“Ja, you could say that.” Abby spun around with the tiny infant. “How did you hear?”
The couple explained how the news had spread from the hospital to another couple from the church to their neighbors. “We didn’t know if Eli had heard, so we thought we should come over. We knew he’d want to know about his sister. We should have figured you’d be here telling him yourself.”
“I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you and the children. Just what I needed to get my mind off this afternoon.”
Some conversation passed in Pennsylvania Dutch. Blake sat back and listened to the lilting, rolling language. He didn’t know if the talk was about him or the happenings at the hospital, but either way the language relaxed him. Called to him. Could it be that Amish blood ran through his veins? If he hadn’t been put up for adoption, could he have grown up in a room like this instead of in a penthouse that overlooked Central Park?
“Well, at least you didn’t go to the bishop.” Abby broke back into English.
“Oh, but we did.” Mary smiled. “We passed by there on the way here. He hadn’t heard. He is very concerned. He would have been over to see you himself if he had not already had some other church business to attend to tonight. He assumed your brother would be looking after you as soon as he heard the news. But you should expect the bishop in the morning.”
“Danki.”
Even Blake could tell Abby was not happy about this news. She was not pleased that this bishop person knew her business.
“So, who is the bishop? Is he an elder of the church?” Blake asked.
Eli and Jonathan smiled at him. They looked at Abby. Everyone seemed to be holding back a laugh.
Except for Abigail. She turned, a sad frown under her big blue eyes. “The bishop is the leader of the Ordnung. The leader of the Amish church. He’s also my father.”
There was a second of silence over the room then the front door burst open like a bomb had blown it off its hinges. Little Stephen came running inside. He was pale and out of breath, and his hat was missing.
“What is it, Stephen?” his mother asked.
Her son ran into her arms, letting loose an onslaught of tears he’d bravely held back until that moment. He told his parents what had happened. Again, Blake couldn’t understand the Amish language. But he watched as the rest of the people in the room reacted grimly to the boy’s tale.
Whatever he said, it was not happy news. Several times they all looked at Abigail, who’d grown pale. As the boy finished, Abby put a hand to her head as if it ached worse than ever.
Eli stood and put a hand on his sister’s shoulder. He nodded to Jonathan, and the two men headed for the door.
“Is something wrong? Can I help?” Blake stood with the other men.
Eli turned back, his expression bleak. “Someone is in the stable. He grabbed little Stephen and told him to go back to the house. He told him to tell Miss Miller that he is watching.”
FIVE
Blake awoke early in his cozy bed at the bed-and-breakfast, his thoughts on Abby Miller and the string of strange events that occurred the day before. Someone had poisoned her and left her for dead on that empty third-floor wing of the hospital. That someone had already successfully killed Mr. Hancock, the transfer patient from New York, while manipulating the hospital’s computer systems. Probably that same someone had dumped a tray of scalpels over their heads, broken into Abigail’s clinic and sent a threatening message to her via a small Amish child, who’d been scared out of his wits.
Blake could not forget the horror on Abby’s face as that child had told the others what had happened in the stable. She had looked beaten down. As her brother had pointed out later, that was most likely the man’s intention—to beat her down until he caught up with her and eliminated her for catching him at the scene of the crime.
Eli and Jonathan had raced back to the barn after Stephen had returned, but whoever had spoken to the child had been long gone. Most strange was that the man had spoken Pennsylvania Dutch to the boy, realizing he was too young to understand English. This meant that whoever was after Abigail was close enough to the Plain folk to know their language. That narrowed down the list of suspects in Blake’s mind. But Eli and McClendon had pointed out that it was very possible that more than one person was involved in all of this. Without a motive for the murder of Hancock, it was going to be very difficult to come up with an actual list of suspects. And how could they find a motive when there was no information about Hancock? He was a New Yorker with no known family or connections. Blake was afraid it would be a long time before the police got to the bottom of this affair, and that meant a long time before he and Abby could go back to the hospital.
Anyway, it was all so disturbing. Blake felt he was tied to these events in a way that went deeper than simply his name on Hancock’s chart. But why, he couldn’t say. It was probably nothing but silly conjecture on his part.
It was still early, but knowing he wouldn’t sleep anymore with so much on his mind, Blake had a quick shower and shave. The he dressed in jeans and an oxford before sitting down at the small corner desk where he’d plugged in his laptop. A hundred-plus emails loaded into his inbox. He had let them accumulate over the past three days while he’d been busy with his new job—now he had to deal with messages from his partners in his medical practice, from his friends in New York and from Natalie. The same people who kept texting and calling and needing him for this or that.
He had left New York without a lot of fanfare. None of his Manhattan friends knew the real reason he’d come to Willow Trace—not even Natalie, who had, at one time, been his fiancée. Things between them had ended before he lost his parents and found out the truth about his background, so not even she knew why he felt he needed to be here. And that was the way he wanted to keep it. For now. This was something he wanted to explore on his own.
Strange how it didn’t bother him that he’d almost told Abby after only knowing her for a few hours. Just like he didn’t care that she’d seen him shed a tear during the prayer. In New York, there had never been time or space to think over his real emotions, but here they seemed to surface without warning. Like his attraction to Abby. Something he’d have to keep a lid on. He was only in Lancaster to get away and explore his past. It was definitely temporary. He was not here to complicate his life with a romance. He had enough of those sorts of complications back home.
Blake closed his laptop and pushed it aside. With a trembling hand, he unfolded the beautifully penned sheet of linen stationery he kept in a folder in his laptop case. Mr. Pooler, his mother’s lawyer, had given him the letter on his thirtieth birthday. Only two months after the accident.
Dearest son,
Happy birthday! If you are reading this letter, that means your father and I have left this world. Please know you have been our greatest gift during this life and nothing but a source of joy for us. But, as I think you suspected, I did not give birth to you. I could not have children and so your father and I adopted you. We never told you this simply because you never asked and we were perfectly content to keep you all to ourselves. However, we always agreed that we would tell you all we know when you turned thirty. It is not much. We only know that your parents were Amish and lived in Willow Trace, Pennsylvania. They were married and could not keep you for financial reasons.
The adoption was handled through a lawyer by the name of Anthony Linton, Esquire, of Lancaster County. He can reveal the names if you so desire. If you want to get in touch with your birth parents, then we understand and fully support your decision. Just know that no matter what, we love you, and we’re so very proud of you. Happy birthday, dearest.
Your mother, Sarah
After six months, the letter still brought tears to Blake’s eyes. He refolded it and placed it back into the file folder. This was the reason he’d come. But was he ready to begin
the search for his biological parents? He wasn’t sure. Without the encouragement from his own mother, he might not have even ventured into Lancaster. But after his visit last night to the Millers’ home, Blake decided to make that first step. He had a few hours before he was due to pick up Abby and head over to her place to clean up the mess from the break-in. He didn’t have an appointment with the lawyer his mother had mentioned. He hadn’t had time to call, given his schedule at the hospital. But he didn’t see the harm in driving over to Linton’s office and popping in.
An hour later, Blake drove through another section of Lancaster, following the directions of his GPS to Linton’s law office. The area was extremely commercialized in contrast to the quiet country appeal of Willow Trace. He’d driven right into the thick of morning traffic. It was nothing compared to Manhattan and still he frowned. His easy, relaxing drive from the bed-and-breakfast to the hospital had already spoiled him.
It was a little after ten when he located the strand of connected offices. Linton’s was sandwiched between a dentist and dermatologist. Blake parked his Land Rover at the end of the building and took a deep breath. Was it possible he’d know the names of his birth parents today? Did he even want to know them and meet them?
Blake’s heart pounded against his rib cage. He took up a folder containing not only his mother’s letter but also some other documentation of identification and a thorough inquiry, which his mother’s lawyer had conducted, verifying Mr. Linton and the adoption. There was even a head shot of the lawyer himself. Blake steadied himself and entered the drab office.
“May I help you?” asked a woman seated at the front desk. She looked mid-fifties and had a motherly way to her. The rest of the reception area consisted of empty space and two empty armchairs. Behind her was another office. The light was on and Blake could hear a man’s voice from within. But the door was pulled nearly closed, blocking anyone outside from looking in or hearing any of the conversation.
Blake approached the receptionist with his folder tucked under his arm. “Hello, I was hoping to speak with Mr. Linton.”
“We don’t take solicitors here.” Her voice was kind but also firm.
“Oh, no. I’m not selling anything. I want to consult Mr. Linton about a legal matter.”
The woman’s fixed smile didn’t change. “Mr. Linton is not currently taking new clients. I’d be happy to furnish you with a list of alternative lawyers in the area.”
Blake swallowed hard. Why was it so hard for him to just say why he was there? “I’m sorry. Let’s start over.... I’m Dr. Blake Jamison. I’m from New York and I already have a lawyer. I’m here because I recently found out that I was adopted and that Mr. Linton handled the adoption. I have a letter and some documentation from my lawyer asking Mr. Linton to please release the names of my birth parents to me.”
The woman was no longer smiling, but she wasn’t dismissing him, either. She stood and motioned to one of the armchairs to her left. “Have a seat, Dr. Jamison. I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared through the door to the back office and closed it. This was it. Blake was going to learn the names of his real parents. He wiped his sweaty palms over the tops of his slacks and sat impatiently awaiting her return.
After a few minutes, the woman came back into the reception area, carefully closing the door to the office behind her. Her face was pale, but she once again pressed a practiced smile over her lips.
“It’s just as I expected.” She shook her head regretfully. “This has happened before. You have the wrong Mr. Linton. This Mr. Linton does not, nor has he ever, handled adoptions. I’m so sorry.”
Blake’s heart fell into his stomach. How could that be true? It wasn’t. He’d researched Mr. Linton. His parents’ lawyer had verified the information in the letter, as well. What was this woman hiding, and why?
Blake stood and faced the woman. There was deceit in her pale blue eyes. “I don’t think I’m mistaken. I have documents here stating that Mr. Anthony Linton of this address is indeed the lawyer who handled my adoption thirty years ago.”
He started to open the folder, but the woman waved away his documents.
“Perhaps if I could speak directly to Mr. Linton?” Blake asked.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She turned back to her desk and took her seat. “Mr. Linton is not available. As I told you, he’s not seeing new clients or taking new appointments.”
Further discussion would clearly be useless. He would have to go about this a different way. Perhaps by contacting his parents’ lawyer again.
“I’m sorry to trouble you.” He turned toward the front doors, pulling his cell from his pocket. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, a black BMW with New York plates peeled through the parking lot at Mach speed. The driver had a long, narrow face. His hair was silvery-white, cut close to the scalp, and he wore a dark suit.
It was Mr. Pooler—his mother’s lawyer.
With his cell already in his hands, Blake found Pooler’s number in his contacts and hit the call button. Something strange was going on here between the murder, his adoption and the scalpels down the stairs, and he was determined to get answers any way he could.
* * *
Abigail brushed and rebrushed her hair in a trancelike state. She had not slept well. Hannah had woken her up periodically as Dr. Jamison had instructed. Each time, the shock of waking had sent her into a panic. The terror was momentary, but the racing pulse and adrenaline rush were hard to recover from. As was the fact that she’d witnessed a murder and nearly been killed herself.
In her mind, everything was unbalanced and felt strange, unfamiliar. Being at her brother’s. Not being in an Amish frock. Not having to cover her head or hide her hair under a prayer Kapp. She had not realized how those simple things had given her comfort in the past. Her slender jeans and sweater set felt restrictive, clingy and showy. Her mind flashed through scenes from the day before—her attacker grabbing her in the hallway, walking into the trashed clinic and the feel of Blake’s strong arms around her. Abby longed to feel comfortable again but she had a feeling that would be a long time coming.
She wished she had not asked Blake to drive her to the hospital to pick up her car. He did not help with the feeling-comfortable issue. For some reason, she couldn’t get a read on him. And she didn’t like that. One minute he was on the phone to New York, driving his fancy car and being the important new doctor in the E.R. The next minute he was looking at her with those soft brown eyes and holding her while she fell apart in the clinic. She didn’t usually have so much trouble with figuring people out.
From the bedroom upstairs, she heard gravel churning under the tires of an automobile coming up the drive. Good. Blake was already there. He was early, which meant getting everything taken care of even faster. And more important, it meant she could avoid running into her father. She hurried down the stairs and onto the porch.
But it was not Blake in his large black Land Rover. It was a police car with Chief McClendon at the wheel and her brother beside him. Another small car—a silver sports car—drove directly behind them. Abby’s head began to throb. Had something else happened? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Her brother and the chief got out of the car. From the small silver sports car emerged a woman, a brunette with short, spiky hair, looking as if she spent a lot of time at a gym. From her trunk, she loaded her arms with all sorts of equipment and headed toward the house.
They all walked up onto the porch together and paused in front of her.
“This is Carol Ruppert,” Chief McClendon told her. “She’s a composite artist from the FBI.” Eli offered to help with her case, but she refused. “She’s here to see if you can remember enough about your attacker to attempt an identification.”
Abby could not stop her frown or her feelings of frustration toward Eli. He should not have gotten in
volved in this way. She had already brought danger to Eli’s home, as was proven by the incident at the barn with poor little Stephen. But this? Bringing the police here? Right into their homes? This would really make her father upset. Not to mention the way it would draw attention to them. How had McClendon agreed to this? Especially after practically saying she should hide.
Abby wondered what Blake would have thought of all of this. She wondered if he was safe. She wondered what kind of family connection he had in Lancaster. And why did he seem so sad about it?
Eli was all smiles and optimism as he led everyone inside. Abby was all the more infuriated.
“Eli,” she whispered, motioning him to hang back a ways from the other two. He leaned close to her at the kitchen door. She grabbed him by the arm. “Why did you bring them here? You shouldn’t get involved in this. What will Dat say? Anyway, I didn’t really see the man. Remember? Only his eyes.”
“You need to quit worrying about Dat.” Eli shook his arms out of her grasp and placed them on her shoulders. “And worry more about staying alive. Somebody grabbed Stephen in my stable last night. You’d better believe I’m going to do something to find the person responsible.”
Abby dropped her head. Eli was right. She had to do whatever she could to help catch this man who’d attacked her, murdered Mr. Hancock and scared poor little Stephen. “But the FBI?”
“They have the most sophisticated system.”
Abby still frowned. “We couldn’t have done this somewhere else?”
“Hey, I’ll take care of Dat.” Eli turned her toward the kitchen and led her in after the others.
Ms. Ruppert had already begun setting up her high-tech laptop with its very own digital sketchpad at the kitchen table. Abby had never seen anything like it.
She sat across from the woman and answered simple questions, which the artist seemed to have memorized. So many questions. There seemed to be no end to them. Hannah, who had been in her garden, returned and served coffee and pastries to everyone. Chief McClendon took advantage of any pause in the artist’s inquiries to ask his own questions.
Lancaster County Target Page 5