Forsaken (2 page)

Two Years Later

Hannah.

Her heart leapt, fluttering and gaining strength at the whisper of her name. Hannah Schmidt shifted and stirred under her quilt. “Jacob?” His name came to her lips like a repeated prayer. “Jacob.”

She sat up and looked around the small, unadorned room. Shadows hung like curtains, heavy and oppressive, leaving the room dark as the soul. She held her breath, waiting to hear the voice again, but it didn't come.

After a few minutes, she shoved off the quilt and sat on the edge of her single, narrow bed, her back rigid as she listened to the house settling around her. Dat's snores rose upward through the floorboards in a low, rhythmic rumbling from her parents' downstairs bedroom. Her little sister, Katie, slept down the hallway, and in the next bed Rachel, her older sister by two years, slept peacefully, her dreams probably filled with details of her upcoming wedding. The thought twisted in Hannah's stomach like a knife, the smooth edge slicing away at her own unrealized dreams.

Lifting the green shade covering the window, Hannah stared out at the night blanketing the countryside, the frost forming along the rows of dried corn stalks and empty fields. Its coolness seeped through her nightclothes and raised chill bumps along her skin.

Hannah.
The voice whispered in her head again.
Come to me.

The tightness in her chest eased at the sound of the now familiar voice. The first time she'd heard the whispering, she'd jumped, looked around, searched for the source. Was it on the wind or in her head? Was it her imagination or something more? Someone calling to her…maybe even from the grave?
Jacob
.

Now, the voice called, and she obeyed.

She dressed quickly, her fingers fastening the straight pins with practiced precision, and she moved across the room and knelt in front of the cedar hope chest. Lifting the lid, she pushed aside a quilt she'd begun making when Jacob left on his cross-country trek, every stitch purposed with the belief that they would lay beneath it together as husband and wife, but the seams remained unfinished, the quilt squares unattached. At the bottom of the chest was a flashlight and a slim, hardcover book, both of which she laid in her lap and tucked her apron around in a makeshift pocket, securing the ends of the apron in the waist, then she closed the lid without a sound and slipped out of the room.

Careful on the stairs, she avoided each step that creaked and groaned. Dat's snores grew louder as she descended. Stealing through the kitchen past the wooden slab table, the lone calendar on the wall set to October, the propane-fueled refrigerator, she came to a drawer and hesitated only a moment before tugging it open slowly and quietly. She selected a carving knife, the blade sharp, which pricked her dress material as it clinked against the flashlight in her apron, the heavy handle knocking against her belly.

When she stepped outside onto the back porch, the coolness of the night made her shiver, but she tiptoed down the steps, careful not to make a sound and awaken her grandfather, who lived in the smaller attached house. The ruts of the gravel drive guided her toward Slow Gait Road, and her footsteps crunched too loudly in the stillness. The cooling air brushed her face like a caress. She should have worn her coat, but it was too late to go back. She didn't want to be late in case he was waiting for her.

Darkness shadowed her and with it came uneasiness. On her father's farm, she felt safe, but stepping beyond its boundaries gave her an eerie uncertainty. But nothing would hold her back. At the end of the lane, she pulled the small flashlight from her apron and continued down the dirt road, the beam of yellow light arcing over the bits of dried grass and buggy wheel tracks. Overhead an abundance of stars, like angelic hosts, peeked through the parting clouds to watch over her.

At the juncture in the road, she detoured across a field, passing a giant oak and three small bushes that, come next summer, would produce blueberries, and she took a path she'd traveled often. She came to a wooden fence and hoisted herself over its rails. The knife, still buried in her apron, clunked against the wood and the point jabbed her hip. Hooking her leg around the top rail, she grabbed the knife and held it with one hand while she clambered down the other side.

She had never felt more alive, her heart palpitating, every nerve vibrating, her ears sensitive to every crunch of footstep, every rattle of leaf in the wind. She listened fiercely for his voice, his direction. She watched for any shadow, shift, or sudden appearance.

The circle of light from the flashlight bounced jerkily with each step, then settled on the solid granite tombstones, small and plain and jutting out of the field, many leaning from the weight of years. She walked among them as if those buried there were only sleeping and whispered hello to friends and relatives, even Grandma Ruth, sliding her finger along the top of the stone as a gentle greeting.

When she was a young girl, she had come here for her friend Grace's grandfather's funeral and wondered what it would be like to speak to these souls now that they had moved on from this life. Was their pain gone as the Bible promised? Every tear wiped away by the hand of God? Or were they only asleep, nestled in their caskets, awaiting a holy touch or a sacred trumpet blast?

She had imagined lying several feet under the topsoil, nestled inside her own casket in the dark, hearing the footsteps of friends and loved ones overhead, hearing their whispered prayers, their questions and confessions. Of course, Dat said all of those buried here were not really in this place because their souls had moved on. And yet…still…even now, she wondered.

One day after Jacob had returned from his journey to New Orleans, his determination to be baptized fierce, his devotion equal, she had mentioned these wonderings to him. He hadn't dismissed her questions exactly but had only said, “There's much we don't understand, Hannah.”

A week later, he had joined the company of the dearly departed.

Now, with her path direct and certain, she moved toward his grave.

But a noise from behind stopped her. Was it a cricket lamenting the end of warm weather? Surely by this time of year the crickets were long gone. Had she heard something else? Her ears strained, her heart yearned. She glanced back and swung the light around, arcing it over the grave markers. The emptiness of the field beyond proved her foolishness. Of course, Jacob wasn't here. It was impossible. But maybe…just maybe she'd hear his voice again.

She knelt beside the granite in the thick, dry grass and planted the butt of the flashlight at the base of the marker. Pale yellow light slanted upward across the carved name: Jacob Fisher.

Leaning against the stone slab, she pulled the small book from her apron. Jacob had given it to her years ago and had often read to her as they sat in the barn's loft or beneath the shade of an elm or along the creek, their feet submerged in cool water. The cover was worn, the edges slightly frayed, and her hand trembled as she turned the thick pages. The poems spoke of love and loss and echoed what was in her heart. She began reading aloud the words that had become so familiar to her: “
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young…
”

Her throat tightened, and she paused. Living without Jacob made her life feel empty and incomplete, like a well gone dry—no longer useful, no longer worth anything. A wind stirred the brittle grass and the hair at her nape, drying the sweat from her vigorous walk and giving her a shivering chill. Again, she glanced over her shoulder, not from fear but hope. One day she would turn around and find him standing there, watching her, smiling at her. He would somehow come for her.

Oh, come, Jacob. Come back to me
.

She didn't know how, but if it was possible, he would.

This was not something she could share with her closest friends or even Rachel or Mamm. She tucked her hopes and dreams inside her, buried them deep inside a crevice of her heart.

It was in this old cemetery where she felt most at home, finding comfort in the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem, which Jacob had read to her, and she whispered the words to the night. “
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision, through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years…
”

She laid aside the book and pulled the knife from her apron. She couldn't explain why she had brought it. Had the voice told her or was it her own heart? What was it for? She didn't know, but it felt good against the palm of her hand. The words flowed from her heart: “
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic shape did move, Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove—
”

Her voice broke and she laid the knife's blade flat against her wrist. She felt the cool metal and, with the slightest tilt, the bite of the blade. A bead of blood appeared on her white skin, but she felt no pain, no regrets, no fear.

Was death friend or foe? It had coupled her to Jacob, the solid ties wrapping around them, securing them together, holding them close when he had saved her from nearly drowning, and his bravery had easily won her love. But she had failed to save him in return, and death had separated them in its retribution, stolen their hopes and dreams of a future together. Did it now demand a sacrifice? Would her death bring their hearts once more back together?

This time, her voice stronger and bolder, she spoke the words of the poem: “‘
Guess now who holds thee!'—‘Death,' I said. But there The silver answer rang, ‘Not Death, but Love.
'”

Hannah.

Her hand stilled once more at the whisper of her name. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered. Was he calling her to come to him with one quick, bold slice of the knife? Or was he calling her to wait? She raised her head, tilted it, and listened for that voice again. The rustle of the remnant leaves in nearby trees was all she heard, except the heady beat of her own heart. Laying the blade flat against her wrist, she drew it through the blood, and a red stain smeared across her skin and along the tiny green vein running the length of her arm. She imagined her heart pumping, yearning for something forever lost. If she cut deeper, could her heart have its desire? Would she once again be with Jacob? Was that the only way? Was that why the voice called to her? Maybe he couldn't come to her. Maybe she had to go to him.

But something invisible stayed her hand, something she couldn't understand or explain, and she trembled with the force of the battle raging inside. Tears stung her eyes, burning with the acid of her trapped emotions.

“
Not
Death, but Love.
” Pain choked off any more words. She squeezed her eyes closed, her hands shaking, and the knife fell to the ground. She grabbed the cold stone marker for support, splayed her hands across its front as a sob wrenched free from her chest. Then her fingers began tracing the letters etched in the rough, gray granite, following the curve of the letter
a
as if following the curve of his jaw. Over and over again, she fingered the same letter. Was Jacob now an angel watching over her?

“Oh, Jacob…Could I trade my soul for your love?” She flattened her palm across the granite slab as if it were his chest, as if it held the very beat of his heart. “If it were but possible…”

Being dead wasn't so bad.

Roc Girouard felt nothing—nothing at all—which was how he always imagined death: a sea of nothingness that you floated, bobbed, drifted along on, like the lazy current of the mighty Mississippi. Now he was like an empty bottle riding along the river of afterlives, toward a delta swollen with other lost and forgotten souls, like one of New Orleans' crowded and flooded cemeteries, its caskets bobbing and swaying. But his body felt weighted with the iron chain of inabilities, anchored by his failures, his soul dragging the bottom, lodging on a rock of regret buried beneath the silt and sludge of his past.

It was that bone of thought, hard and angular, that caused the first sensation, a throbbing pulse near his lower left rib—his heart—proof he wasn't actually in the hereafter. He wanted only to lose himself, the memories, the pain, in the abyss of not knowing, not feeling, not wanting. He longed for that sea of aching souls, for then he wouldn't be alone, and he kicked outward.

Instead of freedom or sweet release, water slurped around him, surged up his nostrils. Sputtering and coughing, he grabbed the side of the enamel bathtub and knocked over one of Emma's candles, which thunked on the tile floor. Sitting up, he felt pain jab his eye socket, and he pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose and sunk back into the tepid water. He groped for the bottle on the edge and drank down the bourbon in solid, greedy, desperate gulps until his empty belly burned and the pain inside his head and heart dulled.

He forced open his eyelids and peered around the now darkened bathroom. Dozens of tiny flames flickered along the edge of the tub, casting eerie shadows and wiggling light on the walls. The exotic smells of magnolias and musk, vanilla and honeysuckle levitated around him, reminding him of her. This was Emma's haven, her escape from the stresses of long work hours, the sorrow of losing a patient, and life in general, but he hadn't found comfort here the way she once had. Fact was, there was no solace, no reassurance, no absolution to be found anywhere. Here in her sanctuary, the wisps of smoke acted like prayers he was incapable of uttering.

The tiny rectangular window above the showerhead revealed the night sky. It was much later than when he'd climbed inside the warm bath with his memories to drown his pain. Now the water had grown cold, his toes and fingers and other body parts wrinkled. He'd probably missed his shift at work again. But who cared? He tossed the empty brown bottle over his shoulder and it crashed against the corner, scattering slivers of glass over the white tile.
Okay, maybe that wasn't a smart move
.

A tap-tap-tapping came from the other room. Roc ignored it—probably another trick-or-treater. He stared at one faint flame that dipped and wavered, until the tapping became a pounding.
A demanding ghoul, huh?
If he didn't answer it old lady Reynolds downstairs would tromp up the rickety wooden stairwell and complain of the noise. Finally, huffing and muttering to himself, Roc stepped out of the tub, water pouring off him, extinguishing candles and soaking the floor mat. It wasn't until his third step that he felt the sharp jab in his heel. He cursed himself for throwing the bottle and hobbled toward the door, dripping water and leaving a trail of blood. Halloween in New Orleans could be just as wild as Mardi Gras. He twisted the lock, jerked the knob. Night air rushed in, chilling his bare skin.

“What kind of treats are you offering?” This was no costumed ghoul. His ex-partner gave him a once-over. “You could get arrested.”

“You can do the honors.”

Without so much as a smile, Brody Wynne strode past Roc. Inches shorter and thicker through the chest and abdomen, Brody was nearly ten years his senior. “Get dressed.”

“I'm busy.”

Brody made a face, his gaze drifting downward. “Not interested in your love life. You still working nights at that daiquiri drive-thru place?”

Roc plopped down on the sofa. “That illegal now?”

“Oh, it's legal.” Brody shut the door. “Long as you're not drinking on the job.”

“I don't need AA if that's why you're here.”

Brody's brow furrowed. “What do you need?”

Roc shoved old pizza boxes out of the way to prop up his bleeding foot on the coffee table. “What do you want?”

Brody stared down at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is work related.”

“Not my line of work anymore. Or have you forgotten?”

“Don't play hard to get.”

Roc turned the bottom of his foot toward himself and poked around on his heel, hissing as he felt the sliver of glass push deeper into his flesh.

“Look, Roc, things got…crazy for a while. You don't owe me or nothin' but…”

Roc yanked the glass sliver out of his foot and tossed it onto a grease-stained cardboard box. Then a cold finger trailed his spine. He glanced up at Brody. “If you've got my old man in the drunk tank or deep freeze, then that's your problem. I washed my hands of Remy Girouard—”

“Only if your old man was twenty-something and looked a helluva lot like Emma.”

***

Most cops had seen enough not to be shaken by the sight of a corpse. Some used humor to shield themselves, while others kept their gazes on the crime tape, the concrete, the faces of witnesses. Roc had always focused on the details—dirt beneath broken nails, blood-matted blond hair, fixed blue eyes. But this time, the details ripped through that protective barrier and rattled him to the core.

It was precisely the blond hair and blue eyes that grabbed him. So like Emma. Too much like Emma. And yet not. But it was the gaping death wound that shook him like a limp rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.

A trembling started deep within, creeping up on him, threatening him, overwhelming him. Yeah, he'd seen his share of dead bodies but only
one
had been his complete undoing.

Brody stamped his feet and chafed his hands together. He stood next to Roc, studying him, not the corpse. Around them were majestic antebellum homes, gleaming white and polished during the day, but at night they darkened into shadowy mansions and creepy enclaves. “Somebody walking their dog found her. No purse. No ID.”

An older detective walked the corpse's perimeter. “I say she croaked, choking on a chicken wing or something, maybe an asthma attack, then a gator tore into her.”

Brody tipped his head in the older guy's direction. “This is Al Smith. We call him Smittie.” Then he rolled his eyes, dismissing the older man's comments. “Could be a voodoo ritual,” Brody offered. “We thought that back when Emma—” But he stopped himself. “Roc?”

He heard his name but it sounded far off, like Brody was calling him from Lake Pontchartrain. His chest tightened with each breath. The wound in the woman's neck looked like someone had a hankering for a midnight snack. That part was just like Emma.

Smittie frowned. “You that Roc Girouard I heard about?”

“How would he know what you've heard?” Brody cut between them and turned Roc back toward the police and emergency vehicles. The pulsing blue light hit Roc's optic nerve and made him squint and stare at the ground. Brody clapped him on the shoulder. “We're gonna get this SOB. I promise.”

Anger burned deep down inside of Roc, and the flame licked outward, spreading, blazing, devouring the shakiness in its smoky wake. He wanted to walk away, forget he'd seen her. But he couldn't. Someone else had died. Someone like his Emma. This girl had a name, a life, a family, loved ones who would mourn her, weep at her funeral, some even drinking to calm the shaking. Now, someone had to pay. “I'm gonna find 'em.” Roc ground the words out through clenched teeth. “Then I'm gonna—”

“Detective!” A young female officer jogged toward them, her dark hair pinned back in a slick, professional manner. “We found this just a few feet away from…her.” She held out a plastic evidence bag.

“What the—?” Brody held the bag up and examined the object inside the plastic sleeve. “A bonnet?”

“Yes, sir.” The female officer sounded breathless with excitement. “Looks Amish or Mennonite or something like that.”

Brody quirked an eyebrow at Roc. “Now ain't that interesting?”

This time the details, so different than before, created a new shield, and Roc studied them, focused on them. The victim wore a plain blue dress, white apron, and black sneakers. No makeup. No earrings. Details. Not the typical Cajun woman.

“My wife reads them Amish romances,” Smittie said, hitching up the waist of his brown slacks. “She tells me all about them folks.”

Brody stepped toward the body. “What's an Amish gal doing here?”

“Vacation?” the policewoman suggested.

“Running around,” Smittie said with authority.

Brody, Roc, and the female officer stared at him as if his mind had taken a leave of absence.

“No, really. That's what they do—Amish young folks—they go runnin' around until they commit to God…or whatever it is they do. But before that…anything…and I mean
anything
is allowed. Not all leave home though. That's somewhat unusual. Why, I bet this gal knew a thing or two—”

Something inside Roc snapped and he lunged, slamming Al up against the side of the antebellum home. They were standing up to their waists in prickly bushes. Roc paid no attention to anything but his arm pressed against the older man's throat.

Al's eyes bulged, his jowls turning red.

“Whoa there, Roc.” Brody tugged on his shoulders, tried to pull him back.

“Did you know her?” Roc demanded.

Al shook his head. “No, no. Didn't mean—”

“You don't know squat.” Roc shoved Smittie aside.

The older detective slumped sideways into the bushes, gagging and coughing. “I. Know. You. You're that crazy—”

“The Amish,” Brody cut him off, “don't they live up in Pennsylvania?”

“Nah.” Al braced his fat hands against his knees and gulped in a few breaths. “My wife…she says they live all over. Ran out of land in Lancaster County seems. And they all gots big ol' honkin' families. So they buy up land in other places.”

Roc's brain clicked into gear. “Mike Peters lives in Philadelphia now.”

Brody peered at Roc over the top of his reading glasses. “That right?”

“You can borrow my wife's books,” Al offered as he straightened.

Roc stared at the body once more, taking in the details, every tiny detail. For the first time in sixteen months and seven days, he had a reason to draw his next breath.

***

Roc packed his ammo first.

Mike Peters, it turned out, knew about the Amish, and he also knew about a series of dead animals and a missing teenager from Lancaster County.
Was the missing Amish teen the same as the dead one in New Orleans?
Unofficially, Roc was now on NOPD's bankroll and about to head north.

Next to the ammo, Roc shoved T-shirts, underwear, and jeans into the bag, tossing in his toothbrush before zipping it. He'd already packed what few things he still cared about into a box—his mother's rosary, Emma's wedding ring, a few books and pictures, and whatever clothes he wasn't taking. He'd quit his job, broken his apartment's lease, and canceled his subscriptions, because he didn't know if or when he would be coming back.

He shoved his box and his duffle bag into the trunk of his 1969 Mustang, which had been one of his pop's unfinished renovation jobs. When Remy disappeared on one of his drinking binges almost ten years ago, Roc kept the car and completed the project, not understanding why he fixed it, other than the Mustang was cool—when it ran.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up next to a small church, where dark-red brick formed the walls, a barrier Roc had more than once accused Father Anthony of hiding behind. A statue of the Virgin Mother stared at him, her accusations soft but apparent, and Roc carried the box toward the rectory at the back of the property.

Church and Roc went together about as well as whiskey chasing beer; the mix guaranteed a headache or worse come morning. But he had no choice. He needed to see the priest, which would have made Brody laugh his ass off. But the priest wasn't just Father Anthony. Roc knew him as Tony. They'd played kick-the-can as kids, spin-the-bottle as teens, and beer-pong as college freshman. Eventually their paths had diverged. Anthony had gone a spiritual direction of right versus wrong, following after salvation and hope, and Roc had taken a more practical approach and served the law as a police officer. He'd believed he could do some good, but he'd seen a lot wrong and not much right. And he'd failed in his pursuit of justice.

Maybe it was the foolishness they'd shared as gawky teens that made Anthony feel brave to share with Roc some of his non-traditional and out-of-the-church-box beliefs, things that other priests and even the Pope might be shocked by. It was with that same freedom and unconditional love that Roc often felt comfortable saying, “You're full of crap, Tony.” But he wasn't here today to debate Bible doctrine or Tony's beyond-the-pale beliefs.

After a quick knock, the door opened. Anthony's gray eyes widened, then the door did the same. The young priest's skin was as pale as his white collar. In spite of his youthful face, his tall, thin frame gave the impression that he was feeble, but Roc knew the man's fortitude was as strong as one of the Navy ships in harbor and came from his staunch beliefs. “Come in, come in. I've been doing some studying.”

“Anne Rice again?”

Dark circles shadowed the priest's eyes as if he'd stayed up too many nights. “No, these are ancient texts.”

Roc plopped down on the sofa. “Bram Stoker then?”

Anthony sat on the edge of the chair next to Roc, his gaze intense with a fiery passion. “Look”—he dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—“it's from the Book of Enoch.” The paper whispered as he opened it. Written with precise penmanship in black ink, the paper read: “
And all the others together with them took unto themselves wives, and each chose for himself one, and they began to go in unto them
—”