three of the Fisher boys helped with the family business. Jacob had been using some piece of equipment when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The details were sketchy, but in her dreams Hannah had seen Jacob lying on the sawdust-crusted floor covered in blood. His eyes—once full of life and fun—stared vacantly.

And those darkened eyes crept into her dreams time and again.

For a long time it seemed as if she would never cry. Tears piled up inside of her like logs in a beaver's dam, but she knew they couldn't stay trapped and stagnate forever. The first night she climbed out of bed and wandered outside—an attempt to run from those haunting eyes in her dreams…or run toward them, her footsteps becoming more determined and purposed the further she went—she ended up at the cemetery alone, and the dam inside her broke open and the tears flowed. More nights than she could count, she sat snuffling and sobbing, her face wet, her clothes damp. The gravestone became her pillow, the soft mound of dirt, then grass, her bed. The flow of tears would cleanse the pain welled in her heart. Or that's what she had hoped.

But her head, then heart, couldn't accept what had happened, how Jacob had been snatched out of her life. It didn't seem real. Mamm said, “You never saw his body in death, never touched his shoulder and felt the hard, cold reality.” But would that have made any difference?

Eventually, the tears that once streamed down her face so easily slowed until they quit flowing. She sensed they had frozen in her heart like tiny, glittering icicles. The poetry book Jacob had given her secretly before he left on his travels became a comfort. She began reading to him as he'd once read for her, and she hoped he would hear the words to build a bridge between the here and the beyond, or maybe open the barrier to her heart once more, because tears seemed better than the bitterness trapped inside of her.

The millstones of pain became like the Israelites' remembrance stones from the Old Testament, and the poems reminded her of tender moments she had shared with Jacob or hoped to share one day. Hannah took the now worn poetry book out of her apron and found the page she wanted easily.

“
One of us…that was God…and laid the curse so darkly
—”

A rustling nearby stopped her reading. She glanced up. The wind stirred. The grass around her swayed, and the shadows danced beneath a sliver of moonlight. Thick clouds moved in, overtaking the stars. Opening the book where she kept her thumb as a mark, she found where she had left off.
“…the curse so darkly
—”

Hannah
.

Her heart leapt a single, solitary beat. Was that her name on the wind? Had someone called? She lifted her chin and whispered back, “Jacob?”

“
I carry your heart with me…
”