by P. L. Gaus
“Is she really staying off her feet?”
“Today she is. She’s tired more than usual.”
“You going to stay with her all day?”
“Mostly. I need to go out to the pharmacy and the grocery store, but that should only take an hour or so.”
“Tell her I said to stay off her feet, Ricky. Tell her that I’ll be back later today. Maybe this evening.”
“I will,” Ricky said. “She’s going to be fine, Caroline.”
Caroline responded sternly. “You don’t know that. Bad things happen to good people.”
“I know. I know. I just meant—”
“Ricky,” Caroline interrupted. “You’ve got to watch her all the time. She has got to stay off her feet.”
“We know, Caroline. We’re being careful. She’s got the bed and the couch. She listens to the radio or watches TV. And she reads. But I always help her move from the bed to the couch and back again. Other than the bathroom, those are her only two places. So we are watching it, Caroline. We are being careful.”
“OK, Ricky.”
“Really, Caroline. Don’t worry so much.”
“It’s your job to take care of her, Ricky Niell. It’s my job to worry.”
• • •
When their flasher indicated with its circle of red lights that a table was ready for them, the Brandens jostled their way up to the hostess stand, and Caroline handed over the pulsing brown disk with a peevish smile. “Becky Prayter’s table, right?” she asked, and the hostess led them into the dining room without responding. At a back corner of the room, adjacent to swinging doors leading in and out of the noisy kitchen, the hostess laid her two menus down on a small table against the wall. “You were in a hurry, right?” she said, as if to apologize for the poor seating.
Caroline pulled a chair out, sat down, and said, “It’ll do nicely. I’m not sure we want a meal, anyway.” The professor sat across from her.
A middle-aged waitress wearing the nametag BECKY stopped beside their table long enough to set down water glasses and table service. She asked, “Do you know the specials?” and left without an answer. When she returned, she had her pen poised to write an order on her pad, and all she said was a hurried, “OK.”
Caroline reached up gently to touch her arm. “Two coffees, please, and a piece of black raspberry pie to share.”
Becky didn’t bother to write the order on her pad. She stepped away, came back with two cups of coffee, and said, “We seem to have run out of black raspberry.”
Caroline flashed an indulgent smile and said, “Becky Prayter, right?”
Becky paused beside the table, and the professor used the pause to say, “We’re from Millersburg. We’d like to find your uncle, Abel Mast. He’s the district’s scribe.”
Becky pushed her pen into the hair over her ear and said, “We still have peach, Dutch apple, and peanut butter cream.”
“Peach,” Caroline said, taking Becky’s arm gently again. “Please, how can we find Abel Mast?”
From the back of her order pad, Becky tore a blank page. She wrote on it and handed the note to Caroline. “He answers his phone sometimes. When he’s in town, but not when he’s at home.”
“Can you tell us where he lives?” Branden asked.
“If you can’t get him on his phone, I’ll draw you a map,” Becky said as she turned for the kitchen. “Once the lunch crowd thins out.”
Caroline read the phone number and handed the page to her husband. “I think we should try for the map, regardless.”
“We can call first,” Branden said. “You really want any pie?”
“No,” Caroline said, “but leave a twenty on the table for her. If we can’t get him on the phone, we’ll come back to see her later.”
• • •
Outside, the professor leaned against one of the wooden posts of the porch railing, and he tapped the phone number for Abel Mast into his cell. Caroline waited beside him, seated in one of the restaurant’s hickory rockers.
After three rings, a husky voice answered, “Hello?” and the professor asked, “Is this Abel Mast?”
“Who’s this?” the man asked. “Reuben?”
“No,” Branden said. “My name is Michael Branden. From Millersburg.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. It was your niece who gave me your number. Becky Prayter.”
Mast said nothing, so Branden continued. “I’m a friend, Mr. Mast. I read your letter to the Budget, and I’d like to talk with you about your houseguest.”
Sounding startled, Mast blurted, “Why?” Then he muffled the phone and spoke stridently to someone with him. When he returned to Branden, he said, “How do you know I still have a houseguest?”
“Please, Mr. Mast. I’m up here with my wife, Caroline. From Millersburg. We want to help Fannie, and I have a letter for her from the Holmes County sheriff.”
“I don’t think she’d want to see you,” Mast said.
“Then perhaps you’d be willing to talk to us, Mr. Mast. We could meet you, and we don’t have to do it at your house.”
Gruffly, Mast asked, “Where are you?”
“At Miller’s Restaurant.”
“I can’t get there until later this afternoon.”
“We can wait, Mr. Mast.”
“I can’t promise I’ll tell you anything about Fannie.”
“I know. We just want to help her, Mr. Mast. We know she must be worried.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Her Howie went home to get his car, and she hasn’t heard from him yet.”
“Mr. Mast, I need to talk to you about Howie Dent.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, Mr. Mast. Can you meet us here? Sooner rather than later?”
“I’ve got business in town. My wife’s with me.”
“Bring her with you,” Branden said. “You can both meet my wife.”
“But what about Fannie’s Howie?” Abel Mast asked.
“Please, Mr. Mast,” Branden said. “Let me tell you about Howie when you get here.”
15
Thursday, August 18
1:45 P.M.
SHERIFF ROBERTSON stood pensively behind his battered cherry desk and surveyed the large office that had been his post for decades. He let his gaze drift around the room, and he remembered.
His display of law enforcement arm patches, collected over so many years, was framed on the wall to his right. Dan Wilsher had helped him hang the frame.
Against the same wall, just past the office door, Ellie Troyer had long ago set up his coffee credenza, with Ricky Niell’s help. Now they were married, expecting twins. Robertson shook his head and wondered if Ellie would agree to come back to work after the children were born.
At the far wall opposite his desk, the tall windows patiently kept their vigil over the Civil War monument on the courthouse lawn. The windows to his left had for decades given a close view of traffic on busy Clay Street, just a half block south of the intersection with Jackson. How many times had he stood at those windows? How many cups of coffee had he shared in his office with friends, colleagues, and citizens?
In front of Robertson’s desk were the chairs for visitors. One was a low leather chair that the professor favored. The other two were straight-backed wooden chairs that Robertson had found in the hallway after his election as sheriff. He had moved them into the office even before his cherry desk had been delivered. He would never have predicted that they would serve him so well, considering they were just dusty castoffs when he had pressed them into service on his first day as sheriff.
Overhead was a patchwork of ornate, hand-hammered tin ceiling tiles, the gray squares making an intricate pattern across the span above his head. Robertson knew they had been installed by artisans when the building was first constructed beside the histor
ic sandstone courthouse.
And on all the walls of his office, faded light-pine paneling from the sixties decorated the room. The sheriff before him had put it up. Working loose at some of the corners, the paneling was hopelessly out of date. Ellie had often tried to convince him to remodel. The paneling would be the first thing to go, she had always insisted. But Robertson had never seen the need to change it. He wondered now why he had never considered it. Probably, he thought, for the same reason that he’d never trade this battered desk away. Because there wasn’t anything modern that was better. The new age wasn’t an answer to anything, he had always thought. But perhaps he had been wrong.
Robertson recognized his melancholy mood for what it was, and he allowed himself to ride the weary sentiments that were distracting him from what he was proposing to do for Fannie Helmuth. He let these sentiments distract him from the consequences of the decisions he had made. Melancholia, it seemed, had its benefits.
Saving his focus for the meeting that would soon take place, Robertson wandered casually out into the hallway and moved slowly down to Del Markely’s station behind the front counter. She was making entries on a computer at her desk, still wearing her headset. Robertson cleared his throat, and Del turned to face him. She said, “Just finishing,” and tapped several more keys before she stood up.
The sheriff didn’t say anything to her. Del let the silence hang. She watched him push out through the swinging counter door into the department’s small entrance lobby, and she watched him turn around and push back through the swinging door to stand with her behind the counter.
“They should be here soon,” she said. “How long should I ask them to wait?”
Robertson smiled but did not answer.
Del said, “I’ll use my judgment,” and Robertson nodded his appreciation to her.
“Is my paperwork ready?” he asked, and Markely held up a folder, saying, “Right here, Sheriff.”
Robertson arched a brow and returned to his office to wait. When Markely came back later with his visitors, the sheriff was standing at the north windows with his arms folded. Back to the door. Gazing out over the courthouse lawn. Seized with nostalgia. Coasting on his memories as a strategy to be calm. Because it would be better to be placid, for the meetings he had scheduled this afternoon, than to be confrontational.
Del Markely ushered two men in black suits forward to stand at Robertson’s desk. “Sheriff,” she said, “these are Agents LaMonte Washington and William Parker. From the FBI office in Cleveland.”
Robertson waited for Markely to leave and close the door before he turned around from the windows. He tipped his chin to acknowledge Washington and Parker, and then he took a position standing behind his desk. He waved the two agents into seats in front of his desk. Neither of the agents sat down, so Robertson remained standing, too.
As if they had practiced a precision drill, both agents displayed their badges briefly and then slipped them back into their suit coat pockets. One agent, the taller one, stepped forward and said, “Special Agent Parker. The Cleveland SAC sent us down to take Fannie Helmuth into protective custody.”
“And who is Cleveland’s Special Agent in Charge these days?” Robertson asked.
“Brenda P. Adams,” Parker said. “Of course you already know that, because you’ve spoken on the phone with her several times.”
“Indeed.” Robertson smiled. “Have a seat, Agents.”
“We’ll just be going,” Parker said.
“It’s not that simple,” Robertson said. “Please sit down.”
“Really, Sheriff,” Parker started.
Robertson interrupted. “Agent Parker. Please sit down. I need to explain some things to you.”
Parker sat, and his partner did likewise. Robertson pulled his desk chair forward, sat down, and rolled in behind his desk. He drummed his thumbs on his desktop, and he frowned as if he had been pondering a difficult decision. With an apologetic smile, he said, “I don’t actually have Fannie Helmuth in custody, Agent Parker.”
Parker said nothing. His partner took out his cell phone, rose, and stepped into the hallway, tapping a speed dial number as he left.
Parker eased forward on his chair and said, “Sheriff, you said you had her.”
“I said I could deliver her,” Robertson countered. “And I can. I estimate she’ll be in your custody by the end of the day. You’ll just have to drive a little farther to get to her.”
“Just tell us where she is, Sheriff. We’re wasting time.”
“That’s something I want to talk about,” Robertson said. “I’ll require a transfer-of-custody agreement.”
“SAC Adams would never agree to that.”
Robertson ignored the objection. “And Agent Parker, I have drafted an agreement for Fannie to sign, stating the terms for her going into your custody. You’ll need to sign that, too.”
“Look, Robertson, our safe house in Cleveland is expecting her today. We’re all set up.”
“That’s not where you’re going to hold her,” Robertson said evenly. “It’s a stinking, rattletrap hotel room on the wrong side of Cleveland, and it’s in a neighborhood I wouldn’t visit myself in daylight. You’ll have her eating cold pizza and drinking stale pop for a month, and you’ll never let her out of her room. She could be there longer than a month, if you can’t track down Teresa Molina. So, Agent Parker, I promise you that is one safe house that is never going to happen. Not to Fannie Helmuth.”
Agent Washington came back into the office holding his cell phone out for Parker. “The SAC wants your update,” he said to his partner.
Parker spoke briefly into the cell phone. “One moment, SAC Adams.”
Robertson planted his elbows on his desk and tented his fingers. “Just put that on speaker phone,” he said to Parker.
Parker glowered at Robertson, but he placed the phone on the front corner of the sheriff’s desk, nonetheless. When he switched it to speaker, Parker said, “You’re on my speaker phone, Brenda.”
Robertson asked, “Is this SAC Adams?” and Adams replied, “You can’t just make this easy, can you, Robertson.”
“Adams,” Robertson said, “easy is exactly what I’m trying for, here. Easy, that is, for Ms. Helmuth.”
“I’m listening,” Adams said from the phone.
Robertson said, “It’s a hotel near Middlefield, Adams. It’s one of the hotels run by Amish people, and the top-floor rooms would be easy to defend. They’re all suites. That’s where I want you to set up your safe house.”
Adams was slow to respond. “An Amish hotel?” she asked eventually. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s most of it. What I especially do not want is for Ms. Helmuth to be kept in an urban environment. She’ll never get any rest. She’d never relax. Not for a minute. But most important, the hotel that I am proposing is close to Middlefield, and I like the cleaning crews that work the rooms.”
“Sheriff,” Adams huffed over the phone, “we’re not going to let any cleaning crews into our safe house.”
“They’re Amish and Mennonite women from Middlefield,” Robertson said. “You’re gonna let them come in to clean for Fannie. They’re gonna bring her meals from time to time. Maybe they can sit with her for some company. But what you’re not going to do is drop Fannie Helmuth into some festering urban stink hole where she’ll never see a friendly face again.”
“They’ll all be searched, Robertson. Everyone who shows up at our doors.”
“They’ll all be Amish, Adams. Maybe some Mennonite, not that you’ll know the difference. You can search them all you want.”
“Put Parker on,” Adams said curtly.
Washington picked up the phone, switched off the speaker option, and handed the phone to Parker. Agent Parker stepped out into the hallway and closed Robertson’s door. When he came back into the office, Parker handed
the phone back to Washington and said to Robertson, “You have the transfer-of-custody agreement already drawn up?”
Robertson buzzed his intercom and said, “Del, bring those papers, please.”
When he had them from Markely, Robertson spread the two documents out on his desk. “One,” he said, “is our transfer agreement. Hotel, meals, visitations—they’re all specified. Sign here and here, at the flags.”
After taking time to read it carefully, Parker signed the transfer agreement. Then he said, “The second document?”
“That’s Fannie’s agreement to go into protective custody with the FBI. It also specifies the location and the conditions of her protection.”
“Is it a duplicate of the first one?” Parker asked.
“Partly. But it also specifies that Fannie is not going to stay in your custody indefinitely. Once you have arrested Teresa Molina, Fannie is to be allowed to decide for herself when and how she will testify for you. She’s to be allowed to go home, if she wants to.”
“Why wouldn’t she testify?” Parker asked. “That’s always been the whole point of this.”
“I want her free to decide, Parker. After she has understood all the consequences. And I want to know that you can’t force her to testify, if she decides she doesn’t want to. Before I tell you where she is, I want the FBI to agree to all of that.”
Parker read through the agreement and signed it where indicated. Fannie would also have to sign the document to put it into force. Parker slid the signed documents over to Robertson and said, “OK, Sheriff. Where is she?”
Robertson took up his signed documents, stacked them together in their folder, and said, “I’m not sure just yet, Agent Parker. We’re still working on that.”
16
Thursday, August 18
2:20 P.M.
ABEL MAST arrived at Miller’s Restaurant after the lunch crowd had dwindled. He drove his black buggy to the back of the lot and climbed down from his high seat. As his wife got out on the other side, he pulled the reins forward over the head of his dappled mare and tied the horse to the hitching post at the corner of the building.
