“I’m looking for my son,” the man said.
“You just had a horse come home unattended?” Beatrice asked him, moved by the intensity in his eyes.
“Yes—you know that?”
“There’s been an accident. Don’t know who was involved. He has no ID on him.”
“Is he a young man?”
Beatrice nodded. “And your name, sir?”
“Isaac. Isaac Miller. Is he…dead?” Isaac’s eyes went toward the closed ambulance door.
“No, Mr. Miller. He’s alive. Let’s see if this is your son.”
The attendant was already swinging the door open, motioning for Isaac to climb up. He did so, slowly, almost cautiously, Beatrice thought. The dome light shone on the uncovered man strapped to the stretcher, the oxygen mask in place.
“It’s John,” Isaac said softly, his back bent in the ambulance’s tight space. “How serious are his injuries?”
“No broken legs and arms. Don’t know beyond that,” the attendant told him. “Seems to be in a coma. Probably from a head injury. We’re taking him to Adams County Medical.”
“You can’t take him to Cincinnati? Bethesda North?” he asked. “Good people there.”
“No, too far,” the attendant said. “You can transfer him, if you want.”
“You can ride along,” Beatrice interjected, trying to make things easier for Isaac. “I’ll see that your horse is taken care of.”
“No.” Isaac shook his head, slowly climbing back down the ambulance steps. “I will get my wife. We will come as soon as we can.”
“Sorry this happened,” the attendant told him. “We have to be going.”
“The Lord will do as He pleases,” Isaac said, taking off his hat, stepping back toward his buggy. Standing there, Isaac watched as the ambulance slowly took off and then picked up speed.
Beatrice cleared her throat to get his attention. “If you could give me some information, Mr. Miller, it would be appreciated.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, pulling his eyes away from the fading ambulance lights. “His name’s John. John Miller.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Isaac got back into his buggy. His horse, still standing patiently in the middle of the road, was breathing normal now. Isaac groaned wearily and slapped the reins to gently get the horse moving. His mind, though, was with the ambulance speeding toward the hospital in West Union. His son was not dead, but he was surely seriously injured.
The ride home was much slower. When Isaac finally reached the driveway, he wondered what he would say to Miriam. She would need a few minutes to gather some things together because she might want to stay at the hospital.
When he entered the house, Miriam was on the couch. She looked up, her face composed.
“Is he…?”
Isaac shook his head, not sure how to proceed. “They took him to the hospital—in West Union.”
Her face was unbelieving, processing the implications. “Da Hah didn’t take him?”
“No,” he said softy, “they just took him in the ambulance.”
“We’re going to him, of course.” Miriam rose quickly from the couch, gladness in her face, her hands reaching out to Isaac.
Isaac nodded. “I left the horse tied to the barn. Get something—you might want to stay for the night.”
Miriam understood, moving quickly into their bedroom. She soon returned with a small pouch. “Will you stay too?”
“I don’t think so. One is enough.”
“We have to tell Aden.”
Isaac hadn’t thought of that, but it made sense. “We can stop in on the way. They’ll be in bed though.”
“We should tell them. They’ll want to know. Rebecca too, but maybe not tonight.”
Isaac nodded. “I suppose so.”
“Someone needs to know,” Miriam stated.
Isaac knew she was right. Life was a community matter to them, deeply rooted in the conviction that major events were not to be lived alone. “Let’s go then. We have a ways to travel.”
“Should we call for a driver?” Miriam asked, hesitating.
“It will take longer. The horse is able to make the trip quite well. I’d hate to call for someone at this time of the night.”
“Mrs. Coldwell might do it.”
Isaac waited, knowing Miriam well enough to know she needed time to think without pressure or persuasion. Then he said what she already knew. “No, let’s go with the buggy. We’ll get there quicker. It might take an hour for her just to get here.”
After the short drive to Aden’s, Isaac handed the reins to Miriam and walked toward the darkened house. Wishing he had a flashlight, Isaac found his way up the walk with the light coming from the stars. After knocking, Isaac received no answer. And so he repeated the motion, louder this time.
Isaac was about to knock again, when a kerosene lamp light flickered in the front window. A drowsy Aden slowly opened the door, holding the kerosene lamp. His shirt was hanging over his pants, his suspenders limply swinging down the sides of his legs. Before Aden could speak, Isaac said, “John’s been hurt in an accident.”
“Seriously?” Aden seemed to be fast waking up.
“Don’t know. He was unconscious and in the ambulance when I got there. They took him to Adams Medical.”
“What happened?”
“No one seems to know. Got hit from behind, coming back from seeing Rebecca.”
“You need anything tonight?”
“Don’t think so. Miriam will probably stay at the hospital. I’ll come back home—I think.”
“Let me know then if you need anything. And let me know when you find out how he is.”
Isaac nodded in the starlight, moved off the front porch, and headed back down the walk, hearing the door shut behind him. It is good that someone knows. A feeling of safety filled him. Da Hah does indeed not want for anyone to be alone, especially in times like this.
In the silence of the night, they drove down toward Dunkinsville and then south on 41, each lost in their own thoughts. Isaac turned on the rear flashers of the buggy once he was on the state road, their piercing light clearly visible behind him.
Isaac grimaced, thinking of the battery power being used. Hopefully the charge would last for the night’s work. There was just no way he was turning them off on the state road.
Some of the younger boys were going to solar power to recharge their batteries, but Isaac still lugged his out from under the seat of the buggy the old-fashioned way. Only last week had he completed the routine. To reach full battery charge, he had to run the generator in the barn for an hour. The battery ought to be in good shape.
“How bad was he hurt?” Miriam asked, returning to the more urgent matter at hand.
“I couldn’t tell,” Isaac said, hoping his fears would not reveal themselves.
“Did you get to talk to the ambulance attendants?”
“Yes,” Isaac said, knowing Miriam wanted to know more, “one of them said there were no broken legs or arms.”
“He didn’t say why John was unconscious?”
“Likely a head injury,” he said, as calmly as he could.
She said nothing more as the horse’s hooves pounded the pavement. The darkness of the night lit up periodically by passing automobiles. Isaac could see them slowing down and dimming their lights until they figured out what was ahead. Once they identified the horse and buggy, they passed them and sped on their way.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At the crash site, Beatrice was still looking around, having given the state cop, Mike Richards, the information she had obtained from the Amish man, Isaac Miller. Beatrice could have left some time ago because Mike was now in charge, but she was still curious. It was her mother’s house where the accident had happened…and it was in her county too.
Mike might solve this case and find the one who had hit the buggy. Then again he might not. The fact that there was no one around to claim responsibility pointed quite distinctly to guilt. Why
else would the person run? And was it done intentionally, or was it an accident?
Was it possible the buggy didn’t have lights, or perhaps they were malfunctioning? From Beatrice’s experience with the Amish, that was unlikely. She had always noted how careful the Amish were to keep their lights in working condition. Then there was the rectangular slow-moving vehicle sign posted on the back of each buggy as a backup.
Beatrice knew from driving up behind buggies at night in her squad car, that the signs lighted up well even without lights. There could then be no reason to hit this buggy in town, unless someone was impaired or careless.
“Any ideas?” she asked Mike.
“Some tracks in the ditch—so the guy didn’t stay on the road.”
“No skid marks either,” Beatrice said, having noted that earlier.
“Must not have slowed down much, or very little,” Mike agreed. “Swerved though. That’s what threw the boy against the house. Saved the horse too.”
“You want to ask the neighbors?” Beatrice was thinking of Mr. Urchin, now seated in front of his house, his porch light on. He usually knew everything that went on around the neighborhood, and she had seen him out on his porch minutes after the ambulance arrived.
“No—go ahead,” Mike told her, busy with his report.
Beatrice made her way to the Urchin yard. When she got within earshot, she called out “Good evening” to the neighbor who looked cold despite wearing a bathrobe over dark blue flannel night clothes.
“Evening,” he said. “Buggy got it good.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you see anything?”
“Young Amish man.” Mr. Urchin ignored her question.
“Yes. John Miller. You know him?”
Mr. Urchin nodded, his brown bathrobe soaking up the beams from the porch light, deepening the sense of night. “Lives on top of the Ridge. Good people—his parents. Those are the ones to go young—the good ones.”
“He didn’t die,” Beatrice told him.
“Oh.” Mr. Urchin was nonplussed. “Just told the missus he was dead. Looked that way on the stretcher.”
“He was unconscious.” Beatrice wanted to get on with the conversation but knew better than to rush the man. If she wanted information, it would have to come out in Mr. Urchin’s own good time.
“Didn’t look so to me,” Mr. Urchin retorted. “He wasn’t moving when they took him away.”
“He was just unconscious,” Beatrice repeated. “You didn’t happen to see or hear what hit him?”
“Mighty strange. He looked dead.” Apparently Mr. Urchin was not about to be convinced just yet. “Who says he was unconscious?”
“Paramedics.”
“Young people—all of ’em.” Mr. Urchin snorted through his nose, his brown robe separating a little more at the collar. “They know nothing nowadays. Think they do, but they’re dumber than rocks. Don’t teach ’em nothing at school anymore. Drawing pictures and talking about their feelings. Ought to teach ’em read’n and write’n.”
“The paramedics are usually right,” Beatrice told him, hoping not to anger the old man too much. “They know what they’re doing.”
“Looked dead to me.” Mr. Urchin settled back into his chair.
“Did you see anything of the accident?” Beatrice probed again.
“Been out here on my chair the whole time.” Mr. Urchin snorted again, scorn in the sound, apparently directed at the implication that he would have missed anything this important.
“I mean before it happened?”
Mr. Urchin seemed to be thinking, so Beatrice waited. “It was that young boy from down the hill.” His head tilted toward the north of town. “Jeremy—wild one he is. Hate to see him in trouble like this, but he always is. Roars through here all the time.”
“You saw him?” Beatrice asked.
“Yep—right after that awful crash. I saw the red pickup truck when I looked out the window.”
“You were up then and saw it?”
“Got up.” Mr. Urchin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Night troubles—bathroom you know.”
“And you saw Jeremy’s truck?”
“Saw it with my own eyes. Right after the crash.” Mr. Urchin seemed to be getting more certain by the second. “Always knew that young fellow would end up to no good. Rough upbringing—that’s what he’s had. Running wild like he does. No discipline—that’s what’s wrong with kids nowadays. No one takes control or makes them own up to what they do. Sorry to see him come to this end. Really sorry.”
“You sure about this?” Beatrice eyed the old man skeptically.
“Now, lookie here,” Mr. Urchin replied, getting up from his chair. “Do I look like I’s lying. I told you what I saw and that’s just the way it is. That’s another trouble this world is in. No one believes the ones who really know. Takes the word of the smart alecks from the universities over the ones with sense. Common sense and decency’s being lost, that’s what I say. Of course I saw him. As plain as day.”
“I see.” Beatrice tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Well, you have a good night, Mr. Urchin.” There was really no sense in asking anymore questions. It would just get the old man’s dander up more.
“A good night to you.” Mr. Urchin settled back into his chair, apparently planning on staying there until this show was completely over.
“Know anything?” Mike asked Beatrice, when she got back to the street.
“Said it was the boy from the other end of town.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.
“Worth checking out?”
“I suppose,” Beatrice told him, seeing her chance. “Ask and ask again.”
“That’s what I say,” Mike grinned, recognizing his own words. “You’ll take care of that?”
“I’ve got the time, yes.”
“Good—I just got a call. Another accident out on 32. You’ll get the county to clean up in the morning?”
“I’ll take care of it. It’s my mother’s house.”
Mike grinned again. “The report will be at the office, if you need it.”
“Thanks. I’ll get a copy.”
Beatrice felt her anger rise as she recalled the sight of the comatose young Amish boy, his unmoving form strapped to the stretcher. It would not go well for whoever did this. She was determined to see to that.
Walking quickly to the front door, she entered her mother’s house without knocking. Isabelle was in the kitchen, seated, a cup of freshly brewed tea in her hand, its steam still rising. “Want some?” Isabelle asked. “Just made it.”
“Mom, you should be in bed.” Beatrice couldn’t help from saying it.
“Old people don’t sleep anyway,” Isabelle said, without much emotion. “Sleep was all a long time ago.”
“That’s why you should have someone looking after you.” Beatrice went to the subject automatically, without thinking.
Her mother looked up, shrugging her shoulders, “You and Wallace can forget the nursing home for a while yet. I thought for a minute there I was hearing things, but it really was something serious. God will take care of the young man. Me too,” she added.
Beatrice decided to leave the subject alone for now. It would all come in its own good time, she hoped.
“Mom, did you see anything before the crash?” Beatrice asked.
“Nope—just heard it. I told you before. Didn’t see anything.”
“Mr. Urchin claims he saw Jeremy’s truck.”
Isabelle glared at the mention of that name. “Like he knows anything. Thinks he does. Meddlesome body, he can be.”
“Seems pretty certain.” Beatrice smiled at her mother’s reaction.
“Certain about a lot of things,” Isabelle said. “Take it with a grain of salt. That’s what I say.”
“I’ll need to check it out.”
“A nice young man fell against my house.” Isabelle returned to the other subject.
“You shouldn’t have been praying for him,” Beatrice told he
r, knowing what her mother had been doing. “He’s Amish.”
“So what?” Isabelle’s eyes flashed now. “They’re people too.”
“But—it just doesn’t seem right.”
“I’ll pray for whomever I want,” Isabelle told her, sipping on her tea. “Sure you don’t want some? Everyone can use the Lord’s help. Even you can, Beatrice, especially with that shiftless husband of yours.”
“Mother.” Beatrice’s voice had a warning in it.
“Well, he is. You married him, so now you live with him.”
“He’s got his good points.”
“So does a skunk,” Isabelle retorted.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “He’s good to me, Mom. You should be thankful. At least I don’t come home beaten.”
“A low standard to live by.”
“I’ll see you then, Mom.” Beatrice reached for the doorknob. “You get some sleep.”
“I’m not going to the nursing home,” Isabelle said quietly.
“I know, Mom, I know.” Beatrice stepped out into the night again. Getting old must be hard. No sense in making it harder than it already is. But the thought of Mom living here alone is still unnerving.
Beatrice knew her mother would say she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord with her. But she didn’t quite have the faith her mother did. That had gone by the wayside years ago, eroded by living with the world’s trouble and evil.
She sighed as she turned her thoughts to checking out Jeremy. No doubt her mother would be praying for him too.
She got in her cruiser and drove the distance to Jeremy’s house. Pulling into the driveway, her headlights lit up the red truck in question, holding it like prey in two giant claws. Playing her flashlight along the sides of the truck as she got out of the cruiser, she looked for signs of damage or paint scratches. Fully expecting to find them readily there, she was a little surprised when she found none. Going around the truck a second time, she had to admit there simply was no damage. It was impossible for this vehicle to have hit a buggy an hour before. Apparently old man Urchin had been too certain.
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