Disappearances

by Linda Byler

  “Get up.” The fat man was angry.

  “She can’t with the tape,” the driver said.

  “Get her.”

  Two hands went under her arms, lifted her, but she crumbled into a heap the same as before. The fat man snorted with impatience. Grabbing her, he threw her across his shoulder, the same way any man would pack a hundred-pound sack of feed or bag of potatoes. The blood rushed into her head as she bobbed along, being carried up one flight of stairs, then another. Doors opened and closed. It was warm. Something smelled good, very good, in fact. Like pine woods or the first of the wild flowers.

  The fat man dumped her on a soft sofa or bed. She lay completely still. Somehow playing dead like a possum seemed safe.

  “Unwind her hands. The duct tape.”

  Again she heard the grinding sticky sound. Her hands fell into the bed, containing no strength of their own.

  “We need to talk. We’re going to unwind the tape around your mouth. We will loosen the blindfold if you promise to stay. Any attempt at leaving will mean death. We are serious. You are of no consequence to us.”

  Her head turned from side to side by the force of the tape being removed. It was all irrelevant. No matter. The pain was bearable. She’d be able to see, to swallow. Would they allow her a drink? She gagged when they removed the object in her mouth. But she recovered quickly, summoning her courage and resolving to remain strong.

  When they removed the blindfold, she untied her heavy black bonnet with groping, numb fingers that felt as big as bananas and about as clumsy. She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them. Where was she? Slowly, through shaking eyelids, her eyes focused, bringing the room into view.

  At first she saw only beige walls, then the ornate molding in a darker shade. Slowly, as her eyes cleared, she saw that she was in a bedroom, sort of a guest bedroom. The carpeting was beige, as well as the bedspread, the curtains, and pillows. There was a red sofa, a glass coffee table, and red objects of art. Black lamps cast a yellowish light into the corners, and huge, navy blue, plaid pillows were strewn across the sofa in the glow of the lamps. Very pretty, she thought wryly.

  “May I please be allowed a visit to the restroom?”

  She tried to say this, but her voice was only a whisper, her vocal chords refusing to accommodate her. The fat man pointed to a door behind the bed. Slowly, carefully, Sadie set one foot on the carpeting, then the other. Clutching the side of the bed, she moved around it, bent over, wincing with the pain of the returning circulation.

  She never knew a person could drink so much water. She cupped her hands beneath the gold faucet and drank and drank and drank. Water seeped between her fingers. She sucked at it greedily, hating to wait until her cupped hands were filled again so she could slurp at it like an animal dying of thirst.

  It was only after her thirst was sated that she knew how hungry she was. She looked at the pink guest soaps in the white seashell dish and considered eating them. She had to have something to eat. They’d have to feed her. Allow her some kind of food. Did kidnappers starve their victims to death? Who knew?

  Tentatively, she opened the door of the bathroom, hobbled out, still clinging to the side of the bed.

  Immediately the fat man began. “You cooperate, you’re fine. If you act stubborn, you’re not. Got it?”

  Sadie nodded, her eyes on the carpet.

  “Where’s the palomino mare?”

  “I don’t know.”

  With the speed of lightning, his hammy fist smacked her mouth, snapping her head back. Sadie didn’t cry out. Tears came to her eyes, and blood spurted from a torn lip. She lifted the hem of her blue apron to sop up the flow.

  “I told you. You work with us, you’re fine.”

  The driver shifted uncomfortably, his gaze wavering, clearing his throat as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. From behind the apron, Sadie shook her head.

  “They took her away.”

  “Who?”

  The fat man’s eyes bored into hers, a sick light of greediness shining.

  “Four men came to my house. Was it a week ago? Something like that. They said I was in danger. So was Paris.”

  “Who’s Paris?”

  “The horse.”

  “The palomino?”

  Sadie nodded.“They said they were taking her to an undisclosed location.”

  The two men looked at each other and nodded. “Are you telling the truth?”

  “Yes. Why would I lie? I just want to go home. You can have the horse if you spare my life. I don’t want to die.”

  “We ain’t killin’ anybody,” the driver burst out before the fat man held up a hand, giving him a scathing look.

  “Looks as if you’re gonna be here awhile, young lady. We want the horse. At any cost. We figure we’ll get her if we use you to acquire her.”

  At this, the fat man’s eyes glittered again. “There’s more ways than one to acquire our needs,” he chortled.

  “All right,” Sadie said, not unpleasantly. “If you have to keep me here, am I allowed to know where I am? How long I have to stay? Will I be able to have some food? You’re not going to tie me again with that duct tape?”

  The driver shook his head wildly behind the fat man’s back.

  “You’re a long way from home. You’ll be staying until we can persuade them, whoever it is, to give us the palomino. We’ll feed you, and if you stay cooperative, we’ll keep you locked up in here, but no duct tape.

  Sadie nodded. “Thank you. I am appreciative of this freedom. I won’t attempt an escape as long as I’m treated decently.”

  “If the people hand over the palomino, you’re good to go.”

  Sadie nodded again. She lifted her head then, “Am I alone in this house?”

  “This is a big place. No, you’re not alone. This place is full of housekeepers, gardeners, cooks. It’s a big place,” he repeated.

  So her imprisonment began. The digital clock read 11:09. The big red numbers against the black face were her only companion. There was no telephone, radio, or television. She went to the window, parted the heavy curtains, pulled on the cord that raised and lowered the blinds. Yes, as she thought, she was housed in a palatial home. Looking down from her third-story room, she saw there was no doubt about the immensity of the gardens, pastures, and the vast corrals and barns. It made Aspendale East seem quite ordinary.

  The snow was thinner here, with brown tufts of grass showing like eyebrows on an old man’s face. As far as the eye could see, there was only flat earth, a level landscape with rows of fences and trees creating a crisscross pattern that looked like one of Mam’s homemade comforters.

  Sadie had no communication with the outside world, only the fat man or the driver appearing with trays of food at whatever hour they chose. Her first meal had consisted of cold cereal, milk, and an apple, blistering in its sourness on her raw tongue and throat. The cereal tasted heavenly, savoring each sweet, milky bite the way she did. Sometimes she fared well, eating good, hot, Mexican dishes. Other time she went to bed hungry, dreaming of Mam’s breakfasts.

  She tried to keep her thoughts away from Mark. She always ended up sobbing into the pillow if she let her mind wander to him. She missed her family. She hoped Mam and Dat would be okay. She figured Reuben would waver between anger and indignation, between bluster and little-boy tears.

  She paced the room, did sit-ups, stood at the window for hours on end. She was always thankful for good, hot baths, the ability to wash her clothes in the bathtub, to have clean towels, soap, and a good bed to sleep on. Her situation could have been so much worse.

  She prayed for her rescue. She prayed the government agents would deliver Paris. She cried about Paris, too. But if it meant her life…

  Had she been too gros-feelich (proud)? Didn’t the Bible say we reap what we sow? Had she sown pride and arrogance with her beautiful Paris? Why had God allowed this to happen? How long until this ordeal ended?

  Then one day, when she felt as if s
he would surely lose her mind if she had nothing to do, she decided to houseclean the room. It would give her exercise, keep her occupied, simply save her wandering sanity. She shaved some of the pink soap into the vanity bowl, grabbed a heavy, white washcloth, dunked and swirled it in the soapy water, then wrung it out well.

  She started with the bathroom cupboards. She carefully took out towels, soap, a hair dryer, and what she guessed was a hair-curling apparatus, an assortment of combs and brushes, a box of guest soap. She washed each shelf thoroughly, replacing the objects, before tackling the bathroom closet. She stood on the vanity stool to clean the top shelf, pushing aside a stack of perfectly folded blankets.

  Ouch! Her fast moving hand struck the corner of a hard object. Pulling out the stack of blankets, she let them fall to the floor before procuring the cause of her pain. She held it in her hands, incredulous. A radio! It must be. She didn’t know much about electronic devices, living all her life without them, but she did know what a radio looked like. Eagerly, the blood pounding in her ears, she unwrapped the long, brown cord, plugged it in, then turned the dial with shaking fingers.

  Nothing. Her disappointment was palpable—big and heavy, black, as dark as a night without moon or stars. The depth of her disappointment fueled her anger, her desperation. She jiggled wires, shook the radio, twisted and turned dials with a sort of viciousness, yet there was nothing.

  Then she thought of Jim Sevarr’s old rusted pickup truck and the wire coat-hanger stuck on the end of his broken antennae. Oh, dear God, let it be. Dashing to the closet, she flipped frantically through a long line of plastic or wooden hangers. Just one. I just need one wire hanger. Over and over, she went through them, finally acknowledging that there were none.

  When a knock sounded, she had time to close the bathroom door. The fat man called her name; she told him she was in the bathroom and would he please wait until she came out. Her evening meal consisted of a great, steaming pile of roast pork and corn tortillas with tomato sauce, which absorbed her tears as she ate.

  Chapter 4

  RICHARD CALDWELL AND HIS wife, Barbara, were at their wit’s end. They had already run the gauntlet of emotions in the weeks that Sadie had been missing. They had badgered every police department in the state of Montana. The computer was never idle, searching relentlessly for new avenues of discovery.

  Dorothy’s way of dealing with Sadie’s disappearance was blaming the country, the president, Wall Street, the love of money, the devil, and most of all, the local police for not being able to track down the horse thieves, the snipers, the whole crazy lot of them in the first place. Erma Keim nodded her head, pursed her lips, and worked like a maniac, saying her nerves couldn’t take this if she didn’t use her muscles. She agreed with Dorothy on most subjects but stopped at Wall Street and the president.

  The news media had posted regular news about the disappearance that first week, leaving the Amish community reeling. They had to be very careful, as being on TV was strictly verboten. So was speaking on radio or other forms of “worldly” news.

  They were most comfortable “doing” for Jacob Miller’s family and Mark. People came in great, caring buggy loads. They cleaned the stables, washed Mam’s walls and windows, cooked so many casseroles and baked so many pies, half of them were thrown out.

  Dat’s face aged week by week. They all feared for Mam the most. Hadn’t she been emotionally weak? Hadn’t she been mentally ill? Yes, she had. But her strength now was amazing. She was a matriarch, a fortress of long-suffering and patience. She assured her family it was that palomino; the money or the horse would eventually show up. She prayed for Sadie’s well-being. The only thing that set her face to crumbling now was the thought of Sadie having to suffer.

  Anna became steadily more fragile. She blamed herself. She was afraid of God. He was up there on his throne, raining fire and brimstone down on her family because of her magenta dress and the secrets about her and Neil Hershberger. She roamed the house, a sad ghost of her former self, disappearing when company arrived. Leah and Rebekah hung posters on the local store windows. They prayed together, cried together, tried to include Anna, and were always supportive of Dat and Mam.

  Mark moved in. He couldn’t live in their house without Sadie. He lost weight, and deep lines appeared beneath his eyes. He had come home that evening, found Truman hitched to the buggy by the fence, shivering with cold. He became irritated. Why hadn’t she unhitched him? He took care of Truman, noticed his leg bleeding, found the pumpkin pie, and Sadie’s purse. Alarmed, Mark ran to the house, called for Sadie, and tried to stay calm.

  Wolf had whined, and Mark even asked Wolf where she had gone. Men and dogs searched for days that turned into weeks. Helicopters throbbed in the sky. It was all a bad dream. He would surely wake up soon. But things like her nightgown hanging on a hook in the bathroom are what made him move in with her family. He simply couldn’t take it—the sight of the boots she wore to help him do chores, the smell of the soap on their vanity, the essence of his darling Sadie.

  They talked a lot, Mark and the Millers. They said things they probably never would have said if this had not occurred, leaving an impenetrable bond that would always hold.

  Reuben got mad. He said Sadie was foolish, driving her horse and buggy around the way she did when she knew her life was at risk. The whole thing was—she had no fear. She never did. She should have taken a warning way back when she had that near-accident with Paris and the spring wagon and that guy from Lancaster County. It probably had something to do with that fat guy in the dentist’s office. He reasoned with a lot of common sense for a youth of 15 years old.

  He almost had it down pat; the only thing missing was more information. Which, with the hand of God moving in mysterious ways as it always does, was partially supplied when Richard Caldwell asked Reuben to come help Louis and Marcellus get the tack ready for the horse fair in February. There were piles of silver buckles and rings to be taken off the saddles and bridles, polished with silver polish, and reattached. It was a perfect job for Reuben, and one for which he’d be paid the astonishing amount of $12 an hour. In his eyes, he was amassing a fortune.

  Dorothy fussed about that, too. She said the tack room was too cold. The children were too little to work, but Erma Keim told her they were not either. Little Amish children did lots of chores at that age, and Dorothy got her dander up and told her they were no better than English kids, and who did she think she was? Erma went home in a huff, slid down the washhouse stairs, and scraped her backside on the concrete steps, which Dorothy never learned of.

  As it was, Dorothy supplied the young workers with cranberry juice and ginger ale, warm chocolate chip cookies, and ham salad to eat on warm rolls, all packed in a tin basket, telling them to come into the kitchen to warm up if their feet got cold.

  Louis warmed right up to Reuben. They talked nonstop. Reuben asked Louis where they really came from, and Louis dropped his voice and told him the whole story in his little-boy wisdom.

  “We’re from far away. The town of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s a big town. My parents owned a ranch. We had too many horses to count. My dad got greedy, and I think he stole other rancher’s horses. My mother became very sad. After that she became angry. They were always fighting. Bad men came to eat at our table.”

  Louis paused, wiping absentmindedly on a buckle.

  “There is a big fat man with a mustache and very long ponytail. His name is Oliver Martinez. He steals the horses. Him and a whole bunch of other men. They appeared at our door and continued to do that for many months. Mother would cry.

  “My dad would not listen. Then she had to go away and said she would be back for us, but she never came. That’s why Jim and Dorothy—they’re our parents now. We love them okay, only they don’t look as nice as our real parents. Our house isn’t as nice. Our dad’s name is Lee Hartford!”

  Marcellus chimed in, laughing. “Grace Hartford!”

  Reuben laughed, then shook his head. “Whoever they ar
e, you probably have a wise mother.”

  When Richard Caldwell paid Reuben, he asked if there was any news of Sadie. Reuben shook his head, but related Louis’s story, giving him the name of the man named Oliver Martinez. When Richard Caldwell’s eyes became quite big and round, and he swiveled his chair immediately to his computer, Reuben figured he was onto something.

  He rode home, fast and hard, the bitter cold searing the skin visible between his coat sleeve and his glove, Moon throwing the snow in chunks. He found Mark slumped over the kitchen table, his head in his hands, waiting for supper to be ready.

  “Hey, guys! I think we’re onto something!”

  Mam turned sharply. Mark lifted his head, his two big eyes piercing into Reuben’s, his face devoid of color.

  Reuben related the story, finishing with, “I bet you anything that Oliver guy is connected here somehow. Richard Caldwell is already on it. He wants to search all the old police files. I mean, that little Louis and Marcellus are likely victims of this whole horse thieving thing, don’t you think?”

  Far into the night, Richard Caldwell sat hunched over his computer. Mark lay sleepless. Reuben knelt by his bed in his T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, put his head on his hands, and prayed like never before. He had to see Sadie again.

  Erma Keim walked out to the tack room to take some hot chocolate to Reuben, (still her favorite buddy, she told him) and met up with Lothario Bean, who promptly began bowing and scraping his feet in his total delight at seeing her again. Reuben watched them both in bewilderment, Erma giving off those loud guffaws of pure delight at Lothario’s antics.

  Wasn’t he married? Reuben shrugged his shoulders, went back to polishing saddles, but held very still when he thought he heard the name Oliver.

  “Very big. Very big!” Lothario Bean stretched his arm up high above his head to show Erma how big Oliver was, then extended his arms out in front of his stomach to show the size of his girth.

  “He a good friend of ours. My wife cook up wonderful Mexican food for him. He won lottery. Lucky fellow. Bought brand new SUV. Cream color. Look like Dallas people on TV. Bought it at Gregory Cadillac in town. Nice man. Like to eat. Oh, yeah, love hot chocolate just like this. He marry a person like you. Make him hot chocolate this way.”