Amish Country Amnesia

by Meghan Carver

  John slammed the door shut behind him and took off running, as quickly as the gathering snow would allow, toward the barn. Sarah was only a few steps in front of him, Snowball running alongside.

  As John caught up with Sarah, the dog’s barking quickly turned to a throaty growl. That could only mean one thing. Carlyle and Jimmy had emerged from the schoolhouse.

  “Stop!”

  John halted and slowly rotated toward the angry voice. Carlyle had his weapon pointed directly at his heart.

  FIFTEEN

  John raised his arms, palms out, as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he raised his gaze to the man behind it.

  Simon Carlyle. The man from the market. The dirty cop.

  “Well, Jedediah Miller at last. You’re a hard man to find.” A sneer snuck across Carlyle’s face. “Are you hiding? Or did you get religion? ’Cause you’re going to need it after we’re done with you.”

  John didn’t answer. In the silence, Sarah cried out next to him.

  She recognized someone, and it drew John’s glance to the man behind Carlyle. A nasty bruise-like birthmark crawled from his hand, presumably through his coat sleeve, and up to his neck. A jolt of recognition coursed through John. This was the same man from the snowmobile-accident site, the one that Lyddie had told them about. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, standing at the wreck and looking for evidence of his identity. But there was no doubt.

  It was Jimmy the Bruise, the counterfeiter, with ink and, soon, blood on his hands if he carried through with his apparent intent to kill them all.

  A sudden headache pounded at his temples. He knew by now that meant that more memories were trying to emerge from the haze, but he could only pray that they were memories that would help them get away from these lunatics.

  If only he had a snowmobile.

  “Stop your yapping, Carlyle, and get it done.” Jimmy had stepped up next to Carlyle. “If you don’t, I’d be happy to.” Jimmy pointed his gun at John, lining him up in a shot that wouldn’t miss, not at that close range.

  “Not now.” Carlyle swung his arm at the bruised man to lower his weapon. “Stop shooting to kill.”

  Jimmy growled at him but relaxed his arm.

  “We’ve gone over this and over this. If you murder them, execution-style, it could get back to me. And there’s no way I’m going to jail for you or with you. We’ve got to get rid of them in a way that makes it look like an accident. Not just a shooting.”

  “I don’t care.” The Bruise released a word that made Sarah cover her ears.

  Sarah’s movement caused Carlyle to swing his weapon toward her. “Get your hands where I can see them. Amish Boy here may trust you, but I don’t.”

  In his peripheral vision, John saw Sarah raise her palms toward Carlyle. Her lip quivered, but it probably wasn’t from the cold. Snow had piled up on their shoulders as they stood listening to their pursuers argue.

  “All right, Carlyle, let’s get this done. It’s no good to draw it out. Just pop ’em.”

  “No.” Carlyle nearly growled at The Bruise. “Look. You may be a criminal worthy of jail, but I am not. I’m an officer of the law, and I plan to continue in this position without even a smudge on my record.”

  “Like it or not, Carlyle, you’re in this now. Do I need to remind you how much you’ve profited from this alliance? That makes you a criminal, as well. They need to be eliminated or we’ll both end up in the clink.” The bruise around his neck seemed to darken as John and Sarah stood in the snow, waiting for their fate to be decided.

  “And do I need to remind you how we even found them here? You wouldn’t be here without my deductive reasoning.”

  John turned to meet Sarah’s gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly as he took a small step back. Could this be their getaway, with their captors arguing? Sarah also took a step back, worry creasing the delicate skin around her eyes, the dog stuck tight by her side.

  “Who cares how we got here? We need to get rid of them, or that trial’ll be a slam dunk.”

  “Fine.” Carlyle took a step toward Jimmy. “But not this way. Your type may not care about leaving evidence, but I know a few things about crime-scene investigation, and I don’t want a bullet left in them or questionable circumstances. Barns burn all the time in the Amish community, right? Wouldn’t it be sad if someone got caught inside?” He affected a pouty expression, but it quickly morphed into a malicious smile.

  If that was the plan, the sooner they could get away, the better. John took another small step backward, but before Sarah could follow—

  “Hey! You’re staying right here. Don’t move.” Carlyle’s weapon rose a notch in their direction.

  “Simon.” An image flashed. John and Simon Carlyle sitting in an unmarked car, talking and waiting. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Silence reigned as a myriad of emotions seemed to tumble about the cop. Finally, he just shrugged, an air of resignation enveloping him. “So, you found me out.”

  John nodded. He remained silent, uncertain how much he should say. It wouldn’t help their getaway to antagonize him.

  “Yeah,” Carlyle continued. “It’s amazing what information people are willing to cough up for a police officer. Especially since you haven’t told anyone of my involvement. I still have a spotless record.”

  The late winter afternoon was unusually dark, with heavy cloud cover and snow falling fast. But Jimmy jerked toward the road and studied the horizon and then turned back and motioned John and Sarah toward the barn. “There’s no time to waste, not with this weather. Get in the barn.”

  Carlyle stepped close to John and nudged him with the barrel of his weapon. “And don’t try any escape. We’ll be right here.” The odor of his breath, a smell of stale coffee, pushed John toward the barn door. “You’re helpless though, anyway, aren’t you? You couldn’t have made it easier for us, hiding with the Amish. They don’t have weapons. There’s no fast car to get away in.” He nodded toward Sarah. “She doesn’t even have a phone to call for help with. Snow’s falling. Everyone’s staying at home, where the Amish belong. And barns burn all the time. Too bad that accident happened and took two lives.” A snicker escaped through his nose.

  He caught Sarah’s gaze as he turned toward the barn. She stared at him, the wind whipping the tendrils that had escaped her prayer kapp, her beautiful brown eyes clouded by fear and worry, her full lower lip still trembling in the cold. He longed to gather her in his arms, warm her, comfort her, keep her safe. She didn’t deserve this. She should be sitting by a fire, wrapped in a cozy quilt, sipping hot cider. Not at the mercy of two gunmen. He nodded, the only gesture that might convey to her that he would do his best. That all would be all right, whether they got away or whether they met their Maker.

  Another nudge, harder this time, made him stumble a couple of steps. Jimmy the Bruise was beside Sarah, grasping her upper arm in his meaty hand.

  “Let’s get going. There’s no time to waste.” Carlyle pressed again. “We’re going to wrap this up, once and for all.”

  * * *

  Sobs, desperate to wrench free, filled Sarah’s throat, but she choked them down. Slowly, she marched toward the barn.

  She eyed the surrounding woods. Could they hide? Or would this snow and cold prevent any escape? The thought of being without her daughter caused more sobs to fill her, but it was better, at least, for Lyddie to have life than death.

  Even a life without her mother.

  But would an escape attempt mean an immediate end for them? Probably, except John’s look had seemed hopeful. Perhaps he had a plan. For now, she would go along. Trusting Gott was not always easy, but it was always necessary. She would choose to trust John, as well.

  John opened the large barn door and held it for her. As she passed him, she prayed that he would figure a way out, a way to help them, a way to get away. Sh
e couldn’t help but glance at him, but he was kicking at the snow. She hesitated a fraction of a second, but it was enough to cause him to look at her. His eyes met hers, and she immediately warmed with the care and protection that issued from his expression. Stress projected from him, but she knew from his eyes, the light of the body, that he would even die to keep her safe.

  Carlyle grabbed John by the arm and pulled him away from the door. “You come with me to get the buggy. We’ll burn it up, too. Don’t want to leave you any opportunity for getaway.” He nodded to the man with the bruise-like birthmark. “Stay with her.” Snowball ran after John.

  Sarah trod into the barn, her muscles tense at the presence of the gun constantly pointed in her direction. A panic rose in her throat at the idea of Thunder and Lightning perishing in a fire. She turned toward her captor and faced his weapon. “Please, let the horses go! They have done nothing to you.”

  “Zip it, lady.” The Bruise pushed her farther in with his weapon. “I don’t care about no horses. Get in there.”

  John returned with the buggy and pulled it inside the barn. Sarah met his gaze as he settled the buggy to the side and swallowed down the lump that had taken up residence in her throat in her efforts to choke back the sobs. A few more minutes with him were minutes well spent.

  The moment he finished, the one called Carlyle waved his gun again at her, stepping in too close for comfort. “Okay, in with the horses, you two.” He ran his hand over the weapon and then pierced her with his hard stare. “See this? Don’t even think about trying anything.”

  As Carlyle moved his hand toward her arm as if he was going to push her, Snowball rushed out from the other side of the horses. She barked and then bared her teeth to growl. The horses stamped their feet, shuffling nervously in the hay.

  Carlyle pulled back from Sarah and stepped away from the horses, a look of vicious irritation clouding his face. “You better control that dog, woman. Or I will shoot it.”

  “Snowball, no!” Sarah put out her hand to stop the dog. The malamute slowed to a stop near Sarah, still rumbling from deep in her chest.

  Before she could get a hold on Snowball’s collar, the dog advanced toward Carlyle again.

  In a blink, Carlyle swung out his leg and kicked the animal solidly in the ribs. Snowball’s loud yelp of pain ripped through the silence of the winter afternoon. She dropped to her haunches but continued to growl.

  “Snowball!” Sarah cried. She surged toward the dog, her throat tight, but John caught her and held her close.

  “Take care of that mutt,” Jimmy commanded.

  Carlyle stuck out his foot toward the dog, and Snowball crouched again. Getting behind her, Carlyle chased the dog behind the barn. A moment later, he emerged alone.

  Sarah swallowed hard. But other than soak up John’s comfort, there was nothing she could do. To antagonize these men any further was a certain death sentence. With that thought, her strong facade crumbled. She could no longer hold her head up and face whatever may come. The best she could do was muffle the sound of her crying in her cape that she clutched to her face.

  John pulled her as close as he could. His comforting touch dried up her tears, lending her his strength. She already dreaded the moment she would have to return that strength to him.

  SIXTEEN

  As Carlyle and Jimmy the Bruise conferred in the doorway, John massaged his temple, a vain attempt to assuage what he really ought to call a migraine. He kept one arm about her, but that would have to come to an end all too soon. She knew him, it seemed, better than he knew himself. Over the course of the past few days, she had proved to be an astute judge of character, and he would miss her insights when he left the Amish community and returned to his own home.

  His home. Where was it, exactly? If they got out of this alive, he would have to go home, wherever it was. He might recall enough to testify, but he still couldn’t remember where he lived. Could he go to his parents? He knew the names of his parents, but he would not know them if he ran into them on the street. Surely, hopefully, it would all return by the time he needed that information.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off their two captors since he had pushed the buggy into the barn. They had promised to bolt John and Sarah in and burn the barn down, but so far, they just seemed to be arguing. All hope was gone for rescue. In good weather, an Englisch automobile at the schoolhouse would have raised suspicion. But no one was out in this snowstorm. There was no one to notice.

  A sharp pain pierced his skull, and John resumed rubbing his temple with his free hand.

  “Is your head hurting again?” Sarah seemed to have calmed after her cry, and now her soothing voice forced his attention.

  “Yeah. It’s worse this time.”

  Sarah nodded toward Carlyle and The Bruise. “Why do they wait?”

  “I don’t know.” Angry heat rose within his chest, and the idea of rushing them flitted through the haze of his headache. “But we’re stuck. We certainly can’t look for a way out when they’re still here.”

  If they survived, could he ever leave the world behind and be Amish? Or was too much of the world in him already? Could the Lord help him with his attitude and word choice? Of course He could. But would He if he asked? Sure, Sarah worried and got anxious, but through all their trouble and turmoil the past few days, she had seemed...unflappable. Composed and collected. At peace.

  His chest ached with the desire to have that kind of calm peacefulness. God could do anything, couldn’t He? Especially with a soul that was completely surrendered to Him.

  The migraine radiated from his temples across the top of his head, and without knowing what else to do to ease the pain, he closed his eyes and continued to rub his forehead. It wasn’t helping, but it wasn’t hurting, either, and it gave him something to do with his free hand. There certainly wasn’t any need for surveillance. They were in the clutches of the enemy.

  “Are you remembering more? Is that bringing the ache?”

  “I’m certainly trying, but so much remains fuzzy. I have a little bit that’s clear, but then it blurs around the edges and disappears completely.”

  “Maybe if you talk about what you remember, that could help, both your memories and your headache. And that is information you will need if—when—we get through this.”

  He shrugged, wishing that roll of his shoulders could toss off his worries. But a glance at their captors in the doorway only tightened his muscles. “I suppose it won’t hurt.” He paused, trying to gather up the fraying edges. But it was useless. Everything was disjointed. There was no good place to start, to try to put it all together. “I remember a feeling of bitterness from when I was very young. I think my parents must have left their Amish faith with great resentment toward God. It’s only bits and pieces, more so images, that have come back after what Mary told us. A little sister, a baby girl wrapped in a blanket, but there were problems. Mom cried. A lot. My grandfather—I guess that would be Mary’s husband—had a long gray beard. It strikes me that he was very conservative, and my mom and dad seemed to be upset with him, although they did not talk much.”

  Sarah nodded her encouragement. “Jah, Mammi Mary said that her husband—your grandfather—would not let them go for medical help. Finally, your daed decided to go anyway, but it was too late.”

  John worried a fold of her cape between his thumb and first finger. “I remember a tiny casket. And there was so much crying. And anger. I remember lots of anger. At each other. At God.”

  Quiet engulfed them for a moment. John continued to stare at Carlyle and The Bruise. One was on the phone now. It was only a matter of time before they enacted their plan, and John’s mind raced to figure out a way to escape.

  “That was a long time ago. It will not help to hold on to resentment.”

  She was right, of course. But he could only stare through the open barn door at the snow swirling, trying to fo
rmulate an escape plan, as the sun set quickly behind the clouds. Were they waiting for the cover of darkness?

  A new memory pinged, and he startled. “You know what? My dad told me his parents were dead. I remember now. That’s what I grew up believing.”

  “I am sorry, John.”

  “Throughout my childhood, my parents rejected any kind of faith. I never went to church. And when I did have friends who tried to witness to me, I became too afraid to tell my parents because they ridiculed my friends who believed.” He paused, letting his mind run to the edge of that memory, trying to absorb as much as he could before it disappeared into the amnesia. An image surfaced of him on his knees by his bed in a dorm room. “I became a believer in college, through a campus ministry. But because of my parents’ bitterness, I’ve kept my faith a secret from them.”

  If Sarah was shocked by any of his memories, she didn’t show it. There was that peaceful calm again, an aura that surrounded her and drew him in. “Pray for them, and let Gott work His will.”

  “Jah.” This beautiful Amish woman had been a positive influence on him.

  Carlyle and The Bruise moved to their vehicle but left the barn door open with a clear view of John and Sarah. This walk down memory lane was, most likely, not going to end with a happily-ever-after.

  “They are still there?” She didn’t have to specify who she was talking about.

  “Of course. Their lives are at stake, and so that means ours are, as well.” Another flash, like lightning, invaded his thoughts. Images of equipment, the odor of ink, the clanging of machinery. “Remember I said that Jimmy the Bruise is a counterfeiter? I need to testify at the trial because I was undercover. I infiltrated his crime ring. The case could falter if I can’t testify. That’s why he’s so eager to eliminate me.” An urgency like he had never felt before rose up within his chest. “What makes it all worse for him is that I can identify the other men involved and testify to their criminal activities as well as provide positive information on contacts for money laundering, not to mention equipment and materials used, as well as their locations.” He ran through a mental list of names and information, details that Sarah didn’t need to be bothered with.