Sisters of the Quilt Trilogy (42 page)

Without hesitation, she reached for his hand. The boy kicked and flailed against her, screaming that they were killing his sister.

Understanding his distrust, she whispered in Pennsylvania Dutch that the doctor was trying to help his sister. When the boy tried to pull away from her, she lifted him onto her hip. Pain ripped through her, causing her knees to almost buckle.

“Du muscht schtobbe!”
Hannah spoke firmly.

The boy obeyed and stopped fighting her.

She walked with him on her hip, getting him out of eyeshot of what was taking place. He wrapped his arms around her neck and cried.

All her physical pains seemed to quiet under the tenderness this child stirred within her. Spotting a recently fallen tree, Hannah plodded to it, dusted snow off a small area, and sat down. She rocked the boy and sang to him, ignoring the screeching sounds of the ambulance when it arrived and the distant voices of the medics as they worked with the boy’s sister some two hundred feet behind her.

In spite of the mysterious break from the pain in her abdomen, nausea and lightheadedness mounted within her.

Through a series of gentle questions, she learned the boy’s name and where he lived. As he relaxed, exhaustion took over. Before long he dozed off.

Blinking, Hannah tried to keep her eyes open as blackness tinged her peripheral vision and closed in. She grabbed a handful of snow from the log and drew it to her lips. The woods spun, and she was no longer sure which way was up.

Had she fallen?

“You okay?” an agitated male voice said.

Pretending she could see clearly, Hannah nodded. “Yes. How’s the girl?”

“We don’t know yet. She went quite awhile without oxygen, but the cold temperature and lying in snow may have slowed her body’s systems enough that she could fully recover.”

The man in front of her was shrouded in a thin black veil, and the woods appeared cloaked in dusk, causing Hannah to wonder if night had fallen.

The man lifted the boy from her arms. “I’d like your help to find the girl’s parents and explain this to them in the language they are most comfortable with.”

“Sure.” Hannah forced the word from her lips in spite of the strong urge to lie down and sleep. “But anyone in their family past the first grade will speak English.” Hannah stood, using a tree to steady herself against.

“Yes, I know.” The doctor nudged the little boy, trying to wake him. “Did he tell you where he lives?”

“Yes.” Hannah closed her eyes and reopened them, trying to focus as the trees danced and jiggled like half-set pudding. Feeling an internal darkness pull at her, she grabbed a handful of snow off the log and rubbed it over her face.

When she opened her eyes, the doctor had shifted the boy to one of the uniformed women and was directing his intense stare at her. “I’m Dr. Lehman, and you are …”

Aware of the risk, she didn’t answer his question.

“What were your symptoms when you came to the clinic today?”

“I didn’t come in as a patient.” She tried to stay upright, but her legs folded under her.

She heard Dr. Lehman’s frustrated voice. “She’s hemorrhaging. Get my bag. Call for another ambulance.”

She fought against the dark hole that was trying to consume her. “The boy’s name is Marc.”

“She’s going into shock.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes, trying to see something besides darkness. She looked down and saw red snow. “The boy lives at 217 Sycamore. It’s half a mile behind … your clinic, past the ridge—”

“Yes. Yes. We can find it. Give me information on how to contact your—”

Something more powerful overtook her, and she had no choice but to go with it.

A
chill ran up Paul’s back.

“So.” The police chief tapped his pen on the legal pad holding his notes. “What I have so far is that there’s an almost-eighteen-year-old girl named Hannah Lapp who’s missing. Her parents won’t file a missing person report, and if the police show up to talk to them, they are likely not to admit she’s gone or even that she exists, for that matter. There are no photos of her, and none of your friends have ever met her.”

Paul barely remained in control of his tone. The man’s sarcasm was not appreciated. “She does exist. My grandmother can vouch for that.”

At the thought of how alone and desperate Hannah must be, a sense of panic stirred within him. But fear would do him no good. He needed a lead, a direction … a miracle. “Hannah’s a minor, and she’s been traumatized by—”

The man glanced at his notes. “ … an attack that took place at the end of last August.” He looked up. “The question is, does she want to return?”

“She’s a minor, and she needs help. And I need your cooperation in order to find her.”

“Look, I agree with you. She got a bum deal, and she deserves a break. But she’s less than two weeks from turning eighteen, and she has a friend who says she left of her own accord with money to live on and some sort of a plan. Those details make this a low priority for us. By the time we get the info out on her and anyone has a chance to recognize her, she’ll be a legal adult.” The man shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Paul clenched his forehead with his fingertips. If the police weren’t going to help, he had to get out of here and do something himself.

Grabbing his coat off the chair, Paul headed for the door.

The police chief rose. “You could try hiring a private investigator.”

Pausing for a moment, Paul nodded. “Thank you.”

He hurried out the door of the police station and hustled down the asphalt alleyway toward his truck. As he reached for the door handle to his old vehicle, he spotted a red brick church with a bell tower two blocks up the street. The place stood resolute, inviting him to come search for peace within its walls. Deciding he needed to pray before trying to figure anything else out, he sprinted toward the aged church.

Dear God, please. I don’t know what to pray. Please help
.

He whispered his pleadings as he climbed the concrete steps, opened the oversize wooden door, and walked through the sanctuary. Thankfully the place was empty. Paul went to the altar and began quietly praying.

As the panic of the last few days quieted underneath the blanket of prayer, anger at the man who’d attacked Hannah pushed to the forefront of Paul’s mind and heart, but he was clueless what to do with it, what he should do with it.

If I could get my hands on him …

Yet, even as the fury caused sickening feelings, he knew he had to let the desire for revenge go. Not only was the desire against everything he believed, but it had no power to help. Only God could help. Only He was stronger than what any enemy could dish out. Paul’s and Hannah’s families would never agree on much, but all Plain folk had one thing in common: they believed in nonresistance, that forgiving and letting God take vengeance was the only way to live.

“Help me focus on You, God. Not on what’s been done, but on what can be done to restore,” Paul whispered.

Voices from somewhere inside the church caught Paul’s attention, and he glanced at his watch. He needed to go.

Driving toward Penn State, in Harrisburg, he spotted a pay phone and pulled his truck into a parking spot. There was a phone at his apartment, but if he stopped by there, his three roommates would bombard him with questions he didn’t want to answer—couldn’t answer. He called Gram to see if she’d heard from Hannah or had learned anything about her from Luke or Matthew. She hadn’t, but she told him that Mr. Harris from the bank was trying to reach him. He assured Gram he’d make contact with the man and then be home as soon as he could.

Hours later, in the dark, he drove into Gram’s driveway. His time with Mr. Harris had been totally discouraging. He got out of his truck and made his way around the side of the house. Stomping the snow off his boots, he climbed the few steps to his grandmother’s back porch. The starless night air was bitter cold and the darkness so thick it seemed to smother life itself. He crossed the threshold of the enclosed porch, haunted by its memories. He and Hannah had spent many a long summer day shucking corn or snapping beans right here on this porch.

He plunked onto a padded wicker chair, wondering what his next move should be. Every possible hint of a way to locate Hannah had become a dead end. Aside from Matthew, no one in her community would even talk to him. Maybe a private investigator was the answer.

Through the porch window, he caught a glimpse of his grandmother’s silhouette as she entered the kitchen. A dim light flicked on inside the house, and then the door to the back porch opened. Gram tightened her thick terry-cloth housecoat around her as she stepped onto the porch.

She knew why he chose to live here in Owl’s Perch with her during the summer and on school breaks rather than spend time in Maryland with his parents. She’d hired an Amish girl to help her around the house three years ago, and after Paul met her, he spent as much time here as he could manage. Gram had reservations about his future with an Old Order Amish girl, but she had come to care about Hannah too.

Gram grabbed a blanket off a nearby rocker and draped it over her shoulders. “Any news concerning the missing money?”

Paul sighed. “The footage of the person who withdrew the money from our account shows a young woman, either Amish or dressed like one.”

“What? How did she get hold of the bankbook?”

“We don’t think she did. Our best guess is that somehow Hannah’s attacker got it, and he either tricked an Amish person into withdrawing the money, using a photoless ID, or he hired someone to act the part.”

“Now what?”

Paul shrugged. “It’s another dead end, Gram.”

Faint streams of light filtered through the kitchen window onto the dark, cold porch. He knew Gram had a meal inside waiting for him; she always did. But Paul didn’t want to enter the warm, familiar home. He wanted Hannah.

She needed him, if he just knew how to find her.

“Paul.” Gram’s voice trembled.

Realizing it was too cold for her to be out here, he nodded toward the door. “Go on inside, Gram. I’ll be in later.”

She shifted from one foot to another. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but …”—she shoved her hands into her pockets—“a letter arrived in the mail for you today.” She pulled out an envelope. “I don’t think it’s from Hannah. The handwriting doesn’t look like hers.”

Paul took the envelope and held it in the dull light that streamed from the kitchen window. “That’s Hannah’s writing. It’s more wobbly than usual, but it’s hers.” He studied the envelope. It had no return address, but it’d been mailed from Pittsburgh two days ago. He ripped the envelope open and removed the letter.

At the sight of his name scrawled across the top of the letter, his eyes clouded. Light flooded the porch. Gram had turned on the overhead lamp and gone inside.

He read the letter.

Dearest Paul,

I wrote a letter to you and left it with Matthew, but then I realized you would not receive it unless you came looking for me.

I’m on the train I boarded in Harrisburg, and I needed to share a word that has caused such hope to grow within me that my strength for life is returning.

Nevertheless.

It’s a great word. Ya?

Paul nodded as tears blurred his vision. He wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand.

If all our dreams lie shattered before us—nevertheless, God can sustain us and even build new dreams.

I conceived a child because someone did not place his desires under God’s authority—nevertheless, God’s power over my life is stronger than that event.

Rachel died—nevertheless, she is now with God.

You and I are no more—nevertheless, God is not without a plan.

Ach, what I feel in my heart is so much stronger than I can manage to put on this paper. But I laugh as I think—nevertheless, God will give you understanding.

He closed his eyes and could hear her soft, gentle laugh. She was growing in ways that were good for her, and he was thankful for it.

I know you had to walk away and start a new life without me. I think I’ll always miss who we once were. I’m guilty of Rachel’s death. I tried to hide that she existed when I should have sought medical help. Nevertheless, God speaks to me. Let Him speak to you too.

In hope forever,

Hannah

He shot out of the chair, off the porch, and into the yard. He gulped in a lungful of frigid air. Closing his eyes, he felt the burden of confusion ease a bit as it tried to give way to acceptance. A snippet of hope took root, and he sensed that Hannah must have experienced a similar feeling when she discovered the nevertheless idea.

Paul folded the letter, assured that if anyone could make a success out of this mess, she could. He lifted his face to the heavens. “I need to hear from you again, Hannah. I need to know you’re safe and have found someone to help you. God, please.”

As he stared into the vastness of the jeweled sky, he wanted more from God than just this note.

He sighed.

Nevertheless, he’d heard from her, and it was a good note.

“Thank you, God.” He whispered the words and tucked the letter into his shirt pocket. In that moment, all lingering desire for vengeance against her attacker melted. Whatever the destruction, God would not let the story end there.