by Tami Hoag
She set her cigarette to smolder in a Baccarat ashtray with the bent corpses of half a dozen others as a dull headache began to squeeze the backs of her eyeballs. Leave the detecting to the detectives. What she really needed was that second cup of coffee she had passed on. She dumped the papers on the middle cushion of the sofa and rose again. Her gaze caught on the packet of photographs, and on impulse she took it with her as she began to wander back through the house.
The photographs from the night of the murder brought back echoes of the fear that had gripped her, and the nightmarish, surrealistic air that had surrounded the scene after the police and press had descended—the blaze of light around the resort, the cruisers with beacons flashing, the deputies standing guard around the perimeter looking both uncertain and unyielding, and at the center of it all the Lincoln and its owner lying dead on the ground. Even in black and white the scene seemed too real, the crime too brutal. Elizabeth frowned as she looked at the fresh young face of Kenny Spencer, saw his shock, felt his uneasiness as his world rocked beneath his feet.
She shuffled the deck of photographs and came to the ones she had taken Saturday morning. The Amishman trudging along behind his workhorses as the sun lifted above the eastern horizon. The series of shots of the construction site. The ones she had taken standing on the spot where Jarvis had died—the creek, the willows draping over the banks.
She bumped the kitchen door open with her hip and stepped into the room as she flipped to the photo she had taken accidentally. The one of Aaron standing, head bowed, hat in hand, praying over the graves of his wife and children. His family, who had died at the hands of the English.
An eye for an eye . . . The verse came to her, unbidden, and she shook it off mentally. The Amish were pacifists. They didn't kill. They didn't answer violence with violence. They didn't snap under the pressures of the modern world, because they divorced themselves from the modern world. They didn't—
Elizabeth stopped and stood perfectly still except for the throbbing of her heart. She had patted herself on the back for having such sharp perceptions, uncluttered by past experience or preconceptions. But she was doing exactly what she had accused Dane of time and again—seeing what she wanted to see, what she had been conditioned to see.
Jarvis's murder had seemed to her like a crime of passion, she had said to Dane. A crime of hate, hate that had erupted suddenly and uncontrollably. Who would be more capable of hate than a man whose wife and children had been killed?
Her gaze fell on Aaron's carpenter's box and all the neatly arranged tools of his trade—hammers, screwdrivers, carving tools with thin curved blades, knives and chisels and gouges.
As she lifted her head, her gaze met Aaron's and an instinctive shiver went through her, as cold as ice. He stared at her steadily, calmly, and his face changed subtly, eerily. The skin seemed to tighten against his skull and a soft hint of color illuminated his high cheekbones. Behind the plain, practical lenses of his spectacles, his blue eyes brightened to the hue and brilliance of sapphires. Elizabeth's throat tightened.
“Es waar Gotters Wille,” he said softly. “It was God's will.”
TWENTY-SIX
DANE TURNED THE BRONCO IN AT THE HAUER drive. He wasn't looking forward to the interview he was about to conduct, but then, it seemed this was a day for unpleasant business. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet and already he had gone one round with Ellstrom, whom he had found passed out on the floor of his garage, reeking of whiskey, sickness, and failure. Now he had to play out a hunch every cell of his being would rather have rejected out of hand.
He climbed out of the Bronco and followed the cracked sidewalk to the neat white farmhouse, setting his personal feelings aside. He was a cop, he needed to think like a cop, not like a local hero or a favorite son or a longtime friend.
Ruth Hauer answered the door, a cotton dishtowel in her hands. She was a sturdy woman, built like an icebox with a face lined by years of hard work and childbearing. Wisps of iron-gray hair had escaped the confines of her bun to curl limply around the edge of her white kapp, and her cheeks were flushed from the steam of something cooking on the woodstove. She regarded Dane with the kind of wary shock of someone discovering a long-lost ne'er-do-well cousin on their step. His stomach growled at the heady warm scent of fresh bread wafting out of the tidy kitchen.
“Good morning, Ruth. Is Aaron home?”
“In his shop, I tink, Dane Yahntzen,” she said, English stumbling clumsily off her tongue. “Something there is the matter?”
Dane hoped not. With all his heart he hoped not. He gave the old woman a smile. “I just need to ask him a few questions.”
He left Ruth to her baking and walked across the yard to the building Aaron had set up for his carpentry shop. The shop smelled unmistakably of fresh-cut lumber, lemon oil and stain and beeswax. A workbench stretched the length of one wall. Tools were neatly hung above it or stored in wooden boxes along the ledge. Works in progress were lined along the wall nearest the bench—a round oak dining room table, a tall wardrobe, cupboards. Several completed pieces sat along the far wall, waiting to be picked up by the people who had commissioned them. Everything was in its place except the carpenter. There was no sign of Aaron.
“He has gone already.”
Dane looked up from the table he was examining. Samuel Hauer stood in the doorway, dressed as all Amishmen dressed—in black broadfall trousers and a blue shirt. The brim of his straw hat was gone, leaving something that looked like a down-home version of a fez—his milking hat. Dane straightened and moved to the next piece of furniture, the wardrobe that was taller than he was and sturdy as an oak tree. He ran a hand along the smooth wood of the side the same way he might stroke a horse, absently aware of the qualities of beauty and strength. His gaze remained on Samuel as the old man came into the room. Like his wife, like all of his people who had reached an age, his face was lined by the years like the rings in a tree. The Amish had a hard life devoting themselves to God.
“I spoke to him of your questions, Dane Jantzen. He wants nothing to do with your English justice.”
“That won't stop me from doing my job, Samuel.”
Something like anguish passed through Hauer's eyes. He rubbed a gnarled, weathered hand over his face and muttered something in German. “He has known such torment. Can you not leave him alone?”
“No,” Dane said flatly. “As much as Aaron would like to think otherwise, we live in the same world, in the same county. The same justice applies to everyone. Where is he working today?”
“I don't know,” the old man said sadly. There were too many things he didn't know about Aaron these days. His son seemed so angry, so tense, as if there were a spring inside him winding tighter and tighter. The grief over his loss was not fading with time, it was souring and hardening, and Samuel sometimes lay awake nights worrying over what that kind of bitterness might do to a man.
“He left without saying,” he said. “Zook's, maybe. Or maybe the English woman's.” He stepped closer to the wardrobe and reached out a hand to the wood, touching it fondly, as if he might somehow reach his son through the thing he had created.
“He does good work, doesn't he?” he murmured, thumbing the latch. His thick fingers curled around the handle of the door, and when he swung it open, a dead blonde fell at his feet.
ELIZABETH STOOD ROOTED TO THE SPOT, HORRIBLY mesmerized by the look on Aaron's face, like a small, weak animal caught in the gaze of a predator. Realization arced between them. She knew, and he knew she knew. He would kill her now because of that knowledge.
“He bragged to me of how his resort would bring the tourists,” he said softly. “Of how he would block the creek and flood the valley so the tourists might go out on boats.
“Ana and Gemma are buried there. And my Siri. My sweet Siri. Killed by the English and he would yet drown them.” He shook his head, that steady blue gaze never leaving Elizabeth's. “He was a wicked man. I was doing only God's work.”
He hadn't planned to kill
Jarvis. He had gone to the creek to spend some quiet time with his loved ones. At Still Waters the workmen had finished for the day. Only Jarvis had remained. Jarvis had stared down at him from the hill, intruding on his privacy, calling out to him.
He hadn't planned to kill the man. Killing went against everything he had been raised to believe. But pain and fury had boiled up within him as they had stood on that hill overlooking the creek. Like acid, it had burned away everything else, all thought, all conscience. His fingers had closed on the handle of the knife in his pocket, the knife he had used to whittle the little birds for Ana and Gemma, the knife he had used to cut the stems of the wildflowers for Siri's grave.
After, he had been overwhelmed by guilt. But as he had knelt there in the dirt beside the corpse, the answer had come to him, as warm and comforting as sunlight. He had a purpose. This was part of God's plan. God had seized him, had guided his hands.
Calmly he had put Jarvis back in his automobile so the stench of his death wouldn't disturb the pure country air, then he went down to the creek and washed his hands, carefully cleaned his knife. A man kept his tools as he kept his life—neat and orderly. For a long while he had just stood and stared at the creek. Such a beautiful spot, so peaceful. Perfectly designed by God. Nothing for man to tamper with. He had walked home the long way, along the edge of Hudson Woods so he could look for ginseng root for his mother.
The wheels of Elizabeth's mind spun frantically. She needed to get out of the house, but Aaron stood between her and the door. She wasn't quick enough to dart around him, or outrun him even if she could get past him. She took a slow step backward, toward the dining room, as he reached for a long shiny steel chisel.
“The Gemei are God's people,” he said matter-of-factly. “God would have me protect His folk from the wicked who would hurt us or lead us astray.”
Like the tourist woman who had come to his shop yesterday. Wicked creature. Windfliegel. Whore. She had tried to tempt him, had offered herself to him. An English harlot wanting to make sport of the simple Amishman. She had touched him through his trousers and his flesh had responded, but he had seen her for what she was—another test. Like Elizabeth was a test.
“I thought we were friends, Aaron,” Elizabeth said, trying to buy time, desperately hoping she might be able to reason with him. She kept her eyes on the chisel as he lifted it out of the box, and ruthlessly squelched the urge to bolt. Timing, timing, she chanted inwardly, and eased back another step.
He arched a brow and his mouth kicked up on one corner in that wry smile she had once found so endearing.
“You are an English whore,” he said, hating the pain her betrayal caused him. Or was it his own betrayal of his faith? He had wanted her and she was a sinful wanton. As sinful as Eve tempting Adam. “I have seen you through the window. Tempting men. Fornicating.”
His admission hit Elizabeth like a blow to the stomach, knocking the wind from her, nauseating her. He had been watching her. Aaron's eyes were the eyes she had felt. The malevolence was his. The madness was his. Tears and bile crowded her throat at the thought. What she had shared with Dane might not have been love on his part, but it meant a great deal to her. More than it should have. The idea of a madman taking it all in, twisting it into something ugly in his mind was revolting. She felt violated and terrified.
She glanced away from him, in search of a weapon or a shield, anything that might help her save herself. Nothing. The counter was gone. There were no knives within reach, not even a bottle of her bootlegged scotch to throw at him. All she could see was the migratory pile of shoes mounded up in the corner. She moved another step and a kitchen chair came into view. Her gaze flicked back to Aaron.
“God wouldn't be having you kill people, Aaron,” she said. “What about the ten commandments?”
“‘Honor the Lord thy God,' ” Aaron said, coming around the end of the plywood table. “I am an instrument of God.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, taking another step, reaching blindly for the chair. Her fingers, slick with sweat, connected with the vinyl back and curled over the edge.
“Well, I hate to mess up God's plans,” she said, panting, as breathless as if she had run a mile, “but I'm not of mind to get myself killed here, Aaron.”
He didn't hear her. She could tell her words had not registered at all. He had retreated to some inner place where he doubtless believed he heard the word of God. Somehow, that was more frightening than listening to his lunatic ramblings. He wouldn't listen to her now. He may not even hear her screams as he plunged the chisel into her. The thin thread that had tethered him to sanity had snapped.
He raised the chisel and stepped toward her. Elizabeth grabbed the chair, meaning to fling it at his lower legs, but the back slipped from her fingers like a slab of ice and the chair clattered to the floor, an obstacle instead of a weapon. Better than nothing. She might not get another opportunity. She wheeled and bolted into the dining room, making a beeline for the living room and the front door nobody ever used.
Aaron followed in no particular hurry. Beyond the roar of her pulse in her ears, Elizabeth could hear the scrape of the chair as he moved it aside, his footfalls as he crossed the hardwood floor of the dining room. He seemed to think she had no hope of escape. The possibility that he was right shot through her like shards of glass, ripping at what composure she had left.
She ran into the living room, where Bonnie Raitt was crooning a tune about broken hearts and second chances. The music was slow and bluesy, the kind of thing she liked to listen to on quiet, lazy nights. Now it added to the surrealism of the moment. Slow, sad love songs playing while a killer stalked her. Inside her everything was racing—her heart, her thoughts. Air pumped in and out of her lungs in hot, ragged gusts, while the world around her moved in slow motion.
She hit her sore knee on the corner of a coffee table and wanted to double over in pain, but she kept going, lunging at the door and salvation. Her hands closed on the knob and tried to turn it. It slipped between her fingers like wet soap. Sobbing, choking for breath, she grasped it harder, turned, and yanked. The door didn't budge. She glanced over her shoulder to see Aaron coming into the living room and glanced back around, her heart stopping as her gaze landed on the brand-new brass dead-bolt key lock he had installed for her.
There wasn't time to try to unlock it. She didn't have the key. He was too near. If she didn't run now, he would have her trapped. A thousand different thoughts ran fast-forward through her mind. What if she managed to get out of the house? Were the keys in the Caddy? What if it wouldn't start? Could she get away in Aaron's buggy? Would he run her down and kill her on the road? Leave her body in the ditch to be discovered by a stranger or by her son on his way home from work. Trace. Trace would be left with no one. Would Dane help him? Would Dane grieve for her?
“Whore!” Aaron shouted as adrenaline shot through him in a dizzying rush. He would kill her now as she stood against the door with her green silken robe gaping open, tempting him to disobey God and his people. He raised the chisel and lunged at her.
Elizabeth couldn't draw breath enough to scream. The blade of the chisel sank into the door as she dodged to the side and tripped over a footstool. Arms and legs moving frantically, she scrambled over an easy chair, grabbed a lamp by the neck, and swung it like a baseball bat at Aaron as he tried to cut off her angle. The base of the lamp caught him square in the chest, and he staggered back a step, roaring in outrage.
She didn't look to see if she had hurt him. She ran for the stairs, praying she would have enough time. Just like in a nightmare, the steps seemed to go straight up at a horrible pitch and the walls of the stairwell closed in around them like a tunnel. Elizabeth hurled herself up them, stumbled, fell, ran on hands and knees and elbows, tangling and tripping on her robe. Off balance, her mind racing faster than her body could keep up, she hit the second-floor landing and flung herself toward her room.
She could hear Aaron's heavy boots on the stairs, could hear hi
m chanting words in German. She fell to her knees in front of the nightstand and yanked the drawer completely out, spilling a cloud of colorful silk scarves, empty cigarette packs, perfume cards from magazines, the Desert Eagle and its clip of ammunition.
“Oh, please, God. Please, God,” she whispered, fumbling for the gun. She grabbed the clip and tried to ram it home, but found she had it backward. Her fingers felt as thick and clumsy as sausages as she grappled with the smooth steel shaft, dropping it as Aaron flung the door open.
“I watched you and waited,” he said, breathless, eyes bright, heart pounding. “You could have redeemed yourself.”
But she hadn't. He had seen her with the sheriff, had watched them kiss and grope each other like wild, hungry animals. Arousal stirred within him at the memory, and rage followed, leaping up inside him like the fire of salvation. His fingers tightened on the chisel and he stepped into the room. It was fitting that she die here, in her harlot's bed.
The magazine slid into place with a hiss and a snap. Elizabeth bit her lip and jerked the slide back on the gun, chambering the first cartridge. Her hands were shaking violently and tears blurred her vision as she hauled the Desert Eagle up in front of her and squeezed the trigger.
DANE HIT THE BRAKES, AND THE BRONCO SKIDDED sideways, spewing gravel up and spooking the buggy horse that stood tethered to the light pole. His mind kept flashing the image of the dead blonde. Flashing it on and off, like frames in a movie, there and gone before he could will it away. Like a pulse beat—dead, dead, dead.
He grabbed his .38 off the seat, flung open the door of the truck, and hit the ground running as a shot split the morning air like a crack of thunder.
Every bit of training he'd had vanished from his head and instinct took control. He had called for backup, but nothing was going to make him wait for it.
He bounded up the back steps and into the house. Kicked open the kitchen door and let the .38 precede him into the room. It was empty. For a second he stood, breathing hard, gathering his wits, taking in the scene. The room was its usual shambles. Cereal boxes on the table, shoes on the floor. Aaron's toolbox sat on the sheet of plywood. A kitchen chair had been overturned. Music drifted in from the living room. Bonnie Raitt. Elizabeth's favorite.