Forsaken

by Leanna Ellis

  “Mozart.”

  “Whatever. That why?”

  Mike shrugged a shoulder. “So what’s going on here, Roc? You show up and suddenly folks are disappearing…dying.”

  Roc’s belly knotted. “You accusing me of something?”

  “If I thought you were guilty, you’d already be locked up.”

  “So you must’ve checked with Brody when I was last in New Orleans. Confirmed my alibi.”

  Without any sign of remorse, Mike tipped his head sideways as if he suspected Roc would have done the same. “Ruby Yoder was already missing before you left New Orleans.”

  He reached for the beer. It would wash away the nightmares, the craziness he’d seen tonight. But without taking even a sip, he set it back down. “Okay then, so tell me.”

  “There’s nothing. No fingerprints. No nothin’. Like some phantom with big teeth. Explain that to me. The coroner said if it was an animal, which I never thought for a second, there’d be saliva. And there should be something.”

  “Just like when Emma….”

  “Yeah. And the coroner said something else.”

  Roc waited, his heart contracting.

  “There wasn’t enough blood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There should have been more at the scene. The wound hit an artery, for Christ’s sake. So there should have been more blood. Everywhere. But where did it go?”

  “Maybe something blocked it. So it stayed in the body.”

  Mike shook his head. “That’s the other thing…there should have been more blood in the body but it was damn near drained.”

  Roc felt the blood drain out of his head, and his heart went into overdrive to handle the excess.

  “An Amish kid and now a bum on the streets.” Mike finally drank some of his beer. “So what’s the connection?”

  “Don’t forget Em.” Roc’s voice sounded as if it was not coming from him, as if someone else was speaking…thinking. He swallowed hard. “And the teen dressed in an Amish costume in New Orleans.”

  “Some fetish for plain folks? Or bad timing? In the wrong place?”

  “Emma wasn’t plain.”

  “No, but she was wearing scrubs that night. Plain blue scrubs, remember? Plain.”

  Roc rubbed the heel of one hand with his other thumb, back and forth over the deep lines. “I have a suspect.”

  Mike’s hand paused midair, beer poised for his mouth. “What? Who?”

  “I don’t know much more.” He explained about the Amish kids and the woman known for drinking blood—chicken blood—and how he ran into her and Akiva.

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “Hell if I know.” He stood, paced a few steps. Did he really want to confess this? What would Mike say? Think? If Roc actually said aloud what he was beginning to believe, would it make it all the more real or scatter the delusion? Mike was waiting. Watching. Roc felt his gaze on him, studying, analyzing, dissecting. Drawing a shaky breath, he admitted, “Thing is, I saw him…Akiva tonight, following an Amish woman through a field.”

  “And?”

  “He ran. I chased him.”

  The tension in the room shifted a notch. Mike leaned forward.

  Roc faced him, like he was on a lineup. “And I shot him.”

  Mike jerked back slightly then his eyes narrowed. “You’re not gonna tell me you have a body in the trunk of that Mustang, are you?”

  “I wish.”

  “So what happened? Where is he?”

  “I shot him. Square in the chest.”

  Mike didn’t blink or move. He waited.

  Roc wished there was a different ending to the story. He wished there was a body. Anything to disprove what he was about to say. “And then—” Roc looked down, stared at his boots. Dried grass and mud from the field still stuck to the soles, which made the night real—too real. “He disappeared.”

  Mike blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I shot him. Here.” Roc splayed a hand across his own chest, smack in the middle.

  “You sure?”

  “I know how to shoot.”

  Mike gave a clipped nod of agreement. How many times in years gone by had they stood side by side at the shooting range and then compared bullet holes in their outlines? Roc’s accuracy was gold-medal worthy.

  “So he ran away. Maybe he was on crack. That happens. Perps’ bodies all pumped up on speed or some other drug and nothing but a Mac truck will stop ’em.” Mike reached for his cell phone lying on the table. “I’ll call for—”

  “No. I’m telling you, the sonofabitch crumpled forward and…I don’t know. It was like he folded inward. And…Poof!” He couldn’t meet Mike’s gaze. “He disappeared. Zippedeedoodah. Just like that. Sayonara. Gone. Like he flew away.”

  “Flew?” Mike dipped his chin and stared at Roc, suspicion darkening those jaded eyes that had seen his share of the bizarre. “You have been drinking, haven’t you? Or smoking something.”

  Roc shook his head, wishing he could explain and knowing he couldn’t. He rubbed his face with his palms. It had been a mistake to come here. He’d hoped in some way that saying it out loud would make it seem ridiculous—and it certainly sounded that way—but speaking the words had the opposite effect on Roc and somehow made the incident more real. His shoulders tensed in defensiveness—trying to turn the irrational into the rational was hopeless—and he turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  He fished in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper Anthony had given him. “I’m gonna talk with a priest.”

  “A priest. You think you need forgiveness for something?”

  With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Mike. “I need help. And not the kind you’re thinking of: a doc with a notepad of prescriptions ready to hand out. I have a bad feeling Anthony was right.”

  “Anthony?” Mike was on his feet. “Who’s Anthony? And right about what?”

  “That we’re not dealing with your ordinary serial killer. More the Twilight kind. And this one isn’t a vegetarian.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The night was still, and the cold air frosted Hannah’s breath. A dark head shadowed her shoulder, his skull pressing against her bone, but it was not painful; her discomfort remained deep inside. This strange man, an Englisher, leaned into her, and she was grateful for her wrap forming a thin protective barrier between them. His breathing sounded ragged, his footsteps halting, his weight heavy. What was she doing?

  Dat would not be angry for her helping an injured man; helping others was their way of life, but he would disapprove of her going to the cemetery. Not because she was alone, not because it was night, but he would not understand her need to be near Jacob. This unending grief was not their way. God’s will was not to be questioned or doubted or even resisted. No matter what happened, they moved on to the next season obediently, without question. But questions and doubts churned inside Hannah, as they once had Jacob. Maybe she’d learned that from him.

  Her wickedness surely exceeded the actions of her friends who had thrust themselves whole-heartedly into their running around season, for she could not accept God’s will concerning Jacob. How could Jacob’s death be good for anyone? How could she be sure God’s will was for her to marry Jacob and then he died before that could be? God’s will didn’t make sense. Maybe it wasn’t God’s will after all. She resisted it. Resented it. Hated it. It was to her disgrace and to her shame, but it was the truth.

  She was all alone in her grief. No one would understand. Not her parents. Not Rachel. Not even her close friend, Grace. Even Levi seemed to have moved beyond his own brother’s death as easily as the seasons shifted into each other. The Lord must surely look upon her with disappointment, but what greater displeasure if she abandoned this man in need too?

  And yet
she knew her motive wasn’t entirely charitable: this man knew Jacob. And even for a second, it made her somehow feel closer to her beloved, especially because this was an area of his life that she had never known.

  But there was something else…something about this man felt familiar. And yet everything about him seemed strange to her. Was it simply that the poem he quoted was the one etched on her own heart? Or was it the cleft of his shoulder that felt as if she’d nestled her head there once before? She couldn’t make sense of it.

  So she would hide this stranger as she had hidden her resistance to God’s will, her unwillingness to let Jacob go. For to bring this stranger out in the open would require answers, answers she didn’t have, answers best left in secret. She prayed he would not die. She prayed he would be healed, that she too would one day feel whole again. She prayed God still listened to her prayers.

  Her back ached from shouldering the man’s weight, her muscles cramped under the strain. His breathing was labored, harsh, and ragged, too much so for conversation. There was a slight rattle when he exhaled, which reminded Hannah of her grandmother’s breathing before she succumbed to the pneumonia. But this man didn’t cough. He didn’t even speak. He plodded forward, one labored foot at a time.

  Questions churned and frothed in her head, but she could see this stranger was in no shape to answer her questions about Jacob.

  When she saw the post, which held the mailbox at the end of her family’s drive, she gratefully turned toward the house. It wasn’t far now. Thankfully, it was still dark. But for how long? Dat awakened at four. Levi arrived by four-thirty. It could not be much earlier than that now. And what about Toby? Could she sneak this man past the doghouse? There was but one place she could think to hide him, and she veered toward the spring house. The moon still rode in the sky, high enough and full enough to offer light, so she snapped off the flashlight, dousing them in darkness, so that no one would see their approach.

  The man came to a sudden halt, and Hannah realized she too was breathing hard and through her mouth. His gaze settled on her, unsettled her. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin from the long, arduous walk. Moonlight reflected off his pale features. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, but he didn’t look all right. He looked pale, deathly pale. His eyes were sunken into his skull and appeared as dark as a pit.

  He opened his mouth to speak but at first no sound emerged, just that raspy breath, then he managed to speak. “I must not be discovered.”

  Hannah glanced toward the house, where the windows were dark. It had taken much longer to walk back from the cemetery than it usually did. “We should hurry.”

  With a backward glance at the house and keeping a wary eye out for Toby, she unhinged the rusted lock, swung open the wooden door, and urged the man inside. Clicking the button on the flashlight, she shone the pale yellow light toward the back. “It’s all right,” she said more for her benefit than his. In the dim light, his face was pale but passive, unconcerned, like granite. “You’ll be safe here.”

  He took a few steps forward, stumbled over a cord, and made his way toward the back, sitting hard on the ground and leaning his head back against the wall, his legs splayed outward. One of his hands rested near his heart.

  Hannah breathed easier to have at least made it here safely, without incident. Now as he lay sheltered from the chilly temperature, she should check his wound. Zippers were not allowed under the Ordnung, but she had seen them before on friends’ English clothes, which they had begun to buy during their running around time. Carefully, so as not to disturb his rest, she knelt beside him and tugged downward on the metal tab, the zipper trailing in parallel tracks, like teeth opening, exposing the dark stain on his white shirt.

  But he covered her hand with his own, his touch ice cold, and fear shot through her. She remembered helping Mamm when Grandma Ruth got sick last year, her skin growing cool as she neared the end of her life, her breathing labored and ragged—and then when she lay in her casket, her skin shrunk on her skeleton, her cheeks sunken, her form hard and cold.

  What if this man died? What would Hannah do? How would she explain? Would she be at fault for not getting him help soon enough? Her heart pounded in her chest. Should she tell Dat? Have him call for a doctor? She stared into those black eyes. She’d known others with dark brown eyes but these…there was no distinguishing the pupil from the iris, just solid black. Something about those eyes compelled her to lean closer and her hand moved to cup his jaw. He rezipped the metal contraption on his leather jacket, all the while watching her with those impossibly dark eyes as if gauging her response.

  “You should leave, Hannah.” His voice sounded cold too.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her voice sounded calmer than her heart felt. She didn’t want to panic him or confess her concerns. “You need blankets.” She stood. “They’ll warm you.”

  He shuttered his gaze. “I’m going to be fine.” His voice wavered. “I just need nourishment.”

  “I can get you something.” She backed away, stepping over the cords and wires, her heart beating in the frantic rhythm of the pump. The flashlight’s pale glow moved along with her, bouncing, shifting, leaving the man in tempering darkness. “Maybe some bandages too. And salve.” She was thinking out loud more than speaking to him, her mind skipping in different directions. What could have caused such a wound? Could he be in trouble? She paused at the doorway. “What happened to you?”

  Even in shadow, she could make out his frame. He leaned his head back against the wood-planked wall. Were those dark eyes closed or was he still watching her? She sensed the heat of his gaze and her skin felt warm in spite of the coolness outside. “You would not understand.”

  With distance between them, she felt somewhat braver than normal. She’d seen similar wounds in deer, which Dat and Levi shot in the winter. “Were you shot? W-with a gun?”

  He didn’t answer. Again, she longed to ask about Jacob. What was Jacob doing with a dangerous man such as this? How did they meet? After a minute, his breathing became deep and even, but at least he was breathing. He needed sleep, so she carefully backed through the doorway.

  “Will you come back, Hannah?” His voice remained soft, yet there was an urgency lining his words, a need. Or was it fear? Did he realize how ill he was? Was he afraid of being alone?

  Her answer was a whisper in her head before she spoke: “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…

  Akiva’s belly burned with a hungry ache, but remembering the Poe poem drew an ironic smile from him over his ravenous state. His integral system of arteries, veins, and capillaries constricted with need, and he grew colder and stiffer, his usual beyond-natural strength waning, and no amount of blankets could warm him. Only lifeblood, hot and pulsing, could fill him, warm him, heal him.

  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

  In his mind, he watched Hannah enter her family’s house and knew she would be out of his way and safe for a few minutes, leaving him time to find nourishment. With great effort, he pushed to his feet, leaned against the inside wall, and drew deep gulps of air. Then he sniffed, his senses much keener and sharper than they were in his other life. A light, delicate scent called to him, and he followed, his footsteps quickening as the sweet aroma became more potent and intoxicating. The fragrance swirled around his head, muddled his thinking, and stirred the raw need building inside him. Food, such as it was, would make the wound heal that much faster.

  At one time, he’d been the one afraid, sensing fear, running. But no longer. Being on the prowl, the one hunting rather than being hunted, strengthened him, filled him with a surge of power. Fear, the tangy, pungent scent
of others’ fear, was invigorating. It fed something inside of him, a raw and urgent need, which came over him gradually, then built until he could no longer deny its fierceness. And it drove him.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  In what distant deeps or skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?

  And what shoulder, and what art,

  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

  And when thy heart began to beat,

  What dread hand? and what dread feet?

  In his former life, when he was running around, drinking alcohol had been fairly new for him, and he enjoyed the escape it provided, the heat it generated, the confidence it induced, real or false didn’t matter. But now he thirsted for something more stimulating than shots of bourbon or bottles of beer, something that truly imbued him with a power he had never known existed.

  What the hammer? what the chain?

  In what furnace was thy brain?

  What the anvil? what dread grasp

  Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

  Crouched low, he stalked into the cold night. Surely there was an animal nearby that could slacken his thirst. But a powerfully sweet scent filled his mind with a swirling red haze. It had the heady strength of youth and seduced him into following. He stumbled forward, chasing the alluring scent, which stripped him of all reason. His urgency made him rash and foolhardy, but his desperation drove him onward as he took the corner of the house and came to the back—a solid wall of wooden slats, punctured by the occasional window. He stared up at a darkened, shaded window.

  When the stars threw down their spears,

  And watered heaven with their tears,

  Did He smile His work to see?

  Did He who made the Lamb make thee?

  He rested a moment, catching his breath, and that tiny amount of time allowed doubts to intrude. Some small part of his conscience from his past life gnawed at him. Guilt was a human emotion, beneath him now, and yet…it was Hannah who stirred it in him. She would be the one to suffer if we pursued this tempting blood. She would weep for her loss, for the loss of something so pure and good. But it was that pureness that made the sacrifice so powerful.