by Karen Harper
They sat in silence until Bishop Esh’s fist hit the table and rattled his sugar spoon against his coffee mug. The Amish men looked at one another, then at Nate. No explosions, no swearing, no name-calling or accusations. Finally, the bishop spoke. “He’s paid a steep price for that sin, as all must for theirs.”
“At least he’s confessing,” Reuben said. “It was an old tinderbox of a barn. He must have hoped for help rebuilding.”
“That,” Nate said, “and he thought another barn fire while his buddy Jacob was in jail would get him freed. Like others I spoke with, Noah believes however distraught Jacob was, he would not burn barns. Noah had no idea that Jacob was locked up on other charges. But the circumstances of this third fire make Jacob’s guilt possible again, and Sheriff Freeman says he will probably be released on bail soon.”
“Government law is sometimes not God’s laws,” Ben Kauffman said. “Will you, Nate, as the government’s official here, charge Noah Miller with arson, even if he’s not the arsonist we really want to stop? Just to be clear, he isn’t, is he, maybe working with Jacob Yoder?”
“After interviewing him, I believe it was a naive attempt at what we call a copycat crime. Since I’ve returned from Cleveland, I’ve checked out Noah’s alibis for the other two fires and he was not involved. When I told his parents what he’d done, they, of course, refused to bring charges. I’m willing to let your church deal with him. Under the circumstances, I can’t see prosecuting him, if you’ll handle things. He’s already facing years of pain and rehab and may be crippled the rest of his life. Besides, prosecuting Noah would distract, in town and in the local paper, from finding the one we still need to capture. But can we agree to set a trap for the other arsonist?”
“Would you mind stepping into the living room for a minute or two?” Bishop Esh asked. “This won’t take long.”
“Sure. I understand,” Nate said, and went into the neat, sparsely furnished living room. He could hear their low voices, but of course, they were speaking in German now. Looking out the window toward the road, he wished he could see how Sarah was doing from here.
He began to pace back and forth across the hardwood floor. Mark Lincoln trusted him to handle this delicate investigation. Nate had broken a minor rule or two, like hauling civilians around in VERA while heading for a fire. He was about to break a bigger one if he didn’t arrest Noah. But the Amish had to be handled differently, didn’t they, or was that wrong, too? His offer to let Noah Miller off scot-free from prosecution was a breach of ethics, but worldly ones. This was a different world here, and the Amish would see that Noah was punished and rehabilitated. But the worst—and, somehow, the best—thing he’d done here was falling in love with his Amish aide.
He stopped pacing and shook his head. He was sweating but a shiver snaked up his spine. In love? Was he crazy? In eight days he was in love and with an Amish woman? No way. He was just grateful to her, fascinated by her and under such pressure he wasn’t thinking straight when he absolutely needed to.
“You can come in now, Nate,” Ben Kauffman said, interrupting his thoughts. He went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table again.
“About your deal that we should set a trap for the arsonist, we don’t make deals with the government,” Reuben said. “Whatever the crime, is entrapment of the criminal fair and moral?”
“The government has made deals with Amish ways before. You know that. Being able to run your own schools, for example,” Nate argued, keeping his voice calm and leaning forward over his clasped hands on the table. “The fact the U.S. government agreed that the Amish need pay no Social Security taxes because you refuse to accept Social Security benefits. Again, I think we need to work together for the safety of your people. So let me explain my plan, and then we can all seek the advice and permission of a higher power to get it done.”
“Can I see you in private, Ray-Lynn?” Jack asked as he stepped in the back door of the restaurant.
Why the back door? she thought. What was going on? It was nearly time to run home for a while, but she’d been so busy this morning she was thinking of skipping her break.
“Why sure. Can’t you come in for a cup of cof—”
“Right now, out here, if you wouldn’t mind.”
She told Leah and Anna she’d be right back and went out the door he held for her. The sheriff’s car was parked behind the restaurant. No one else was in sight. Her heartbeat kicked up as he took her upper arm and steered her around to the other side of his car, almost as if he was going to put her in it, arrest her.
“So what is this ab—” she got out before he interrupted.
“I learned something yesterday that teed me off, Ray-Lynn. I was gonna let it slide, but I just can’t. Our state fire marshal investigator and I had a debrief about first tier and second tier suspects for the arsons, and I recognized a name I knew real well on the second tier. Now why in Sam Hill didn’t you tell me you were at the Esh barn right before it went up in flames?”
She’d sensed that question was coming, but it didn’t help. Although her stomach twisted, she was angry, too. “Because I didn’t see anything suspicious, as I hope Nate MacKenzie told you. And, with the restaurant and all—as a partner to a man who puts every ding-dang thing in the paper he can find and manages to make everyone look guilty—I didn’t want to get involved!”
“Didn’t want to get involved?” he exploded when he’d been almost whispering before. “You should have told me, told MacKenzie right away, at least. He got it out of some kid who spotted you and then you confessed! Not get involved? You and I are involved, aren’t we? You should have told me so I knew, so I could question you—protect you if it came to that.”
“Protect me? And no, we aren’t involved in any way other than I bring your food and pour your coffee and provide a sympathetic ear once in a while. Is that your idea of involved?”
He looked shocked either at the fact she’d shouted back or just maybe, hopefully, at what she’d said.
“I thought we were…friends,” he said, looking hurt, almost like a little boy. Yet he was still Jack Freeman, former-marine hard-as-nails sheriff, standing there in that sharp uniform, six inches taller than her with his macho gun belt. He was a bright man but dumb as a doorknob when it came to soft feelings, to emotion. She had to keep remembering this was a man’s man, her own Rhett Butler, not an Ashley Wilkes. But she was no Scarlett O’Hara, who didn’t know what man she wanted.
Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Us being just friends is for sissies, Sheriff, and I didn’t think you were that. If I’m not under arrest for wanting more, I’m going back inside where I’m needed for something, at least.”
She stomped away without looking around and slammed her own back door.
To Sarah’s surprise, Nate was the last to leave the farmhouse after the others pulled away in their buggies. Perhaps he’d been speaking with her mother again. They seemed to get along pretty well.
He walked out slowly toward where she was stirring a can of marine-blue to paint the dark triangles she’d laid out on her chalk grid. Even before Sarah returned from the restaurant this morning, Cindee Kramer had been kind enough to drop off the last two cans of the lighter paint she’d need. Called Wedgwood blue, they were still in a sack just around the corner of the barn in the shade.
She turned to face Nate, hoping she didn’t look as giddy to see him as she felt.
“So you’ve got the pattern all laid out,” he said, looking at her instead of above. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits. He looked like he was hugging himself.
“Did you get your plans settled, about how to trap the arsonist?” she asked, still holding her paint can between them. “Three fires, one in broad daylight, but then he picked a good time when everyone was busy, and probably just never figured Noah would be in there.”
“Sarah, I don’t want this to become public knowledge—or get in the paper for obvious reasons—but Noah intentionally set t
hat fire.”
She stopped stirring. “In his own barn? To draw attention to how much it needed to be rebuilt?”
“More or less. Also, he figured if a barn went up while Jacob was in jail…”
“In other words, Jacob could still be guilty of the other two arsons. I was so sure he’d never do something like that. I’m still positive about Hannah, though. Is Noah’s guilt going to stay private information, or are you going to arrest him?”
“I’ll have to eventually explain things to my boss, and it sure would go a long way if we can catch the serial arsonist. But I’m going to let the church leaders handle Noah—if we can keep Peter Clawson from discovering and printing it, like he does everything else. Just before our meeting broke up, Reuben Schrock showed us a copy of today’s paper.”
“I saw it, too. But as for your handling of Noah,” she said, blinking back tears, “Nathan MacKenzie, we’re rubbing off on you.”
“Someone is,” he said with such an intense look she was glad she held the paint can between them—or maybe not. “So did the church leaders say you could try to trap the real arsonist?”
“I think we’ve come to an agreement. Stan Comstock, the state fire marshal supervisor for this region of Ohio, is back from his daughter’s wedding. I’m going to bring him up to speed on everything and have him stationed in the Hostetler house with night goggles to watch their barn, while I camp out here with the same gear.”
“But the first two fires happened when no one was home.”
“Here’s the way I explained it to the elders. I think the arsonist is feeling invincible, wanting to up his game. He’s had two successful fires, and it hasn’t been announced that the Miller fire wasn’t set by the same person. He probably wants to reestablish himself. About now, serial arsonists get not only bold but careless. And how better to prove what they think is their brilliance and power than by a barn fire when the people are at home? It’s the ultimate challenge, even if word may have gotten out that someone might be inside the barn or house on guard. Besides, I don’t think this particular arsonist would fall for it if we put out the word your family or the Hostetlers were leaving their houses and would be back late. From my experience interviewing other serial arsonists and studying this one, I think we’ve got a good chance at this.”
“But you and Mr. Comstock will stand out among us.”
“We’re going to dress Amish, try to blend in, and our vehicles won’t be anywhere in sight. Your father has given me permission to use both your farmhouse and grossdaadi haus, since views from those windows will cover your entire barn.”
“The grossdaadi haus, too? It will upset my grandmother to have you around.”
“I think your mother’s going to move her to a bedroom in the farmhouse—you and Martha, too. Your part in this will be to keep painting that square. I would hate to have it be a target, but my goal is to save it, the barns—and get whoever tries to harm it or the Hostetlers’ quilt square.”
“I want to help. You can’t be two places at once here. I could be in whichever place you’re not at night. You’ll need to sleep sometimes.”
“We’ll see. By the way, I guess they’re going to get my Amish clothes from Lizzie’s husband, Sam. I haven’t met him yet.”
“He’s sinewy like you, but you’re taller. I bet his trousers come above your ankles.”
“Sinewy, huh? So anyway, what I actually came over here to ask is, do you still want your sketchbook back?”
“I can’t stand to look at it. But yes, I do.”
“The blood is type AB. Do you know what your grandmother’s is?”
“No, but I can probably have my mother find out the next time Grossmamm sees her doctor.”
“How about you get me the doctor’s name and number, and I’ll check it out?”
He walked to VERA and came back with the sketchbook. As if it were evidence, he had it in a clear plastic envelope. “Did you dust it for prints?” she asked.
He grinned. “No, but I tried to remove the blood from the last page in the book, and it smeared your lines, so I quit trying. I just wanted you to know that was me and not someone else tampering with it. And about my putting my hands all over you last night…”
“Yes?”
“I’m apologizing for doing that during your weak and emotional time. That’s what I feel around you, too, weak and emotional. But an apology in this case doesn’t mean I’m sorry.”
He handed her the sketchbook; their fingers touched. She would have sworn a lightning strike crackled along her arm and ended up in the pit of her stomach. Despite his heartfelt admission just now, she wondered, with this other investigator coming in and with all the group activities and planning, would they ever really have the chance to touch again? She sensed that Nate was taking a huge risk, even needed courage, to admit deep feelings for her. Weak and emotional—not what a strong, take-charge man like him would easily admit.
In the moment of awkward silence, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans, then said, “By the way, I also got per mission to help with the Esh barn raising on Saturday. I hope we’ll be celebrating the arrest of the arsonist by then. Word’s going out about the raising. I can’t believe how quickly everything came together for it, but the timber was all ordered already and partly donated. They say workers will show up in droves.”
“But as soon as you catch the arsonist, you’ll be leaving. If there’s ever any need for a fire marshal here again, it will be Stan Comstock.”
She felt her lower lip quiver. Surely, she wasn’t going to cry.
“I’m planning to bring my foster mother to see Amish country,” he told her. “I’ll stop in here, show her this quilt square and the one on Hostetlers’ barn. She’d love to meet you and your family.”
“Sure. That will be real nice.”
“Sarah, I want to grab you again, press you up against that wall or carry you into that barn and make love to you. But what would that get us except more pain—and trouble? We need the goodwill of your family and your people. I just can’t see any way—”
“Neither can I,” she said, turning away from him and climbing the ladder with her paint can. “Better take your VERA back to the pond and go swimming with her!”
The second it was out of her mouth, she was ashamed of such nonsense. It sounded like she was jealous of that truck. She was acting like a spoiled child, not a mature and proper Amish maidal. But this man did strange things to her.
Muttering under his breath, Nate walked away and drove off toward his usual parking spot.
Once Sarah had the marine-blue paint on one triangle, she knew she didn’t like it, didn’t like anything right now. Why did Nate have to come and ruin things for her here in the first place? It was bad enough she was tempted to take Ray-Lynn’s offer to consider painting entire pictures. Truth was, she wanted to paint people’s faces, too, and that was one step more verboten than painting just for pretty. And why did that Stan Comstock’s daughter have to get married right now so it wasn’t him who came to solve the arsons? Once Nate left, even if Sarah eventually wed, she knew she’d never quite be content anymore, not with memories of him, not here in Amish country, however much she loved the place and her people. It was a big, fat lie that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all!
Deciding to mix this dark paint with a bit of the lighter shade Cindee had dropped off, she hustled back down the ladder. It would take more time, but it would please her more—if anything could right now.
She set her can of paint down and went around the side of the barn and lifted the sack with the two cans of Wedgwood blue. She saw there was a receipt for it inside or maybe a note from Cindee. Putting the sack down, she reached in and pulled out the letter-size piece of paper and gasped. In big, bold, familiar print, it read: “He performs great signs, so that he even makes fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men. What a revelation! Unlucky 13:13.”
Unlucky 13:13? Nate was righ
t. The arsonist was getting bolder, even adding things to the note that weren’t from the Bible. She read it again, then, lifting the cans from the sack, dropped the paper back in it and ran down the back lane to show Nate.
20
SARAH SAW NATE WAS SWIMMING IN THE POND. She could tell from the waves that he had just dived in. Out of breath, she ran closer. He saw her coming and waved.
“You’re going to take me up on the swim?” he shouted.
“A third note! Someone left a third note in the sack with the paint Cindee Kramer dropped off for me early this morning. It was sitting out by the barn! I just looked inside it.”
He swam over to the edge where he’d left his shoes, shirt and jeans. Bare-chested, he got out, wearing nothing but his underwear, dark green-and-blue plaid, which clung to him. She knew she should turn away but she moved closer, extending the sack.
“Except for the second note,” he said, “they seem to be coming to you, and I don’t like that. But the fact this one was in that sack doesn’t mean Cindee or Mike left the note, not if it was sitting outside for a while.”
“I agree. Mike and Cindee wouldn’t be this obvious,” she told him. “Maybe someone wants us to think it’s them or else just dropped it in a place I’d find it without knowing Cindee left the sack.”
“Can you read it to me without touching it again?” He used the T-shirt he’d dropped on the bank to dry his face and upper body. Black, curly chest hair tapered down over his stomach and pointed below his navel. His hair was plastered tight to his head.
Grateful to have a chance to look away, she tipped the sack so that the printing on the note was visible without pulling the paper out. “It’s in that same printing again,” she told him. “It’s a quote from the Bible, the Book of the Revelation. I’m pretty sure this section is about the beast, the evil one who serves the Antichrist. So here it is— ‘He performs great signs, so that he even makes fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men. What a revelation! Unlucky 13:13.’”
