Shadows of Lancaster County

by Mindy Starns Clark

  No genetic connection between a father and son? Obviously, Bobby had run some sort of DNA test to figure that one out, but considering how many generations back that was, what difference did it make? Maybe Karl was Samuel’s stepson. Maybe Samuel’s wife had had an affair. Maybe Karl was adopted.

  Maybe Bobby was grasping at straws from eight generations back.

  Shaking my head, I decided I had learned all that I could here. I gathered up the papers and carried them to my car, dialing the number of Lydia’s cell phone as I went. When she answered, I asked if she was alone, or if not that she please get herself alone. While she did that I started the car to warm up the heater.

  “Go ahead, Anna. What is it?”

  “I need you to talk to me about Isaac’s health,” I said. “I don’t mean to pry, but this is relevant to my investigation. I saw a look that passed between you and your sister last night, a look of concern. Is there something wrong with him?”

  Lydia replied that she didn’t know how this could possibly relate to my investigation, but that she would tell me what she could. She said they had all been worried about Isaac for a while now, though they didn’t know what was wrong with him.

  “He seems so smart, but he is not a very good student at school, and he has a lot of trouble reading and writing. This year, we had him tested, and it turns out that he has all sorts of learning disabilities.”

  “Learning disabilities? That’s not so bad.”

  “No, it is not. That we could handle. God makes all of us a little different, and if Isaac needs special help, we will get it for him. Our concern is with his language. He seems to be regressing. I am sure the other night you heard him call snow ‘white cold’ and the cookie sheet a ‘square.’ These days, cows are ‘moos,’ the car is a ‘go far,’ and so on. He is doing this more and more. I assumed it was all part of his learning disabilities, but Bobby has been extremely upset about it.”

  “Has Isaac been seen by a doctor?”

  “Not yet. Bobby asked me to wait until he had explored some other options, and then he disappeared.”

  I took a deep breath and asked Lydia if she was familiar with something called Wolfe-Kraus syndrome.

  “WKS? Of course. It runs in my family—my sister, my mother, my cousins. I feel sure I am a carrier as well. Why?”

  “Because Bobby had Isaac tested for it.” When Lydia gasped, I added, “Don’t worry, the test came back negative.”

  “But why would Bobby think Isaac had WKS? That disorder needs two carriers to manifest in a child and Bobby is not Amish.”

  “He’s been doing some family research, though. I have a feeling there may have been Amish blood somewhere in our family tree, at least enough to make disorders like WKS a possibility.”

  “Ah,” she said, and then she was quiet for a moment. “Still, WKS is fatal before or at birth. Isaac is eight years old and very much alive!”

  Isaac is eight years old and very much alive.

  I thought of Bobby’s papers, of his family tree and genetic tests and highlighted medical texts. I thought of his suspension from work, of the old files that Doug had faxed to Reed proving that gene therapy had been going on at the WIRE years ago, before Isaac was even born.

  Was it possible that Isaac was living on borrowed time, that those eight years had been bought with some sort of genetic tinkering in his past?

  “Lydia, tell me something.”

  “Yah?”

  “At any point during or after your pregnancy with Isaac, did you ever have an office visit at the WIRE with Dr. Updyke? Did he ever do any tests or procedures on you?”

  Lydia was quiet for a long moment. I waited for her response, my heart in my throat, watching as a cluster of students crossed in front of my car and moved down the sidewalk toward another building.

  “Yes,” she finally whispered. “Isaac was conceived in vitro there. So was the baby I’m carrying now.”

  I sat up straight, goose bumps rising along my arms as I thought about the article I’d found in Bobby’s locker, the one that said some rare Amish disorders could be treated by using in vitro fertilization and gene therapy.

  “In vitro? Why?”

  “Bobby insisted. We lost our first child to a miscarriage. Bobby said he never wanted to go through that heartbreak again, and that the only way he was willing to have more children was if I would conceive this way. He told me that Dr. Updyke had a new method for implantation that would make any future miscarriages much less likely.”

  “A method for implantation?”

  “Yah. Bobby said the doctor told him that the kind of miscarriage I had was likely caused by the fetus never really implanting correctly onto the wall of the uterus. He said it was a simple problem he could fix. He didn’t even charge us, though I know that sort of thing can be very expensive.”

  I was trying to form a reply when she spoke again.

  “I may be naive, Anna, but I am not stupid. After hearing this, I did a lot of reading about miscarriage and fertility treatments and artificial insemination and all of that. I finally agreed to do it, as long as the doctor was willing to fertilize only one egg, not multiples as they usually do, and no preimplantation genetic diagnosis. The whole thing went exactly like the books said, and nine months later Isaac was born. It worked so well that when we decided to have another child, we went through the same process again. Why do you ask, Anna? What does this have to do with Bobby’s disappearance?”

  I wasn’t ready to answer that, or to share the thoughts swirling around in my mind. Instead, I told her this was a side issue relating to some papers of Bobby’s I had found. Fortunately, she was interrupted on her end at that point and I managed to end our call without having to explain any further.

  Now, as I sat in the car and looked out at the graceful campus in front of me, at the long shadows cast by an orange sun that hung low in the winter sky, the theory that filled my mind was so sinister and dark it was almost too scary to contemplate.

  What if Dr. Updyke hadn’t pioneered a “new method for implantation,” as Lydia had been told, but instead had only used that as an excuse for what he really wanted; the opportunity to do genetic modification of an Amish (or at least half-Amish) embryo in vitro?

  From what I had read in Bobby’s papers, gene therapy was best done at the eight-cell stage, prior to implantation, but that wasn’t likely to be a viable option since in vitro fertilization was something most Amish people wouldn’t consider. Given that, had the temptation in this situation simply been too great to resist? Had Bobby’s desire for a healthy child and Lydia’s willingness to be artificially inseminated been too good an opportunity for the doctor to pass up?

  If so, then Isaac and the baby in Lydia’s womb were both living proof that Dr. Updyke had stepped far outside the bounds of medicine and of ethics—and of the law. In the hands of the authorities, their very DNA could likely cost the man his career, his medical license, and maybe even his freedom.

  No wonder Isaac and Lydia were in danger.

  THIRTY

  STEPHANIE

  September 3, 1812

  Last night’s conversation with my husband has filled me with endless frustration and fear. Though Karl believed not one word of the rumor about Luise and Leopold’s intentions, he said if it were true it would not be the first time a morganaut attempted to overcome his origins.

  I asked for an explanation, and the best he could tell me was that the laws of succession could be altered in situations where there was a lack of a male heir to the throne. He gave the example of a firstborn female heir being substituted for a male, or a morganatic son being enfranchised and married to Royalty, so that he could then assume the throne.

  So it is possible that one day Leopold could rule Baden? I demanded. My husband only laughed, saying it was either that or pass his title to our own firstborn daughter, and hope that the palace guard didn’t end up in pink uniforms and the state dinners become frilly tea parties!

  There is much no
t to like about my husband, most of all his sarcasm—and the dullness of his imagination. He sees nothing where nothing can be plainly seen. He believes rumors and threats only after they become reality.

  By then it will be too late.

  September 5, 1812

  I have not slept for two nights. As discreetly as possible, I have attempted to confirm the rumors of Luise’s planned treachery against my baby. My efforts tell me that without a doubt the rumors are true. If my child is born male, he will be killed.

  Knowing that, I have begun to form a plan in my mind, a plan that would spare my son but surely rip my heart in two. Tomorrow, if I can bear it, I shall go to my Amisch friends and tell them of my proposal.

  Now, hour by hour, I wrestle with the conflict that rages in my soul, the battle between needing to produce a male heir and needing to save my baby’s life should he be born male.

  The first choice would justify me in the eyes of my husband, the palace, and the country.

  The second choice is the very opposite of self. Would I sacrifice my honor for his life? This is the question with which I wrestle.

  My son, do you despise the selfishness that draws me to the easier option? Or do you intend to keep tugging at my heart even before you are born, making me fall ever more in love with you until the second option is the only one I can bear to choose?

  THIRTY-ONE

  ANNA

  It was time for me to head back to Dreiheit and get ready for my dinner with Remy Villefranche. The mystery of the Beauharnais Rubies paled in comparison to the mystery of my nephew’s health, but until I had all of the facts, I couldn’t know what one part of this investigation had to do with the other, so I decided to proceed as planned.

  Putting the car in reverse, I started to back out of my parking space but stopped short when I realized a van was sitting directly behind me. I waited for a minute, but it didn’t move, so I honked the horn, turning to give a wave to the driver. He didn’t see me, so I got out and gave him a bigger wave. Rather than get out of the way, though, he rolled down the passenger window and asked me if I knew where he could find Whitehall Commons.

  “This is it right here,” I said, gesturing toward the building on my right.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied, holding up what looked like a map. “Not according to this, anyway.”

  I didn’t have time for this. I was about to tell him to look at the sign on the building when the side door of the van slid open and two men jumped out.

  Before I could react, they dragged me away from my car, pulled me inside the van, and slammed the door.

  Tires squealing, the van took off. As we careened around a sharp turn, I struggled to break free from the grip that pinned me to the floor. I tried to look around, but a hand clamped firmly against my eyes, blocking the view. We turned again. I tried to scream, but another hand clamped over my mouth and nose.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “Do you want me to take my hand away?” a voice whispered near my ear.

  I nodded frantically, desperate for air. “No screaming.”

  I shook my head no. When they let go, I couldn’t have screamed if I wanted to. I could only breathe, sucking in deep gasps of air.

  “Where are the rubies?” the voice demanded.

  “The Beauharnais Rubies,” a second voice added.

  I was too scared to reply. Finally, I muttered that I didn’t know what they were talking about.

  “Are you sure she’s the right one?” I heard the driver ask.

  “We’re gonna make sure once you stop,” a voice said.

  The van squealed around another turn and another and then screeched to a halt. I felt someone grip my hair and jerk my head backward. I opened my mouth to scream but instantly realized as I did that something had been thrust between my teeth and was jabbing the inside of my cheek. I let out a garbled yell as the sticklike item was just as quickly removed from my mouth.

  I heard the sound of the door sliding open and then I felt myself being pushed. The hands let go of my hair, my eyes, my body, and I was falling. I landed on cold, hard pavement with a thud. Behind me, the door slammed shut and then the van screeched away, just barely missing one of my legs with a back tire.

  “Whoa! Are you okay?”

  I looked up to see a group of students staring at me from where they stood on the sidewalk. After a beat, they all began moving toward me. They helped me up and brushed me off and asked me what had just happened. Blinking, I looked around and realized I had been driven in a circle and that I was back where I started, directly behind my car which was still sitting in its parking space, engine running, door open.

  Too dumbfounded even to reply, I let them help me to the curb where I sat, my legs suddenly too wobbly to stand. There, one of them pulled out a cell phone and called for campus security. I remained silent, still too stunned to speak, dismayed to hear my helpers argue among themselves about what they had just witnessed. They had conflicting ideas about the color of the van, what the people inside looked like, even how many there had been. About all they could agree on was that none of them had thought to look at the license plate.

  Finally, one of the group sat next to me, a pretty young woman with dark hair and a calm demeanor. She gently asked if I had been violated in some way. Did we need not just campus security but the Hershey Police?

  How could I respond to that?

  I hadn’t been raped, punched, stabbed, or shot, but I had been violated. Rubbing my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I suddenly realized what had been shoved in my mouth: a swab.

  Whoever abducted me had taken a sample of my DNA.

  For the next forty-five minutes my emotions vacillated between fury and terror. The campus police secured my vehicle and brought me back to the station, but other than giving them Reed’s name and number, I didn’t tell them much. I was simply too overwhelmed to speak.

  When Reed finally came dashing into the station, eyes frantic, all I could do was collapse against his strong shoulders. He held me as I cried, and for a long time we just stood there like that in the middle of the empty waiting room, rocking back and forth, arms around each other. After a while he handed me a tissue and suggested that I clean myself up while he spoke to the people in charge.

  In the station’s restroom I rinsed my face, fixed my hair and makeup, and cleaned up my disheveled clothes as best I could. When I came out, I was relieved to see that Reed had taken charge of the situation and had asked for a copy of their report and my keys. Once he had those, he thanked them for their help, saying that the matter would be referred to the FBI from here.

  We went out to the warmth and privacy of Reed’s car, where I found my voice at last. Sitting there in the dark quiet, I described what had taken place in the parking lot as well as what I had found in Bobby’s locker and what I had learned on the phone from Lydia. When I was finished with the whole tale, Reed agreed with my conclusion that my captors had been swabbing my cheek for DNA, though he had no better idea of why someone would do that than I did.

  He also agreed that the situation with Bobby and Lydia would have given Dr. Updyke a unique opportunity for gene tampering at the most opportune stage of growth. According to the medical files Doug faxed to Reed the night he was killed, the doctor’s previous attempts at gene therapy had been done during pregnancy or immediately following birth—never prior to implantation. Those procedures had failed, but perhaps by treating the embryo at such an early stage, the doctor had finally managed to succeed—to a degree. What was happening to Isaac now was anybody’s guess.

  I listened as Reed called his friend with the FBI and relayed our conversation. It didn’t sound as though they were ready to move in on the lab just yet, though he promised to get back to us as soon as he knew anything. Concerned for Isaac and Lydia’s safety, I asked Reed if they could be put into some sort of protective custody in the meantime.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he replied. “Let’s give it an hour or two and
see if we hear back. If not, I’ll make another call. Bobby seemed to think they’d be safe at the farm, and I have to agree, for now.”

  Suddenly, I remembered my dinner in Lancaster, and I looked at my watch, relieved to see that I could still make it to the restaurant on time if I didn’t go back to the farm first. Now that I had been kidnapped, albeit briefly, and once again pressured to produce the Beauharnais Rubies, my meeting with the mysterious Mr. Villefranche was more important than ever. Still, I no longer had the nerve to go alone, so Reed agreed to go with me.

  Leading the way in my car with him following behind in his, I zigzagged us over to Hershey Road and got on it heading southeast. I called Remy’s cell phone on the way, and though he didn’t answer I left a message in his voice mail saying I was bringing a friend with me to the restaurant and that I hoped that was okay. Once we finally got there, I chose a well-lit spot in the parking lot, one with an empty place next to it for Reed to pull in. Getting out of the car, I felt myself shivering, though whether that was from the cold or my nerves I wasn’t sure.

  “You okay?” Reed asked as he held out his elbow. I told him I was fine as I took his arm and we walked together to the restaurant. Fine or not, at least I had him there by my side.

  Hesitating at the door of the beautiful old eighteenth-century converted farmhouse, I wondered aloud whether jeans would be allowed in such a nice restaurant. I was sorry I hadn’t had the chance to change for dinner, but at this point all I cared about was getting answers to my questions.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Reed replied, opening the door for me. “You’re beautiful no matter what you’re wearing.”

  Surprised by the compliment, I stepped inside, heat flushing my cheeks. As Reed stepped in behind me, I told him how stupidly I had packed for this trip, saying that my only alternative would have been a summer dress and strappy sandals anyway.