“Did you hide it in the market?”
“What? Nein.”
“Stop. Just stop lying.”
“I’m not.”
A low moan came from the back of the barn. She jerked the gun up and toward it.
“Hey. Take it easy.”
She was already behind him, prodding him to his feet with her good arm, then pushing the flashlight into his hands and urging him forward. Could he overpower her? Doubtful. She’d shoot him before he could even turn around. She’d made that abundantly clear. Best to bide his time—hope and pray that she passed out from the wound. Then he could fetch a doctor and maybe find out what this was all about.
“Toward the back, slowly.”
“It’s Molly. She needs milking. It was what I was about to do when I heard something outside.”
“What did you hear?”
“A shot—maybe. Didn’t know it at the time, just heard the pop. No doubt the same shot that hit you in the arm.” Which was when he realized that they weren’t alone. Of course they weren’t. Someone had shot the woman, and it hadn’t been him.
They’d reached Molly’s stall. The cow turned her head toward them—large brown eyes and a tuft of brown hair poking up between her velvety soft ears. She let out another baleful cry.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I need to take care of Molly.” Ben had his back to the woman. He didn’t turn around, didn’t raise his voice or make any quick moves. But he did proceed into the stall.
“Stop.”
“She needs milking. Cows get used to a certain schedule.”
“I said stop.”
“And if you miss that schedule it’s uncomfortable—painful even, as you can tell by the look she’s giving me.”
He continued forward, expecting at any moment to hear the click of the trigger, feel the searing pain of the bullet. He’d been struck by a bullet once before, when he was a child and hunting with his brother. They’d been messing around and the rifle had gone off. It was a pain he’d never forget and certainly didn’t want to experience again. But then there was Molly...
He walked forward and righted the milking stool.
NORA COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was seeing.
This guy was good. He had the clothes, the accent, even a name for the cow.
Which wasn’t fooling her.
The tremor hit her arm again. She switched the gun to her left hand.
“That arm is only going to get worse unless you let me clean and bind it. I’m guessing you don’t want to see a doctor.”
He cleaned the cow’s udders, slipped a pail underneath it, and proceeded to milk the beast.
The cow tossed him another look, as if to say it took you long enough, and commenced to eating more hay out of a wire basket attached to the stall’s wall.
As Nora watched his strong hands expertly and quickly milk the cow, she realized she’d made a mistake. Whoever had shot her wasn’t in this stall. Whoever had shot her, the same person who was planning an attack on Shipshewana, was still out there.
Chapter 2
SHE SAT AT THE KITCHEN table, the Sig Sauer P226 on the table in front of her.
“Where did you learn to clean wounds?”
“Live on a farm long enough and you learn how to do most things that need to be done.” He’d cut away the sleeve and cleaned both the entry and exit wound. “This is going to sting.”
She made a motion for him to get on with it.
Whatever was in the brown bottle he was holding felt like a liquid knife. She clamped her teeth together until the spots in front of her eyes faded.
“Not sure what Mamm put in this exactly, but she always insisted it would kill any bacteria.” He applied a pressure bandage and then wrapped the arm. “See if you can move it.”
She raised her elbow, grimaced, and lowered it. “I’m good.”
He’d put a glass coffee pot on the old gas stove as soon as they’d walked into the house. Now he poured the hot brew into two mugs and brought them to the table along with milk, sugar, and a plate of oatmeal bars.
She hadn’t eaten since her flight from DC that morning. She consumed one of the bars and downed half the coffee, which was bitter and acidic.
“My name is Ben...Ben Lapp, in case you were wondering.”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Nora...Nora Brooks.”
“So what convinced you that I wasn’t the guy you’re looking for?”
She snorted and reached for another one of the bars. “Dash could not have milked a cow.”
“How can you be sure?”
She drained the cup of coffee and ran her left hand up and down her jaw line.
Ben jumped up and refilled the cup.
“The profilers say he was raised in the urban jungle. Which urban jungle they haven’t pinned down, but he’s definitely a city kid.”
“And he’s here...in Indiana?”
“In Shipshewana. We know that too because we were able to patch together the data...he’s good, bounces his signals off international servers, but any electronic communication can be traced if you’re willing and able to dedicate the resources. And if you have the motivation to do so.”
“So you followed his...signal.”
“Which disappeared at your farm.”
“Ah.”
“What?”
“This area is a black hole as far as cell service, or so the Englisch say.” Ben shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
Nora glanced around. She had the distinct impression that she’d stepped back in time—gas lanterns, no television, no computers or phones for that matter, no electricity at all. “It’s the perfect place if you think about it.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. There’s no way to follow him. No CCTV.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Closed-circuit television camera, which can be helpful when you’re chasing a terrorist.”
“I’ve never seen a camera on an Amish farm.”
“And most of the businesses in town are too small to need one. No data signals. No electronic signature. It’s like he just...faded into the night.”
“After he shot you.”
“Yeah. He got lucky. That won’t happen again.” “What does he want?”
“That’s complicated, and I’m not authorized to tell you.”
Ben nodded as if that made sense.
Nora walked to the sink, rinsed out the cup, then stared out the window considering her options. As far as she could tell there was no choice to make. If she was going to have any help from the locals—and in this situation she definitely needed help—her only option was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing black pants, a white shirt, and suspenders.
She’d made do with less.
And the clock was running on this. She glanced at her watch. Less than twenty-four hours. They needed to get to work.
BEN STILL HAD NO IDEA what was happening. The woman was obviously with the military or some civilian authority. So why was she alone? Who was this Dash fellow? And why would he want to hurt people in Shipshe?
If there was one thing Ben had learned in his thirty-eight years of living on this Earth, of being Amish and seeking a simple life, it was patience. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t ask his questions. She’d tell him or she wouldn’t, and it would be on her time. There was nothing vulnerable about Nora Brooks, but there was an intensity and purpose that was disarming. Try as he might, he couldn’t hold it against her that an hour earlier she’d been pointing a gun at him.
He knew she’d made her decision when she turned from the window and sat down across from him.
“You’ve lived here a long time?” “All my life.”
“Communications we’ve intercepted indicate that he might be hiding among your people.”
“Among the Amish? I doubt that’s possible.” “You’d be surprised what he’s capable of. Dash might not be able to milk a cow, certainly he wouldn’t have the hands of a farm
er in the short time he’s been here...”
Ben looked down at his hands—scarred, tanned, working hands. His dat had always said you could tell a lot about a person by their hands. “So he’s a computer guy.”
“Yeah. Probably hasn’t done manual labor an hour of his miserable life.”
“If he’s been here longer than a few days, he has. In an Amish community, everyone works.”
“He’s like a chameleon.” She pressed the palm of her hand against the table in frustration. “We’ve been close before, and always he’s faded into the surrounding population. Once it was a hippy colony in the northwest, another time executive yacht owners in Florida.”
“And he planted bombs all those times?” Ben didn’t make it a habit to follow the national news, but he was surprised he hadn’t heard of either of these disasters.
“No. Before, he’s stuck to taking out the power grid for a few hours. Once he threatened to contaminate a water supply—and we later found that everything was in place to actually accomplish it. We found it because he wanted us to find it. He wanted us to know what he was able and willing to do. This time he’s taking his threats to a new level.”
“I’ll admit to being fairly naïve about technology, but why would he risk coming here? Can’t he do what you described from his computer?”
“He can, but he seems to like the thrill of the chase. Our Dash is a real psycho. Or maybe he just wants our people to be here when it happens. Deal a blow to the agency while he’s making good on his threats.”
“So there are other people from your agency here?”
She rubbed her right eyebrow, then dropped her hands to her side. “Dash is part of a bigger network—a team of insurgents that are planning similar attacks on at least twenty different locations. We’re spread pretty thin.”
That explained her intensity, her desperate focus. For whatever reason, she was doing this alone. “When?”
Nora glanced at her watch. “Less than twenty- four hours.”
“What does he want?”
Her right hand reached out and touched the weapon. “What do they always want? Money.”
“Must be an easier way to get it.”
“If we find him, you can tell him that.”
“What can I do?”
She appraised him a moment, and he wondered what she saw. An Amish man, no longer young but not yet old. A working man, as she’d said, tall and lean and completely unfamiliar with the world she was describing.
“Do you have a weapon?”
“I have a rifle and a crossbow.”
“Get the rifle.”
He stood, walked into the living room, and returned with the T3x Hunter, bolt-action rifle. He’d bought it the year before because it reminded him of his grandfather’s .308 Winchester. The stock was smooth, the sight true. He’d hunted deer with it the previous winter, turkeys in the spring. Since then, only wild hogs.
He handed it to her, and she held it in both hands, looked down the barrel, and pulled back the bolt.
“Capacity?”
“Three plus one.”
“This is too obvious. You can’t carry it down Main Street in the middle of the day. You’re sure you don’t have a handgun?”
“I think I’d remember if I did. Plus I’m Amish— our Ordnung forbids violence of any kind.”
She raised an eyebrow, glanced down at the rifle in her hands, then handed it back to him with a skeptical look on her face. “That rifle runs a thousand bucks, at least.”
“Twelve hundred.”
“And probably another five hundred for the scope.”
“It’s for hunting. Many Amish are avid hunters. The meat is lean, no preservatives, and most of all, free. This rifle paid for itself the first year.”
She stood and paced back and forth in front of the table. Finally she turned toward him, hands on her hips. “You’re no good to me if you won’t shoot that thing, if you won’t defend yourself. Because Dash? He will kill you without a second thought.”
Ben shrugged. “Gotte knows the number of my days.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
He didn’t attempt to explain. He didn’t know how, and he doubted she wanted an explanation of his faith. What she did want to know was whether she could trust him.
“You say this man...this Dash...has a bomb?”
“If the communication we intercepted is authentic, if it isn’t a red herring to make us look the other way? Yeah, he has a bomb, and it’s supposed to go off at seven o’clock tomorrow evening in downtown Shipshewana.”
Ben stood, walked to the living room, and returned with the recent edition of their local paper. Dropping it on the table, he said, “Big concert tomorrow night—outdoors, near the Market.”
“Do a lot of people attend?”
“Ya. Lots of people.”
Ben walked past her, rinsed out his coffee mug, and stared out the window into the darkness. It had been seven months since his parents perished in a buggy accident. He thought he’d accepted it, but that deep well of grief still threatened to consume him at times.
He believed what he’d said.
They each had an appointed number of days, but that knowledge did little to relieve the loneliness of the life he was living. He’d wondered many times since his parents passed what his purpose was. Why wasn’t he in the buggy too when the pick-up truck had crossed the line and ended their lives, the horse’s life, in some ways Ben’s life? Was it so important that he continue to farm the land, put in the crops, and milk Molly? What was his purpose in life?
And yet God had brought this Englisch woman to his doorstep, with her tale of danger and urgency. Perhaps, standing before him in the person of Nora Brooks, was his purpose. Stranger things had happened.
He turned around to face her, his backside against the kitchen cabinet, and his arms crossed.
“I’ll help you. We’ll find this Dash, but what happens after we find him is up to you. I can’t...I couldn’t take another life, no matter the reason.”
“Are you good with this rifle?”
“Took a buck at three hundred yards.”
“So maybe you could wound him...if it came to that.”
Ben shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way.”
He glanced at the clock in the kitchen, the only clock in the house. The hands had just inched past ten p.m. If what she said was true, they had less than twenty-four hours to catch this Dash fellow and prevent the attack.
But Ben didn’t know of any Englischer masquerading as an Amish man.
Honestly, he only saw folks on Sundays, and he often hurried home as soon as it was polite to do so. His world had shrunk since his parents died. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
Atlee would still be up. He’d had trouble sleeping lately—mostly because of his arthritis, but Atlee insisted it was the spirit of God calling him to pray. He’d be awake.
“You said this Dash has been here, in Shipshe, and hiding among the Amish?”
“We think so, yes.” “How long?”
“His signal disappeared two weeks ago. We caught a whiff of it early yesterday. I travelled here from D.C. on the first flight. Followed what we thought was his signal for a few hours, which is when you found me outside your barn. The trajectory of his electronic signature...it pointed this way.”
“And someone shot you, right before I stepped outside?”
“I never saw him, so I suspect he was using a high powered scope from a fair distance.” She worked her right arm up and down. “It can’t be that hard to find one imposter in your midst.”
“The Amish population here is quite large.”
“Shipshewana has a population under five hundred. I checked.”
“True, but most of the Amish farms are technically outside of town, so they wouldn’t be in that number. We number twenty thousand in the state, and the largest group is here in the LaGrange/ Elkhart area. On market days? Lots of tourists. I’ve heard the number of fo
lks in Shipshe alone swells to over thirty thousand.”
“And a police force of half a dozen. No wonder he chose this spot.” Nora stared across the room. “I need a plan. I can’t sit here and wait for Dash to make the next move.”
“How about we go and see my bishop?”
Chapter 3
WHILE BEN HITCHED UP the buggy, Nora walked the perimeter of the house and out buildings with a flashlight and retraced her steps. He found her outside the barn, crouched down and studying footprints in the dust.
“These are mine.”
“And those are mine—I have big feet.”
“He wasn’t here that I can tell.”
“Where were you standing when you were shot?”
She pointed to the far side of the barn. “I was closer to the house than the barn, and the shot came from...there.” She pointed to the pump house, which was on a small rise to the west of the barn. They covered the ground quickly, then separated, both looking for any evidence that Dash had been in the vicinity. They met back at the front of the structure.
“Sun would have been at his back if he were standing here.” Ben raised an imaginary rifle to his eye. “Pretty easy shot with the right equipment.”
Nora pointed the flashlight at the ground. It took another five minutes before they found the heel print of a tennis shoe. “Not yours?” She asked.
“All I have is work boots—old ones and less old ones.”
“Any kids around?”
“Not here. We’re pretty far out from town. No reason they would have been here, and I would have noticed a group of youngie.”
She splayed the flashlight around, finally zeroing in on a cigarette butt. “You don’t smoke.”
“Never have.”
“All right. So he’s standing here, for whatever reason, when he sees me arrive.”
“How did you get here? I didn’t see or hear a car.”
“Plane, helicopter, feet.”
“Ahhh.”
“I’m following the signal, which led me here, and he’s waiting at this spot, sees me enter the property, waits until he has a clear shot. But he would have had that at any time.”
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