Plain Confession

by Emma Miller

  “But Evan doesn’t know you’re there.”

  Rachel pursed her lips. “Mary Aaron, you aren’t my mother. Stop worrying. I’ve got to go. I’m at the gate. I’ll call you when I’m headed home.” She hung up and put her Jeep in drive again.

  At the fence, the three strands of barbed wire, and Keep Out signs, she stopped again. The actual fence wasn’t much, an old pasture split-rail-and-stock-wire mix that was mostly rotten and rusted away. She could have easily taken down the barbed wire and driven through, but off to the right, she could see a gap in the fence line. Fortunately, Jeeps were made for off-road jaunts. It only took her a minute to make the decision.

  She drove through the pasture, through the opening in the fence, and then back onto the dirt lane. It was overgrown, and although she could see where a vehicle had driven down it recently, it certainly wasn’t used much. A hundred yards later, the rutted path ended in a substantial metal gate, reinforced with thick iron bars and flanked by a twelve-foot-high wire fence and several surveillance cameras. This fence was huge and stretched in two directions with no breaks in it to be seen. More signs were posted to deter visitors: No Trespassing! Private Property, and No Visitors! Her favorite was Intruders Will Be Shot !

  Not wanting to be identified as an intruder, but determined to speak to the man behind the fence, Rachel blew her horn.

  When there was no response, she got out and walked to the gate. Noticing a small square control panel that looked like an intercom, she pushed the button. “Hello!” she called into what had to be the speaker. “I’m here to see Mr. Charles Baker on an urgent matter.”

  A red light flashed on the gate, immediately followed by a siren. “No admittance!” a computer recording blared. “This is a poisonous reptile facility. You may be in imminent danger. For your own safety, turn around and drive away from the property at once.” Dogs barking viciously, also part of the recording, completed the welcoming message.

  Rachel pushed the button a second time. “This is Rachel Mast, from town,” she said into the intercom. “Mr. Baker. I need to speak to you. Please.”

  The recording started again and the robotic voice continued until it reached the word poisonous, at which time it went silent. A deep male voice came out of the speaker. “Rachel? Which Rachel? Is this the young woman who sells hand-dipped candles at the farmers’ market?”

  “No, that’s Rachel Yoder. I’m the Rachel Mast who runs the B&B.”

  “Rupert Rust’s friend Rachel?”

  “Yes,” she answered, somewhat surprised that Baker would know Rupert. Rupert was an ex-marine who’d suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and had recently left the English world to return to the peace of his Amish roots. “Yes,” she repeated. “Rupert’s a friend of mine.”

  There was a click and then nothing. Rachel waited a moment, then hit the intercom button again. “Hello? Mr. Baker?” She paused. “Hello.”

  She got no response. She waited, then tried the intercom again. Nothing. She couldn’t see anything through the gate; there were metal plates bolted to the bars. Just when she was beginning to think Baker had no intention of letting her in, his authoritative voice came over the intercom again. “Get back in your vehicle. Wait there. I’m coming down. It will be a few minutes.”

  What have I gotten myself into? she wondered as she returned to her Jeep and closed the door. She waited.

  And waited.

  And then, just when she was seriously considering giving up, at least for the day, she heard the dogs. But these weren’t recordings of dogs barking; they were live dogs, a pack of them. And they didn’t sound particularly friendly.

  A few moments later, a small panel slid open on the gate. “Stay in your vehicle,” came Charles’s voice. “The dogs aren’t used to strangers and they will bite.”

  Lovely, she thought. I’m going to be dog lunch.

  Soundlessly, the gate slid open, and she got her first glimpse of Charles Baker. What she saw was a big, stocky man in a military-style olive-drab field coat. He had long hair worn in a single graying braid, a thick beard, and yellow-lens sunglasses. It was impossible to guess his age behind the beard and the glasses, but his olive skin was tanned, his cheekbones as chiseled as skate blades, and his big hands were covered with black leather gloves. Over one shoulder hung what appeared to be some sort of semiautomatic assault rifle, and around his waist was a leather belt that held an assortment of weapons, including a holstered handgun and a bone-handled bowie knife with at least a fourteen-inch blade.

  She rolled down the window. “Expecting a war?” she asked. She knew that it wasn’t a professional way to begin her interview, but she couldn’t help herself. “I can assure you, I’m not armed.”

  Charles Baker surveyed the lane behind her and then scanned the woods and field in all directions. Satisfied, he tugged off his fur hat and motioned to her. “You’d better come in. I don’t like to leave the gate open for long.”

  “Do you want me to leave my vehicle here?” she asked, stalling for time. All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through that gate. Charles Baker looked as though he’d stepped out of some end-of-the-world movie. And then there were the dogs.

  He shook his head. “No, best drive up to the house. It’s not safe for you to walk. Snakes.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And the dogs.” He motioned her through.

  “Into the valley,” she murmured under her breath as a tingling sensation crept up the back of her neck. And for the first time she began to seriously doubt the sanity of what she was doing. This man could truly be unhinged. She was glad she’d told Mary Aaron she was coming.

  As Rachel eased her vehicle through the opening, she saw the dogs that had been doing all the barking. But they weren’t barking now. They were as still as statues, crouched in the pine needles, watching her. Pit bulls. More than a half dozen. There was an assortment of other dogs as well, but it was the scarred pit bulls that caught her attention. They were definitely not used to strangers, and they looked hungry. She wished she had waited for Mary Aaron.

  She stopped the Jeep and rolled down the window. “Mr. Baker, there’s no need for me to drive to your home. We could talk here. I came because I have a few questions about the death of your neighbor Daniel Fisher.”

  “You want to talk to me, you come up to the house, sit down, and we talk proper. Otherwise, turn your little vehicle around and go home. Choice is yours.”

  She nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll come, of course. I just don’t want to take up too much of your time. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  He came close to the window. “You’re already taking up my time,” he said. “And it is a bother. I have chores that need tending. But Rupert likes you. And he said he owes you big-time.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “So I’ll see if I can answer your questions. Out of respect for him.”

  “Rupert is your friend?” she asked.

  “He’s a boy who’s seen too much. He needs all the friends he can get.”

  A dog growled, deep in his throat, and started to get up. Baker fixed the animal with a gaze. “Enough,” he said. The dog immediately dropped back onto his stomach. “Don’t mind him,” Baker said. “He’s young. Not the best mannered yet.” He turned and strode to the gate, pushed a button, and the big door slid shut behind her.

  “You’re welcome to ride with me, Mr. Baker,” she suggested, leaning out the window.

  “I’ll walk. Need the exercise. And you can call me Chuck. If I invite you to my home, we’re on a first-name basis. All right with you?”

  “Perfect,” she agreed. He nodded and waved her to move on up the road.

  It veered left and climbed a steep incline that required her to downshift her Jeep. She crossed a small bridge that led, not over a stream as she guessed, but over a rocky ravine. Snaking back and forth, the lane climbed the mountain. Sometimes the way led through an overgrown tunnel of trees and other times along an outcrop of crumbly shale that made her wish for a
guardrail along the exposed side. She wondered how long Chuck Baker had lived up here, and how long it had taken him to construct his fortress retreat. Most of all, she wondered what she thought she was doing here and why she thought that she might discover something that the police detectives hadn’t.

  The lane finally ended at a smaller gate in a palisade wall of logs buried upright in the ground. She stopped the Jeep and glanced in the rearview mirror. She saw no sign of Chuck or the dogs and wondered how long ago he’d abandoned her and where he’d gone. She’d been so intent on not rolling down the side of the mountain that she’d never seen him go.

  She waited again. The gate opened, and Chuck stood there smiling. Somewhere, he’d shed the rifle and taken a shortcut to get here ahead of her. He was still wearing the scary belt with the knife and handgun. “I’ve shut the nervous dogs up,” he said. “Leave your vehicle there, please, and come into the house.”

  Reluctantly, Rachel left the comparative safety of her Jeep and walked through the gate. Inside, she stopped and stared. Ahead was a neat log cabin with stone chimneys at either end. To her left, running downhill, spread an old orchard, overgrown, but still showing vestiges of late apples and walnuts. On the hillside, beyond the picturesque cabin, stood a log barn and several smaller outbuildings, also built of logs. Beyond the structures were the remains of a garden, and a pasture with goats, horses, and a half dozen long-haired, shaggy, reddish Highland cattle. The open fields stretched several acres, a miniature high valley tucked into the folds of the ancient mountain.

  Her astonishment must have been evident because Baker laughed, a deep, soft belly rumble. “Did you think I lived in a cave?” he asked.

  “Ne.” Actually, she hadn’t thought that far. After the fencing and bridges that were rigged to be dropped or raised up and the cameras and dogs, she wouldn’t have been surprised by a WWII-type concrete bunker. What she hadn’t expected was a quaint dwelling and homestead that looked as if it had been created two hundred years ago. Except for the wind turbine and the solar panels. “It’s beautiful,” she pronounced. “Do you live here alone?”

  He shook his head. “I have my dogs, and there are twenty of them at last count. No, make that twenty-two. One was pregnant when I got her from the shelter in State College. Thoughtless kids. They buy a puppy, neglect her training, and then are surprised when she’s not housebroken or takes a bite out of the neighbor’s poodle.”

  “I see that you like pit bulls.”

  “They’re the ones most likely to be left chained to a box when the owner moves or, if they’re lucky, dropped off at the shelter. They need care and discipline. Nothing wrong with a pit. People say they’re dangerous. It’s the owners that are dangerous. You have no business owning something if you can’t take care of it.”

  She looked up at Chuck and reconsidered her first impression of him. He sounded like a man who cared about the welfare of animals. In her mind, that didn’t mesh with the paramilitary security and the guns. A complex man, she thought. Nothing is ever what you expect on first sight. “I don’t want to keep you from your chores,” she began. “If you could just answer a few questions about Daniel and your trouble with him—” She cut herself short, looking at him looking at her.

  Baker’s hooded eyes narrowed. They were so dark brown as to appear black, and for the first time, she wondered if he might have Native American blood. “I’m not answering any questions out here,” he said. “You’ve come this far, and I only let you in for Rupert’s sake. We’ll talk inside. This wind is cold, and you could probably use something warm to drink.” He slid a bolt into place on the gate and led the way down a path to the cabin. “You’re safe enough in here,” he said. “I don’t make war on women, at least not those who aren’t trying to blow me to smithereens.”

  “I can assure you that I’m not armed and I have no intentions of harming you or anyone else.”

  He chuckled. “Good. That makes me feel better.” He gave her a long look, taking in her clothing. “You aren’t Amish, but you dress like it.”

  “Born Amish; not anymore, though. I intended on talking with some of your Amish neighbors. They’re more open if I don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

  He smiled. “You’re smart. And determined. Most women would never have gone around that first wire gate. And few men, either.” He pushed open the door and pointed to pegs against one wall. “You can hang your coat up there.” He unbuckled his weapons belt and shrugged out of his heavy coat. “Just give me a moment and I’ll make us a pot of tea. You do drink tea, don’t you? My blackberry is excellent, but I have Irish breakfast or peppermint, if you’d prefer that.”

  “Peppermint, please,” she said. Her stomach was a little queasy from the drive up the mountain. She glanced around. Inside, the cabin was as lovely as out. The walls were decorated, not with mounted deer heads as she’d expected but with Indian baskets, beadwork, and what appeared to be a very old bow and fringed leather quiver. Over the doorway she’d just stepped through hung a green stone Indian peace pipe with a wooden stem. An eagle feather dangled from it. “Are you Native American?” she asked.

  “Enough to claim a tribal card. My dad’s parents were part Shawnee. Mom was Oneida out of upper New York State.”

  “The Oneida are one of the five tribes of Iroquois,” Rachel said.

  “Good,” he remarked. “You aren’t completely ignorant about my heritage.”

  He waved her to a leather chair by the stone fireplace. This spacious room contained a galley kitchen and living area. There was a door leading off the kitchen and another at the far end of the room. A large ginger-striped cat was curled in a basket beside the hearth. “Oh, I forgot.” She turned back to him before reaching the chair. “I brought you homemade cinnamon-raisin sticky buns. They’re in the Jeep. I’ll just go out and get them.”

  Baker frowned. “No, miss, you stay put. The dogs . . .”

  “I thought you locked up the dangerous ones.”

  “None of them are too friendly.” He raised a hand. “I’ll get them.” And before she could protest, he’d exited through the door.

  She looked around at the interior of the cabin great room as she sat down. She’d been expecting to see weapons, high-powered guns, ammunition, knives, but instead, she saw rows of canned goods on every shelf. Strings of onions and dried herbs hung from the massive beams overhead. Everywhere she looked were jars and jars of preserved peaches, apples, string beans, corn, berries, and what looked like fish. Other shelves held hardbound books, dozens of them, not survival manuals but classics such as Dickens, Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, and Faulkner.

  The cat raised its head and stared at her, then hissed. She jumped back. It wasn’t a cat but a half-grown raccoon. The hair on the animal’s back stiffened and it bared its teeth before darting past her and diving into a stack of wood near the door. Rachel stared after it, not certain if she should be frightened or amused. Who had a raccoon for a pet?

  Abruptly, the kettle whistled. Rachel got up and went into the kitchen area and turned off the gas flame beneath it. From the stove, she could see that open shelves of the cabinets and island held containers of flour, sugar, and cornmeal as well as more mason jars filled to the brim with food. Her gaze lingered on two framed objects on the wall beside the window, a window framed with yellow cotton curtains. She took a step closer and stared. The frames held medals. One was the Silver Star, the second the Medal of Honor awarded by the American government for the most courageous acts under fire.

  “Mugs are in that cabinet over the sink,” Baker said as he entered the cabin.

  Startled, Rachel jumped. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She turned to face him, not wanting to seem to be invading his privacy. “The kettle . . .” she began.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” In his hands was the basket containing the sticky buns Rachel had taken from the sweets laid out for her guests’ pleasure. Ada baked them fresh at least twice a week. “How did you know that I have a passion for
cinnamon buns? And these look as though they have nuts on top.”

  She nodded. “Are these yours, Mr. Baker? The Medal of Honor and the Silver Star?”

  He looked down at the pastries. “I do fancy sticky buns. Never had the nerve to try to make them myself. I appreciate the gift more than you can know.”

  “The medals?” she repeated softly.

  “Foolish of me to hang them up like that. Showing off, your Amish relatives would say, but I didn’t know what else to do with them. It seemed cowardly to toss them out, at least disrespectful.” He raised his head and met her look, and for a brief instant she saw a man carrying more than his share of mental pain. “You mind getting those cups out of the cupboard?”

  Rachel turned to the cabinet and took down two vintage-style white coffee mugs that might have been used in any diner in the 1920s. The glimpse of the interior of the cabinet had shown her dishes and glassware neatly lined up and ready for use.

  “Loose tea’s in that canister on the counter. Teapot’s under the sink.” Baker took the plate of sticky buns out of the basket and set them on the round table. It was wood and appeared to Rachel to be handcrafted, like most of the furniture in the cabin. “Scoop’s in the can. You need two scoops of the peppermint.”

  “You have no reason to be ashamed of those medals,” she said. “You must have been very brave.”

  “Brave or stupid, probably a little of both, but I saw a lot of men who deserved them more than I did.” His voice dropped to a raspy grating. “Men who mostly didn’t come home or came home short of arms and legs or maybe eyes or half a brain.” A visible shudder passed through him. “Bad memories,” he said. “Stupid war, waste of lives. Not something I care to talk about.”

  “But you talk about it with Rupert,” she suggested gently.

  “Only when I need to, when it can ease his soul. For myself. . . It’s why I live like this. Why I’m happier on my own . . . why I’ve had enough of orders from politicians who never wade through the blood they cause.” He stiffened and his features smoothed out, hiding the anger behind a disarming smile. “When you’ve seen as much of mankind as I have, a raccoon makes good company. Now, let’s have our tea, and I’ll try to tell you what you came to find out.”