When the Bishop Needs an Alibi

by Vannetta Chapman

  Emma waved away the idea as she continued to sop up water and macaroni. “Katie Ann has gone to help Doc Berry today. Rachel and I can handle this. Can’t we, Rachel?”

  For her answer, Rachel again walloped the broom against the cabinet. The bird, a small sparrow, was hopping from place to place, its small head jerking left and right as if to try to figure out where the swoosh of broom bristles was coming from.

  Rachel had a legendary fear of birds, but only if they found their way into the house—which seemed to happen more often to her than anyone else.

  “I’ll take care of this little guy,” Henry said, gently removing the broom from her hands.

  She glanced around as if surprised to find him there.

  “Maybe you could do something about the flood in the mudroom?”

  Emma handed Rachel the mop and began to refill the pot with water. Henry picked up the bowl of macaroni and walked out the back door to the pigpen, dumping it into the animals’ trough. While he was near the barn, he checked the jars of supplies on the western wall, found some birdseed, and shook out a handful.

  It wouldn’t do to have the bird fly through the mudroom. Rachel would probably sock the little guy with the wet mop.

  Henry walked to the front of the house, scattered the seed from below the front step to the front door, and then propped the door open. Back in the kitchen, he stood across the room from the bird and flapped his arms. The little sparrow took one look at him, hopped from the top of the cabinet to the sink, and then sailed off through the front door, never pausing to peck at the seed.

  He found the broom, went outside, and brushed the seed away from the front door, scattering it onto the ground. Closing the screen door behind him, satisfied that he’d done at least one useful thing, he wound his way back into the mudroom and emptied Rachel’s bucket. It took another ten minutes for them to mop up the rest of the water, but when they were done the floor was sparkling clean. Together they stood staring at the back of the gas-powered machine.

  “I would offer to fix the hose,” Henry said, “but I’d probably do more harm than gut.”

  “It was our last load. We can wait until Clyde comes in for lunch. Danki, Henry. You saved us.” They walked back into the kitchen, where things were calm and clean once more.

  “Indeed you did,” Emma said, agreeing and handing him a steaming cup of coffee. She’d changed into a dry apron, and Henry thought she looked quite fetching for a woman who’d just had a domestic emergency. “For our thanks I have oatmeal cookies or raisin bread.”

  “I’ll take a slice of the bread.”

  Rachel excused herself, saying, “I believe I could use a break on the front porch,” which they all knew was her code for I’d like to go read a chapter now. Henry had never known a Plain woman who liked to read as much as Rachel, but he’d known several men who studied the Budget as if it were the Holy Grail.

  Emma joined him at the table.

  “Now explain to me about Sophia.”

  “Not much to explain. She seemed to be doing fine. Katie Ann said they had a nice chat last night after she came in late. Nothing specific. Just girl talk, whatever that means.”

  Henry grunted as if he understood, which he didn’t. But because it didn’t seem to matter, he opted not to interrupt Emma.

  “Sophia came down as I was cooking breakfast. She didn’t seem much better than last night. She still had that tired, weary look about her. And then before I knew what was really happening, she was gone.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Was she going into work?”

  “No. She doesn’t have a shift today. When I asked her if she’d be there tomorrow, she said she thought she would.”

  Henry sipped the coffee, savored the bread, and allowed the quiet of the morning to settle his thoughts. After a few moments, he said, “I thought we were supposed to help her.”

  “Perhaps we did.”

  “I thought that might entail more than one night’s lodging.”

  “She knows she’s welcome to come back, but I don’t think she will.”

  Henry stood, rinsed out his mug, and glanced through the sitting room and out the front door. Lexi was lying on the porch in a ray of sunlight, and he could just make out the hem of Rachel’s skirt as she pushed the rocker back and forth. He didn’t have to walk out there to know she had a book in her lap. He envied her that—her ability to leave the day’s worries behind and enter another world. Perhaps that was what he did when he drew. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t familiar enough with his ability yet, even after all these years, to know if it helped or hurt him.

  “We can pray,” he said as Emma walked him outside.

  “I promised her we would.”

  He said goodbye to Rachel, called Lexi out of her dreams, and finally remembered what he’d meant to tell Emma.

  “Chloe still has colic, and Deborah seems to be having a rough time of it.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “I was wondering if you could arrange with some of the women to give her a break every other day or so.”

  “We can, and I should have thought of it myself. None of my children had colic, but I’ve seen it enough to know how hard it can be on a mother and baby.”

  “You’re a gut woman, Emma Fisher.” Henry squeezed her hand, and then he climbed into the buggy. Instead of stepping back, Emma stepped closer and lowered her voice.

  “I care about Sophia too, Henry. You know I’m in favor of helping anyone who needs it, but the last time we got involved with an Englischer, someone ended up in jail.”

  “The Englischer ended up in jail.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But we weren’t actually involved with—”

  “I’m only saying perhaps we should tread carefully here. I don’t want you mixed up in something that could cause problems for you.”

  “I don’t believe it’s like that. Sophia strikes me as a lost soul, someone who’s carrying a heavy burden.”

  “And we can’t help her if she isn’t in a place where she’s ready to receive help.” Emma stepped back from the buggy. “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Of course I’d let you know.” As Henry drove away, he was surprised he felt energized by the morning’s errands. He had a good congregation—all of them, even the cranky ones like Chester Yoder. He also had the abiding friendship of Emma Fisher, and that was enough to brighten even the darkest of days.

  Eighteen

  Sophia stood staring at the open meadow in front of her.

  Definitely big enough to land a helicopter, with no overhead lines to interfere.

  And it was far enough from the road that no one would hear, or if they did, they would assume it was coming from the National Guard base in Alamosa.

  She had to be sure, though. Fumbling with her pack, she stepped back into the tree line. They could be watching, with drones or satellites or all manner of things she couldn’t begin to guess at. She needed to be careful, especially now, when she was so close to discovering the truth.

  She glanced up at the sky. Would she even know a drone if one flew past her? Did the people who killed her husband have drones? If they had helicopters, they probably had drones. Even kids had them these days. She’d seen in the paper where a third-grade student had made one out of Legos—a Lego drone kit. What was the world coming to?

  She pulled out the small four-inch by three-inch mini composition book Cooper used for notes. She’d teased him about that. There’s a notes app on your phone, dear. How confident she’d been then, so sure she knew the better way for everything. Cooper had only smiled and said that for some things he preferred old school. Already suspicious of how the police said he died, she’d found the small booklet the day after his funeral, stuffed in the glove compartment of their car, where she’d been searching for a tissue.

  That was when she realized something was truly wrong. Cooper kept that notebook on his person at all times. She
’d seen him pull it out while they were at the movies and jot down some note. She remembered running her finger over the red numeral 31 he’d made on the front with a sharpie marker. Thirty-one notebooks full of sources and notes and drawings and tidbits.

  Numbers one through thirty had been filled with what you might find in any wildlife reporter’s notes. Nothing outstanding. Nothing shocking. But he’d turned the information into good, informative pieces. Rather than looking for assignments, he’d had to turn some down, insisting that he wouldn’t do it if he couldn’t carve out enough time to do a good job. Cooper had begun to be one of the few reporters who were sought after, making it possible for them to start putting aside money for a house—money that she’d blown through the week after his death when she’d hired an investigative firm that had learned nothing.

  His notebooks one through thirty were a testament to that work ethic.

  Then came number thirty-one.

  She shook off the memories, thumbed through the worn pages, and found what she was looking for.

  He’d sketched a meadow surrounded by fir trees, with a small pond to the northwest and a large boulder to the east. Sophia glanced up and ticked off each item in her mind. This was the place. It had to be. Next to the drawing were the initials BT. She assumed that was his source, but she couldn’t be sure. She hadn’t found any other indications of what the initials might mean. She wasn’t sure Cooper had recorded them anywhere.

  But she was sure this was the place. There was no doubt in her mind.

  Later, after she’d found book thirty-one, she also found a flash drive with backups of his notes. Why had he felt a need for both records? Was there another backup somewhere else—in a safety-deposit box or with a colleague? She might never know. The files had required a password, which she’d guessed on her third try. Once inside the files, she’d realized the depth of his fear—every entry was in code, a code she knew by heart, the same code she’d used with her sister, Tess, when they were kids. Had he done that on purpose, knowing only she would be able to understand what he’d written?

  Both the flash drive and the notebook confirmed that Wednesday was the meet date, or so she’d guessed based on the dates on the next page. The first three had checks by them. She’d had to look back through her smartphone calendar app to confirm that he had been out of town on those days. She’d known he’d gone to Colorado, but she had been too busy with her own deadlines to question him about it. He always had his cell phone on him, so she didn’t need to know particulars. He called every evening to ask about her day, to tell her he loved her and missed her, and to say he would be back soon.

  They had coffee together every morning when he was home. They read the news on their tablets and shared the day’s upcoming events.

  He’d called her his coffee mate and laughed at his cleverness.

  Sophia’s throat tightened, her eyes burning with tears. But she’d mourn later. It was a luxury she wouldn’t allow herself now. Not when she was so close.

  Of the two other dates on the list, one was three days from now, and the other next week. She harbored no illusions about being able to stay around through the next week. She was certain she had been followed. She’d been smart to leave her motel room. Staying with Emma Fisher had been an excellent break. Giving Emma the flash drive? That had been a difficult decision, one she’d had to make quickly as she hurriedly dressed. It was the best solution she could come up with. The information would be safe in Emma’s house. No one would look there, and if something did happen to her, she truly believed Emma would get the drive to someone trustworthy.

  Which didn’t mean she was willing to stay with Emma’s family. She could take a chance with her own life trying to catch these people, but it was wrong to risk the lives of others.

  The evil people Cooper was closing in on were ruthless. They’d proven that they had no qualms about harming or killing anyone who got in their way. She wasn’t paranoid enough to believe all of the authorities were in on it, but she thought some of them might be. Her hand went to her neck, tracing the shape of the small scar there.

  What if they had infiltrated the San Diego police? She’d been on her way to the precinct office to turn in what evidence she’d found when someone attacked her. What if they’d warned a corrupt law officer she was heading there, and he’d been waiting for her? Sometimes when she tried to sleep, she could still feel the cold blade against her neck, hear the raspy breathing of her assailant. If it hadn’t been for the pepper spray she carried, they might have killed her.

  She could be lying in her grave, just like Cooper. If she was going to do this, she’d have to do it alone.

  It was Wednesday or never.

  Nineteen

  On Tuesday morning the diner’s parking lot was nearly full.

  Henry stopped by anyway.

  He managed to get seated in Sophia’s section, and he placed his regular order. But while she was polite and efficient, she was distracted—either because of all the customers or whatever was wrong in her life.

  She smiled at Henry, apologized for having to rush off, and then hurried away to fill someone’s coffee mug. To anyone else she would have looked like a harried waitress working through her shift, intent on taking orders, delivering food, and earning tips.

  That wasn’t what Henry saw, though.

  He noticed the way her eyes darted toward the door each time it opened. He saw the scowl that flickered across her face when Scott Lawson walked in. He remembered how she’d been hunched over, carrying her pack, plodding into the cold north wind.

  Something was not right with Sophia Brooks, but he had no chance to ask her about it then. He went back late Tuesday afternoon, hoping he’d miss the dinner rush. He was seated in his regular booth, nursing what was left of his coffee after having enjoyed the daily special—a barbecue pulled pork sandwich and sweet potato fries—and waiting to see if he could have a word with Sophia. Finally she walked his way, an order pad sticking out of the front pocket of her apron.

  “Henry.”

  “Sophia.”

  She waved a pot of coffee toward his mug, eyebrows arched, waiting. He pushed the mug toward her, and she filled it.

  “Busy day,” he said.

  “I guess.” Sophia glanced around, as if there must be customers who needed waiting on.

  “Place has cleared out. Can you take a break?”

  Sophia shrugged, but her eyes rested on him for a moment. Henry thought there was something she wanted to say, some burden she needed to share. Of course, he could have been imagining all that. But he hadn’t made up the fact that she was homeless, so something was amiss. Sophia walked behind the counter and said something to the cook on the other side of the pass-through. She poured herself some coffee and returned to Henry’s table.

  “How have you been?”

  She responded with a question of her own. “Why do you care? And I don’t mean that as rudely as it sounds. I’m genuinely curious.”

  Henry didn’t answer immediately. He’d learned long ago that pauses in conversations were good. They gave both parties a chance to order their thoughts. After he took another sip of coffee, he said, “You know I’m a bishop.”

  “I’ve heard you mention it a time or two.”

  “As a bishop, it’s my calling to lead the people under my care.”

  “I’m not Amish, Henry.”

  “Ya, that’s for sure.” He glanced at the tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, which was peeking out from the long-sleeved shirt she wore. “What do the letters CB stand for?”

  Sophia closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, Henry saw a young woman who was lost, alone, and for some reason afraid. He thought she wouldn’t answer his question, but she ran her right index finger over the tattoo. “Cooper. It stands for Cooper Brooks—my husband.”

  “And the number?”

  “The date we met.”

  “I didn’t realize you were married.”

  “Wid
owed.” Her bottom lip trembled. She raised the fingers of her right hand to her mouth and pressed them against her lips, as if she could silence the words that needed to be said.

  He again gave her a moment, and he wasn’t surprised to see her grief change to steely resolve.

  “I appreciate your trying to be my friend, even though I can’t imagine why you would.”

  “We all need freinden.”

  “You don’t want to be seen with me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because it’s not safe.”

  “How is that?”

  “I shouldn’t be sitting here at this table with you. You have no idea—” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “You have no idea how far their reach is. Any credit card transaction—”

  “I always pay cash.”

  “Any cell phone.”

  “Never owned one.”

  “Even the wireless routers in your home can be traced.”

  “Wireless what?”

  She stared out the window for a moment. When she turned her eyes back to him, her emotions seemed to have calmed somewhat. In fact, she almost seemed resigned to whatever was upsetting her.

  “Have you ever wondered why life is so unfair?” she asked.

  “Often.”

  Sophia smiled then, a small, tenuous thing. But in it Henry could see the beautiful young woman she once was and might be again.

  “You’re a bishop.”

  “Ya. I am.”

  “Then you’re supposed to have the answers.”

  “To everything?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  He finished his coffee, though it was now cold and he didn’t really want it. He realized he was stalling. So often he didn’t know quite what to say to his parishioners, how to ease their burdens. It would be later, after they’d parted ways, that the right words would come to him, and sometimes he would sit down and write them a note and mail it. But he had the feeling he wouldn’t be mailing a note to Sophia Brooks.

  “When one becomes bishop in an Amish community, it’s not because he knows all the answers or even because he’s lived a better life than other people. It’s simply that he’s chosen. I have been chosen.”