by Nancy Mehl
Zac and I took the tour of the Bonne Terre mine. When we walked down the stairs into the mine, I felt as if I’d entered another world. The boat trip on the below-ground lake was eerie and silent, and somewhere in my mind I could hear the echoes of chisels and tools carving out the huge passages we drifted through. Rather than being claustrophobic, it was peaceful. I felt protected from the confusing world above me. I watched as the heads of divers popped up around us, causing the still water to ripple. It was a surreal experience.
Ed had approved the mine tour in Bonne Terre, even though everyone in Missouri knew about it. Surprisingly, a large number of Missourians had never taken the tour, in spite of it being a big tourist attraction. Missouri was rife with abandoned mines and littered with caves. Maybe the appeal of the tour wasn’t strong enough for people so used to the incredible natural and man-made features that made Missouri so special. We interviewed our guide after the tour and caught the reaction of a few of the visitors.
Afterward, we headed to a little Italian restaurant not far from the mine. Angelo’s had a reputation for great pizza and calzones. Small and cozy, it was the kind of place where patrons dusted off their chairs before sitting down and ignored the stickiness of the plastic green- or red-checkered tablecloths. From the moment we stepped inside, the incredible smells made my stomach rumble with hunger and my mouth salivate with anticipation. Faded murals celebrating Italy decorated the walls. Grapevines covered porticos of Italian piazzas drenched in sunlight.
My eyes swept the room. I spotted him sitting at a corner table, already looking uncomfortable. I walked toward him, Zac on my heels.
“Hi, Dad.”
My father stood up, a throwback to the old-fashioned manners of his youth.
“Hello, Emily.”
He stuck his hand out toward a surprised Zac. I should have told him I’d called my father, but for some strange reason, I hadn’t been able to find the words.
“I’m Lyndon Erwin,” he said.
Zac took his hand while shooting me a look designed to let me know he didn’t appreciate the ambush.
“Zac Weikal,” he said. “Glad to meet you.”
I was pretty sure he wasn’t.
Dad waved his hand toward the chairs across from him. “Have a seat. I waited on you to order. Their stromboli is incredible, but it’s huge. Anyone want to split one?”
“Not me,” I said. “I want pizza.”
Dad raised an eyebrow. “You still eat those weird pizzas?”
I studied him for a moment. Although his hair was grayer, he was still a handsome man. My mother had always said he reminded her of James Garner from The Rockford Files, her favorite television show in the seventies. Now Dad looked like Jim Rockford in his fifties, still handsome, still dashing.
“Yeah, Dad. Still eating those weird pizzas.”
He shrugged and turned his attention to Zac. “How about you, Zac? Feel like splitting a stromboli?”
Zac nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
Dad turned to look for the waitress, who was already on her way over to us. When she got to the table, Dad turned on the charm. It was like a switch he could flip on and off at the drop of a hat. Most people seemed to find it appealing, but it embarrassed me. I still hadn’t recovered from his attempt to captivate my college friends with his overblown charisma. In the end, I’d dissuaded him from visiting me on campus. Seeing him a couple of times a year at a neutral location had been more than enough contact for me.
I refused to drop in on his new family. Ditching Mom for a woman with two kids hurt. I met his new wife once and took an immediate dislike to her. She was everything Mom wasn’t—overdone makeup, bleached hair, and eyes as dead as a shark’s. It was immediately clear to me that my father’s money was the main attraction. I felt sorry for her children, who looked like they were only biding time until they could make their escape.
Dad ordered a stromboli for himself and Zac and then looked at me. “What do you want, Emily?”
“I’ll take a small pizza with cheese, green pepper, and pineapple,” I said to the waitress, whom Dad had just referred to as “sweetie.”
She nodded.
“What kind of a pizza is that?” Dad asked, shaking his head. “Pizza should have meat,” he said to the waitress, whose name tag said Sally. “Isn’t that right, Sally?”
She smiled. “I like my pizza with mushrooms and pineapple.”
Dad colored slightly. “Guess you and I are the only ones who understand Italian food, Zac,” he said loudly. “Women just don’t get it, do they?”
Zac shrugged. “Guess everyone’s tastes are different.”
I thanked Sally for taking our order, giving her an out so she could scurry away.
“I asked you here today because I need help, Dad,” I said, trying to get right to the point.
“I’m glad I was available, Emily. I’ve been out on the road for two weeks and just wrapped up my business in St. Louis last night. I head back to Chicago tomorrow.”
“What kind of work do you do?” Zac asked.
I nudged him under the table. Once my dad started talking business, he could go on for at least an hour. He used to regale everyone he met with stories about his mortgage banking company. After he sold out and went into insurance, the long-winded diatribes began to diminish in length, but the boasting continued.
“Insurance,” he said. “I run my own agency.”
Surprisingly, that was it. Caught off guard, it took me a moment to gather my thoughts and jump in before Dad came up with something else work related.
Briefly, I explained my assignment. Then I said, “Dad, I want to show you a picture.” I took the file folder of photos out of my tote bag, pulled out the shot of Elijah, and pushed it across the table. “This boy. He . . . he looks like Ryan. I came out here to find out if it could possibly be him.”
My father’s face went pale as he stared at the photo. “Ryan’s dead, Emily. How could you possibly think—?”
“But what if he’s not? What if someone took him? Kept him? I’ve got to know, Dad. I won’t walk away until I know for certain this isn’t him.”
My father hadn’t taken his eyes off the picture since I’d shoved it in front of him. “But it can’t be him. If Ryan was alive, he would have contacted us.”
Briefly, I explained all the reasons that assumption might be wrong. Everything Zac and I had discussed.
“So you see, it is possible. Ryan was only seven when he was taken. His abductors could have told him anything.” I paused to take a deep breath. “Look, Dad. I went to Sanctuary half expecting to look this teenager in the face and know he wasn’t Ryan. I wondered if the picture I saw was a fluke. Just an odd-angled shot of someone who happened to look like my brother. But the young man I met looks like the picture that caught my eye. The one that made me wonder if it could be him. And now he’s disappeared. I can’t help but think that someone might be trying to hide him. You’re the only one who has the answers I’m looking for. The only one who can help me.”
My father finally broke his gaze away from the photograph and looked up at me. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. “If you think this is Ryan, why haven’t you called the police? You have no business taking this on by yourself.”
“Before the authorities descend on Sanctuary, I want to know I’m not starting something that will blow up in my face and cause trouble for innocent people. That’s why I need your help. You can identify Ryan better than I can. You know things about him that I don’t. Like birthmarks, scars, physical markers I can’t remember clearly. If you’ll help me, if you’ll see this young man for yourself—”
My father jumped to his feet. “You should have left this alone, Emily. You really should have left this alone.”
With that, he walked out the front door. I heard his car door slam, his engine start, and his tires squeal as he drove away.
Zac’s mouth was open. “What just happened?” he asked finally. “Is he coming back?”
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“No. He’s gone.” Anger coursed through me, tasting like sour bile in my throat. “That’s my father. Running out when his family needs him. I should have known.”
Just then, Sally came to the table with our food. She frowned at my father’s empty chair. “Is he coming back? Should I keep his food warm?”
“If you don’t mind, just put his half of the stromboli in a box. We’ll take it with us.”
As she walked away, Zac leaned back in his chair and studied me carefully. “So now what?”
I picked up a piece of pizza. “Now we eat. Then we figure out our next move.”
I should have enjoyed Angelo’s great pizza, but at that moment, it tasted like ashes in my mouth.
Chapter
Twelve
Our visit to the grotto was interesting. The guide told us the story of the shrine, which turned out to be a real testament to dedication and hard work. The shrine had been rebuilt after a devastating fire in the fifties. Vandals had attacked it more than once, but the Franciscan Brothers who cared for it restored it time after time. I tried to stay focused on its fascinating history, but I had a hard time concentrating. My father’s actions back at the restaurant had opened old wounds that were now bleeding.
We got back to Sanctuary around six o’clock. Zac had eaten my dad’s half of the stromboli in the car, but I was hungry. Esther wasn’t home when we arrived, and I assumed she was attending evening church services.
Zac went upstairs to unpack his gear while I raided the refrigerator. Cold chicken, potato salad, and a delicious fruit relish made for a quick dinner that I ate in the kitchen. After I cleaned everything up, I fixed myself a second glass of tea and took it upstairs. The door to Zac’s room was open. We hadn’t talked much on the way home. I’d been too upset, and Zac had wisely kept quiet while I dealt with my bruised feelings. I stopped by his door and leaned against the frame. He was sitting on the bed, obviously waiting for me.
“What’s our next move?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. I know Ed will expect an update tomorrow. I can’t lie to him, Zac. Either I tell him we’re still in Sanctuary and why, or we leave and call him from somewhere else.”
“You need to be careful.”
“Trust me. I’m aware of that. Did you call your friend in St. Joe?”
He nodded. “Talked to him last night. He planned to visit Jamesport today. He should be calling anytime now.”
“I need to think,” I said. “I’m going for a walk. Maybe by the time I get back, you’ll have heard from him. Then we’ll decide what to do. If Elijah’s family is on the run, we’ve got to move quickly. I can’t take a chance on losing my brother a second time.”
“It’s your decision, Wynter. Not mine.”
“You’re wrong. We’re friends. We’ll decide together.”
Zac’s smile was genuine. “Thanks. I’m glad you see me as your friend.”
“Well, you are. Be back in a bit.”
When I went into my room I found Clyde and Frances sleeping on my bed. They both opened their eyes and looked at me with disinterest before going back to sleep. I almost stepped on a tail sticking out from under the bed. I bent down and found Sam curled up in a ball on the floor. Obviously his older joints hadn’t allowed him to jump up onto the high bed. I would have picked him up and put him next to his kitty friends, but I was concerned he’d have trouble getting down again. I took a minute to pet each one of them, and then changed my clothes.
It felt great to slide on jeans and a comfortable shirt. I exchanged my heels for sneakers and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. I’d just put my clothes away when I noticed a small box on the dresser. When I opened it, I found several pieces of fudge. That’s when I noticed a note that had been placed under the box. It simply said “Welcome!” Although I appreciated Esther’s gesture, I wasn’t hungry and dropped the box off with Zac on my way out. He was only too happy to accept it.
As I walked down the stairs, they creaked beneath my feet. It was a comforting sound and once again reminded me of my grandmother’s house. I heard her voice in my head. “Without God, nothing makes sense, honey. More than anything else, seek Him. Keep Him close. He’s always nearby, never farther away than a whispered prayer.”
I stopped at Esther’s front door, my hand on the knob. “Are you still there, God?” I asked quietly. “I have no right to ask for your help, but if you could show me what to do, I certainly would appreciate it.”
I stepped out onto the front porch and breathed in the soft spring air. There weren’t many people out. Most of them were probably in church. As I walked, I looked more closely at the buildings that made up downtown Sanctuary. There were only a few houses on Main Street, including Esther’s and Janet’s. The business district was four blocks long and contained the two restaurants, the hardware store, a small general store, two buildings without names on the outside, a quilt shop, a clothing store, a secondhand store, and a redbrick building divided into three businesses. The building housed Sanctuary Christian School, Sanctuary Library, and Sanctuary Post Office. The ancient buildings were painted, clean, and cared for. Sanctuary was the epitome of homespun charm. A town caught in time, seemingly untouched by modernism, disinterest, or lack of respect. The idea of graffiti felt like heresy, and littering seemed like a crime worthy of imprisonment.
On the far side of Sanctuary sat Agape Fellowship. Its white spire was the tallest point in town. Sanctuary Mennonite was just two blocks away. The plain structure didn’t have a spire or a cross. In fact, unless you were close enough to read the sign above the entrance, you could mistake it for a commercial building. However, it seemed completely appropriate for the plain people who worshiped there.
There were more homes on neighboring blocks, but almost everything was within walking distance. Reuben had told me that quite a few residents owned farms outside of town, but they were still part of Sanctuary.
I headed toward Randi’s café, hoping to get a cup of coffee. Before I reached the restaurant, I made a decision. Something I’d been toying with since yesterday. As if God was confirming my conclusion, I looked down the street and saw Reuben walking toward me.
“Church out?” I asked.
“Yeah, just dismissed.”
“Hey, I wanted to talk to you if you have some time,” I said. “I’m headed to Randi’s for coffee.”
“Sounds great.” He waited for me to catch up and then walked next to me toward the diner.
“I’m surprised she’s open on Sunday,” I said. “Figured almost everything would be closed on the Sabbath.”
Reuben grinned. “You’re right, but Randi does a great business on Sunday. After church her café is packed.”
As we strolled down the street, we were passed by several buggies. Obviously the Mennonite church had completed services too. Reuben called out to most of the people who rode past us. He seemed to be friends with almost everyone in town. A woman coming toward us called out his name, and he stopped.
“Wynter, this is Sarah Miller,” he said as she approached. “She teaches at our small private school.”
I reached out and took her hand. “I’m glad to meet you. I was surprised to learn that a town this small had its own school.”
Sarah, a tall, thin woman with red hair in a bun and a smattering of freckles across her face, smiled. “It’s supported by the churches. There are some parents in our town who don’t want their children to attend public school.”
I smiled at her. “How interesting. I wonder if you’d allow me to interview you. I’d love to find out more.”
“You’re the lady from the news station in St. Louis?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t take long, Sarah. What do you say?”
I noticed Reuben and Sarah exchange quick glances.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she said slowly, dragging the last word out. “You can’t film the children. Many of them come from conservative Mennonite homes. Their parents won’t allow them to be on ca
mera.”
“That’s fine. I’d just be talking to you.”
Another look at Reuben. What now? Was everyone in Sanctuary keeping secrets?
“I . . . I guess it would be all right,” she said finally. “Maybe you could come by the school tomorrow?”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”
She nodded and walked away without saying good-bye.
“Okay, what gives?” I asked. “Another person with a deep, dark past?”
He smiled. “Let’s get some coffee, and I’ll tell you about Sarah.”
Once we got to the café, Reuben ordered coffee and urged me to try Randi’s coconut macaroon pie. A nut for coconut, I had to say yes. One bite put me into coconut heaven.
“Randi could make a go of it anywhere,” I said after swallowing the first delicious bite. “I’d ask why she lives here, but I’m afraid to.”
He laughed. “Randi isn’t in witness protection or anything, if that’s what you mean. She just loves Sanctuary. Her mother owned a restaurant in Columbia. When she died, Randi decided to carry on the family tradition, but she didn’t want to deal with the stress of running a large establishment. She stumbled upon Sanctuary when she came to see a friend who lives in Farmington. This place was empty and she asked permission to move here. She was welcomed with open arms.”
“So there’s at least one person in Sanctuary who isn’t living a surreptitious existence?”
Reuben shook his finger at me. “Now you’re just making fun of us.”
“Kind of.” I put another bite of pie on my fork. “Now tell me about Sarah.”
The joviality in his expression disappeared. “Sarah’s parents were murdered when she was only six. The men who broke into her house missed her and her older sister because they hid in a small storage closet under the stairs.” He frowned. “Her hesitation in talking to you comes from not wanting to be associated with such an awful crime from her past. She doesn’t want it to become her identity. Can you understand that?”
