Plain Secrets

by Kit Wilkinson

  “Oh, come on. You don’t have to be official about it. Just go and pay respects or whatever.”

  “Why me? If you just want someone to figure out what’s going on, why not one of the local guys?”

  “Chief McClendon says his own men aren’t always Amish-friendly. He’d heard of you, the Amish cop in the city, and thought the people would respond better with one of their own asking the questions.”

  Eli shook his head—that made no sense. Very few people knew he was raised Amish. “They’d be even less likely to answer me—because they’d think I should know better than to ask. The Amish don’t seek revenge or restitution or even answers for unexplained events. They accept it as God’s will and move on. So they would have no reason to seek answers and therefore would have no interest in answering them. I can’t imagine the family even wants an investigation.”

  “Well, they don’t. That’s why there was no autopsy. All we have are these pictures. And Chief McClendon took them himself. He thinks there’s something major going on here and that you’re our best shot at finding out what it is.”

  Eli shook his head. “I haven’t seen these people in eleven years. I’m not one of them anymore. They won’t talk to me about any of this. They probably don’t even talk to each other about it.”

  The captain frowned. “McClendon thinks you’ll have a chance.”

  Eli groaned. He did not want to go back to Willow Trace. Not now. Not ever. “I’m sorry, Captain. But I can’t do this.”

  “You have to.”

  “But Tucci and I are right in the middle of a case against that officer in District Seven.”

  “I’ll put someone else on it.”

  Eli shook his head. “You don’t get it. I really cannot go back there.”

  “You have to.” O’Dell folded up the record file. “I’ll be honest with you, Miller, I don’t quite get it, but this is way over my head.”

  Eli narrowed his eyes on the captain. “What? How can it be over your head from the Lancaster County police?”

  His boss crossed his arms over his chest. “The request came from Chief McClendon via the governor.”

  “The governor?” Elijah stood and began to pace in front of his boss’s desk. “How does the governor even know I exist?”

  “No idea, Miller. But when the governor asks for you, you go.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Eli was navigating the rolling hills of eastern Pennsylvania reluctantly on his way to Willow Trace. With every passing mile, the tension in him racked tighter and tighter. After eleven years, how would he be received? Would he be received? The only person who’d stayed in touch with him was his sister, Abigail. But even she did so in secret—their father, the local bishop, had told Elijah never to return if he chose to take up weapons as a part of his life and work.

  Eli knew it was difficult for his family to understand the choice he’d made, not just to leave the community but to become a police officer. Yet the reasons for it went far back into his childhood. He’d only been about five years old when, during a trip to the city with his father, a crazy man on the train had kidnapped him and his sister, Abigail. If it had not been for the help of the Philadelphia police, Elijah and his sister would never have been reunited with their family. That incident had always made him admire and respect the police. When Hannah had chosen to marry Peter instead of him, Eli had felt certain that leaving the Amish community behind and becoming a policeman was what God had called him to do. Ironic that the very reason he’d never returned to Willow Trace since then was exactly the thing forcing him home today.

  About as ironic as heading out to see Hannah—the woman he’d tried so hard to forget. They’d been so in love. Or at least he’d thought so. Then she’d married Peter. He’d felt like such a fool.

  His thoughts rambled as he maneuvered his convertible through the hills and around the horse and buggies. He kept his head down and lifted a quick word. Guard me from their judgment, Lord. If there is a job for me here, then make me strong so I can do it. If not, let me return to what—

  Eli looked up just in time to slam on the brakes as another horse and carriage crossed right into his lane while attempting to avoid a sleek black sedan speeding around the buggy on the right shoulder.

  Crazy driver. Couldn’t slow down one second for a buggy. Good grief. Someone could have been seriously injured. He shook his head, remembering all too well the days of being in the buggy himself and having those sorts of incidents. They happened more frequently than they should. He patted the dash of his Mustang. He felt much safer in his convertible.

  Checking his rearview mirror, he searched for the car, but the black sedan had already fled the area. Thankfully, the horse and buggy were recovered and back on their side of the road. Eli drove on.

  Minutes later, he turned onto the dirt path leading to the Nolts’ farmhouse. A chill of unease rippled down his spine with the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He parked in the gravel turnaround in front of the quaint two-story stone cottage and stepped out of his car. The old house hadn’t changed. The sight of it flooded his head with hundreds of memories—gatherings, Sunday church, buggy rides.

  A woman stepping onto the long white porch restored his mind to the present. She wore a blue frock with a black apron. Her raven hair had been tucked tightly away under a white prayer Kapp. She dried her hands on the skirt of her apron, then pressed away the creases, all the while studying him from the safety of the porch. At length, a soft, pleasant smile fell over her lips.

  Hannah.

  Eli froze to his spot on the front walkway. She was stunning as ever—her sweet face, her deep emerald eyes. As soft and beautiful as the last time he’d seen her so many years ago. She smiled wide, although from the redness around her eyes he guessed she’d been crying recently, no doubt over the loss of her daughter. Still, as she moved toward him, she was easy and natural. Seeing her felt like a cool breeze against his skin on the hottest of summer days. A lump the size of a stone grew into his throat, and his heart pumped four times its normal speed.

  I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

  “Can it be? Elijah Miller?” Her alto voice sounded smooth and rich. “After all these years?”

  “It is.” He struggled to speak. Seeing her again seemed to have sucked the air from his lungs and brought back so many memories his head was full. “How are you, Hannah?”

  She tilted her head to the side, grinning wider. “How long have you been home? I have not heard a word about your visit. How is that so?”

  “I just arrived, actually.” He forced out each word carefully. Painfully. He shifted his weight and pressed his lips together. Her friendliness surprised him a little but not as much as his own reaction. Where was all the pain and anger he should be feeling?

  “And you have not been first to see your Mamm? How is that?”

  A buzzing sound zipped through the air between them. Eli turned his head to the woods. Was that gunfire?

  Suddenly all of his wavering uncertainty vanished. Years of training and experience had hardwired his response to that sound—even when it came at the most unlikely of moments. Without a second thought, he dove forward, covering Hannah with his body and forcing her to the ground. Eleven years working the city streets had taught him to react first and think later. A skill that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  A second buzzing flew over them. A nanosecond later, the front window of the
house shattered.

  Oh yeah. That was gunfire.

  TWO

  “What’s going on?” Hannah tried to sit up and take stock of the situation. Elijah pushed her back to the ground.

  “Stay down. Someone’s shooting at us.” He rolled onto his back and pulled his Glock from its shoulder holster, aiming it toward the woods.

  Hannah stared wide-eyed at his gun. She scooted back a few feet, then started to stand.

  “What are you doing?” He jumped up after her, shielding her body again but continuing to face the woods with his firearm cocked and ready. “You’re making yourself a target. Those are real bullets, Hannah.”

  “Jah, all the more reason to move inside, no?” She hurried toward the porch.

  Okay. Maybe she had a point.

  Eli covered her as they made their way to the front door. He kept his eyes on the edge of the nearby forest. “Is anyone else home?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll go first.” He slipped in front of her and into the house, gun raised. Glass from the broken window had sprayed out across the hardwood floor. Otherwise, the large open space looked untouched. He pulled her in behind him and placed her in a corner away from the open door and window.

  “Stay here while I check upstairs and in the Dawdi Haus.”

  Hannah nodded. Eli ran up the stairs. He checked the bedrooms and single bath of the main cottage. He opened the connecting door leading to the Dawdi or grandparent addition and hurried through the small, attached living space. The entire place was empty.

  “Clear.” He descended to the living room. Hannah was still crouched in the corner. He put away his gun and knelt in front of her. “I’m going to search the woods. Don’t move until I get back.”

  “You’re going back out there?” Her eyes widened.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to catch one of her nervous glances, but her eyes would not rest. She shook all over. And he didn’t blame her. Someone had just blown out her front window. He hated to leave her, but he had to check the woods. “I’ll be right back. And I’ll keep an eye on the house the whole time.”

  She nodded, her body still trembling and her eyes avoiding his. But he could see the tears in them. As her head sank lower, Elijah’s heart dropped. He hated the fear she was feeling on top of the pain she’d already been through. This wasn’t the time for condolences, but the words burst out anyway.

  “I’m sorry about your daughter. I’m sorry about Jessica.”

  He quietly slid through the front door and took off across the front lawn, finding cover behind an unfinished wooden shed, his car, then an old stone well. His mind spun hard and fast with muddled questions and strange emotions…and Hannah. And he didn’t like any of it one bit.

  At the forest edge, Eli did his best to estimate the position of the shooter and he scanned for any evidence—a footprint, a thread of material, bullet casings. Anything besides a plethora of flora and fauna. But there was nothing, not even a squirrel skittering about. So when a twig snapped behind him, he immediately turned and raised his gun.

  He lowered it just as quickly. A small child stood there—an Amish child, dressed in a blue shirt, black trousers with suspenders and a straw hat.

  “Sorry.” Eli clicked on the safety of his gun and slid the piece back into its holster. “Don’t be afraid. I thought you were someone else.”

  The boy frowned and pointed through the woods. “He went that way.”

  “Who went that way?”

  “You look for man with, uh, der Pistole?” The boy looked at the Glock.

  “You saw the man with the gun?”

  The boy nodded and pulled his hand from behind his back to reveal a large black hat, the kind the Amish men wore.

  “The man was Amish?” Eli’s voice cracked with surprise.

  The boy shook his head. “Nein. English he was.”

  “But he wore this hat?”

  “Jah. He wear hat but also he have a…Oberlippenbart.” The boy pointed to his upper lip.

  “A mustache?” Eli was thankful the kid was observant. No Amish man grew a mustache—only the beard. So, the kid was right. The shooter could not have been Amish. Not that it was likely a shooter was Amish anyway, as the People did not support the use of weapons—and hence the main reason his own father could not accept his choice of professions. “Did you see where he went?”

  “In black car. Big black car.” The boy’s eyes were wide with admiration.

  A black car? Like the one that nearly caused the wreck earlier? “And the car?”

  “It goes.”

  Of course, the car was long gone, but at least he’d been searching in the right place. Whoever he was, he had taken his shell casings with him, meaning he was probably not an amateur. Although if he was a pro, and had been aiming at Eli or Hannah, then why had he missed? They’d been standing out in the open, without a thought of danger, until the first shot had been fired. Could his poor aim have been deliberate? Like warning shots? Eli looked back at the boy. “Okay, son. Let’s get you home. Where do live?”

  “Miller’s Grove.”

  Elijah nodded. Miller’s Grove was the home of his uncle. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Nicholas.” He grinned. “Nicholas Miller.”

  “Well, you get on home, Nicholas Miller.” Eli smiled at the child. “Can I have that hat?”

  The boy lifted the hat to him. “Are you a policeman?”

  “I am,” Eli said, then watched the child, his very own cousin, scramble down the same path he’d taken so many times, so many years ago. At the other edge of the woods, an older girl with golden braids walked the path in her bare feet. No doubt it was Nicholas’s sister come to fetch her brother home.

  Elijah sighed and headed back to Nolt Cottage. Great. That cute cousin would head home now and tell all his siblings about the cop in the woods…and then everyone would know he was back in Willow Trace.

  But would he be staying long enough to make a difference to his family? He wasn’t sure yet. From those surprising first few minutes, it looked as though he was needed in Willow Trace—at least judging by the flying bullets. But even that didn’t make him want to stay. Seeing Hannah had been strange enough. He couldn’t imagine a confrontation with his own father. No. The sooner he was out of there, the better.

  * * *

  Hannah wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging her knees to her chest, as if she could squeeze away her own fears. But when her eyes fixed on the shards of broken glass spread across the floor, she continued to tremble.

  Today had been the first time she’d dared be alone since that morning in the barn, since Jessica’s “accident”—as Thomas, her brother-in-law, referred to the girl’s death. But Hannah didn’t believe Jessica’s death was an accident. Dead bodies don’t get placed in barns by accident. People probably don’t shoot at you and your house accidentally, either. Losing Jessica had been devastating enough on its own—she had never once imagined that whatever had gotten Jessica killed could put herself or any others in danger, too.

  Perhaps Thomas and she should not have kept silent about the events surrounding Jessica’s death. About the blood and how she’d been away all night. About her many secrets. About the black car at the barn and the intruder who pushed Hannah down and locked her inside. If only she could relive that last week. As her mother, she could have prevented this. She should have prevented this.

  In her mind she replayed the moments when she could have stopped Jessica and asked her what she was about. Each time she’d failed. What she would give to have just one more day with her precious daughter. Hannah dropped her head in a fit of sobs. What she would give not to have found her in the stable that morning. It seemed the more she tried to push away the memory of that morning, the more she relived
it in her mind… .

  “Oh, Jessica, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. If only I had been a better mother to you.” Hannah had turned the girl’s hands over in her own as she knelt beside her in the stall. The girl was so disheveled, bloodied, dirty. “This is all my fault. I should have known what you were about. Rumspringa or not, I should have taken better care of you. I can never forgive myself.”

  Hannah had brushed the dirt and loose hairs from the girl’s face.

  “What’s the trouble?” A deep voice had sounded at the front of the barn.

  It was Thomas. He must have wondered why she wasn’t in the house making breakfast. She moved to the side so that he could see his niece in the sheep’s bed of straw.

  He froze, the color draining from his face. He rushed forward. “Is that—is that Jessica?”

  Hannah met his dark eyes. “I—I found her here. She’s dead, Thomas. Jessica is dead. I have failed her and Peter and God…and you.”

  “This is not your doing,” he said. “You must not blame yourself. You were a gut mother to her, Hannah. As gut as her own mother could have been. As good as if you had given birth to her yourself.”

  His words were meant to comfort, but Hannah fell limp at the reminder of her infertility and the end of what was to be her only chance at motherhood. She just sat crying silently as Thomas placed Jessica’s hands together on her belly and patted them.

  “Our God is sovereign, Hannah. He alone is ruler and judge. We must accept what has happened. Be strong.” He touched his hand to hers. “I will call the elders.”

  “No. Please. I don’t want anyone to see her this way.”

  He had seen she could not be calmed. “Stay with Jessica until I return. I will bring her clothes. I don’t want Nana to see her this way, either. I will also have to call the police, Chief McClendon. He is sensitive to our ways.”

  “Yes. Call the police. They will find who did this to my precious Jessica. I will tell them about the car I saw, and—”