When Rachel entered the kitchen, she found Bertha alone, peeling potatoes at the table.
“Oh, hello, Rachel. Anna wants mashed potatoes for supper tonight,” Bertha said. “Would you like to grab a knife and help?”
Rachel was not interested in potatoes. “Where is Aunt Lydia? I thought she would be here.”
“She is helping Anna change sheets in the northwest guest room. We have been blessed by a full house tonight. We even have guests coming to us all the way from London, England.”
“London?” Rachel was surprised. Florida, yes. California, okay. But from across the ocean? “How on earth did they hear of the Sugar Haus Inn way over there?”
“The Internet, of course.” Bertha’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The message they left on our answering machine said they read about us in a travel blog.”
“Oh.” It sounded strange to hear the words “Internet” and “blog” coming out of Bertha’s mouth, but her aunt tried to stay well-informed.
“I do not understand what is wrong with people”—Bertha plopped another peeled potato into the bowl—“for someone to be willing to fly across the ocean to watch our men plow with horses and sleep in this house that does not have electricity or telephones.” Bertha chuckled. “Lydia’s cooking is good, but it isn’t that good!”
It was a common source of conversation among the local Amish—this strange phenomenon of nearly 3 million tourists per year swarming into their bucolic countryside to gawk at them as they went about everyday life. The newcomers usually tried to sneak photos too, which was a great annoyance to the Amish. They patiently endured it like so much else in their lives.
Rachel was upset and wanted to get the business of Carl out in the open so she could apologize for having missed the parole date.
“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.” Rachel laid the letter from the parole office on the kitchen table where Bertha could read it. “But they have released Dad’s killer.”
Bertha adjusted her glasses, and leaned over so she could read the letter without touching it with her wet hands.
“Yes,” Bertha said calmly. “I know.”
Chapter 30
“I don’t understand.” Rachel was shocked at her aunt’s reaction. “When did you find this out?”
“George called me, oh, I think it was about the last part of April. About the same time the warden told him.”
“And you knew Dad’s killer was living in Millersburg?”
Bertha calmly peeled another potato. “I did.”
Rachel was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?” Rachel was so upset she almost shouted. “When did you try?”
“I told you I needed to talk with you at least three different times. Each time you had an excuse, so I stopped trying.”
“I thought you just wanted to nag at me again about quitting my job,” Rachel said bitterly.
“I do not nag,” Bertha said, offended.
“That’s not the point.” Rachel felt herself becoming exasperated. “My father’s killer is a free man. If I had known he was up for parole, I would have gone to the hearing and voiced my protests. I would have written letters telling them why he needed to stay in prison. You could have written letters!”
“I did write letters.”
“Really?” Rachel felt relieved. “You wrote the parole people?”
“Yes,” Bertha said. “I told them that I felt that he had been rehabilitated and needed to be released.”
“Oh, Aunt Bertha,” Rachel groaned. “How could you?”
“Twenty years is a long time, Rachel.”
“You think that is long enough to be punished for killing my dad and destroying my life?”
“Oh?” Bertha cocked an eyebrow. “You had such a terrible childhood being loved and cared for by us every hour of every day? That is something I did not know.”
“You were wonderful to me,” Rachel said. “But you should not have had to raise me. That was my father’s job.”
“And if our brother had not chosen to leave our church and marry your mother, you would not have been born. And if you had not been born, he would not have been in the bank that day, getting money for your birthday. And if he had never chosen to become a policeman carrying a gun, the robber might not have shot him. There are many ‘ifs’ in life, Rachel. It is not wise to dwell on them.”
“My dad was a hero!” Rachel shot back. “He saved dozens of lives that day at the cost of his own.”
“A hero?” Bertha mused. “Because he pulled his weapon?”
“Yes,” Rachel insisted. “He was a hero.”
“I know that in the Englisch world, pointing a gun at someone can be considered heroic, but I have often wondered what might have happened if Frank had not pulled that gun. What if he had allowed the robber to take the bank’s money and walk away? What if he had not put himself and you at risk by taking that chance?”
Rachel didn’t know whether it was pregnancy hormones or the accumulation of years of dealing with her aunt’s stubborn Amish pacifism that made her want to scream in frustration. Of course her father was a hero for what he did. Of course Carl Bateman deserved to stay in jail for the rest of his life. If she could have gotten the death sentence for her father’s killer right that minute, she would have done so.
It would have been smart for Bertha to keep silent just then, but the old woman had one more word to say—and it was the wrong word.
“Gelassenheit, Rachel.”
“God’s will?” Rachel fumed. “You are trying to tell me that my father’s death was God’s will?”
“Of course not,” Bertha said. “God does not condone sin, and murder is a sin. But God has promised that all things will work together for good for those who love Him. We can’t always see how and why, but we have to have faith that God will take a bad situation and bring about something good from it.”
“You think it is God’s will that my father’s murderer has been released from jail?”
“I do not pretend to know the mind of God, but this I know, and I know it well,” Bertha said. “If you continue to harbor such bitter hatred for this man, it will destroy you. You are not as strong as you think you are, Rachel. Remember what happened to you that night you were protecting the antique cars.”
It was those words that somehow turned the key to opening up the recent period of amnesia Rachel had endured. It was as though a door had flown open and she clearly saw the man standing beside the Thunderbird at the Fabulous Fifties. There was no doubt in her mind that the man was Carl Bateman. She had not mentally recognized him at the time, but her subconscious had, and it had reacted to the shock of it by shutting her down.
Bile rose in the back of Rachel’s throat and threatened to choke her. She had two choices: leave at this moment or throw up. She turned on her heel away from her aunt, walked through the kitchen and out the door, and didn’t stop until she’d gotten into her car and driven a mile down the road. Then she pulled over and began to shake. She had never been so angry in her life.
Her hands were still trembling when she put the car back into gear and started driving. She reminded herself to drive slowly and carefully. If anger alone could impair a driver, she had no business being behind the wheel.
Chapter 31
With George due in soon, Carl made coffee and slowly walked with it toward the minister’s office. It was raining hard outside, so he figured George might be a little late and he’d put the percolator on accordingly. He liked to make sure the coffee was very fresh when he brought it in to George.
His friend never failed to politely thank him for the convenience of not having to make his own coffee, and Carl never failed to appreciate the small, civilized ritual. Making morning coffee was a minor thing to do for a man who had helped him so much.
While in prison, Carl had learned to read men’s body language about as well as he read dogs’. It was necessary to become adept at read
ing faces and bodies if one was to survive, especially as one grew older and less able to defend oneself. His conclusion about George was that he was quite possibly the most honest, kindest man he’d ever met.
Even more impressive was the fact that the minister seemed to have a real faith. George didn’t have a lot of material possessions and wasn’t particularly interested in driving a new car or having a large house or an expensive wardrobe. There was nothing George had ever had to gain by coming to the prison to meet with Carl. He had visited him in part because his cousin—the sister of the man Carl killed—had asked him to.
After Carl got out on parole, George asked whether he wanted to go see her, the cousin who had written him for so long. Carl said he was not ready yet. He needed a little more time.
“Time for what?” George had asked.
It was hard to put into words. Carl used the only ones he could think of, although he knew they were crude. He said he wanted “the stink of prison” to wear off him first.
George told him to let him know when he was ready, and Carl said he would. The problem was that he wasn’t sure he knew how to talk right or act right around the woman who had sent him those letters of forgiveness. How could he thank someone for giving him hope? He wished there was something he could say or do or give that adequately conveyed his gratitude, but he couldn’t think of anything.
Focused on the coffee in his hands, he didn’t realize someone had let themselves inside the church until he heard an unfamiliar voice.
“So they let you out,” he heard a woman say.
He was so surprised that he stumbled and the liquid sloshed inside both cups. After he caught himself, he turned to see who had spoken. It was a woman in black slacks wearing a rain-slicked Windbreaker with the Sugarcreek Police insignia on the front. His heart nearly stopped beating from sheer fear. Had he done something wrong? Was there some law he had broken that he did not know about? Was he going back to prison?
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” She pushed herself away from the wall where she’d been leaning.
“I’m sorry.” The fear was so great and his heart was pounding in his chest so hard that it was all he could do not to run. He told himself sternly that running was out of the question. Whatever he had done wrong, he would try to face it.
Then he realized she somehow expected him to know who she was. His mind raced.
“Does the name Frank Troyer mean anything to you?”
“He was the man I killed.”
She seemed a little taken aback at his words, as though she expected him to deny it. Then she pulled herself together and laid a hand on the gun that hung on her utility belt.
“Do you happen to remember his daughter?” she asked.
“The little girl in the pink dress. Yes, I remember.”
“I’ve often wished I had pulled the trigger while I had the chance,” she said.
He didn’t know how to respond. Was she there to kill him? He noticed her hand was trembling as it lay on the butt of her revolver.
“I wish you had too,” he said, and he meant it.
She seemed to want to say more, but instead she shook her head, turned, and walked woodenly out of the hallway and back out into the rain while he stood there holding two dripping coffee cups.
Shaken, he took both cups back to the kitchen, dumped out the coffee, washed the cups, and put them in the drainer to dry. He had lost the desire for coffee and conversation with George this morning. He had already had enough conversation for one day.
Chapter 32
Rachel had somehow gotten through her work day, but she was furious with Bertha. She was furious with Carl. And she was furious with herself. There were so many bitter things she’d stored up to say to him. It was as though she had been having an ongoing conversation with him for most of her life and hadn’t realized it.
She grabbed an apron and tied it over her uniform to keep it clean while she cooked.
As a cop, there had been so many criminals over the years. She’d managed to be calm and cool in dealing with most of them. But finding herself face-to-face with Carl had choked her voice and driven the words right out of her head.
How dare he tell her that he wished she had pulled the trigger! Ex-cons were so skilled at manipulation. That comment had been nothing but a ploy to make her feel sorry for him, but it hadn’t worked.
She was busy slamming things around the kitchen, hating herself for her weakness, wishing she could go for a run to work the anger out of her system, and resenting the fact that she had to fix supper…when Joe and Bobby walked in.
“What are you making?” Joe asked.
“Supper.” She was in the process of chopping carrots, wielding the knife with a lot more force than necessary. “Isn’t that what good wives do?”
She hadn’t expected her words to sound so sarcastic, but they did and she couldn’t take them back. That upset her even more.
A small metal trash can was at her feet, the kind that opened when a lever was stepped on. Except, when she stomped on it to scrape some scraps into it, the lever broke.
“Stupid trash can!” She kicked it across the kitchen floor. It clanged against a lower cabinet, bounced off, and fell over on its side. She ignored it, grabbed a stalk of celery, and began chopping again.
“I like peanut butter,” Bobby offered softly, his big eyes even rounder at her anger.
Joe set the trash can upright. Then he came over and laid his hand over hers to still the violent chopping. “What’s wrong?”
She dropped the knife on the chopping block and turned to him. He put his arms around her waist.
“You went to see him, didn’t you?”
She leaned into him and nodded against his chest.
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“He said he remembered the little girl in the pink dress.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I wished I had pulled the trigger.”
“Oh, Rachel.”
“I like peanut butter,” Bobby said, bringing their attention back to him.
“Are you hungry, buddy?” Joe asked.
Bobby bobbed his head.
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Joe said.
“I’ll have supper ready in a half hour.” Rachel pulled away from him. “I’m making stir-fry. The rice is already cooked.”
“I want peanut butter,” Bobby insisted. “With purple jelly.”
“He needs to eat something besides peanut butter,” Rachel said. “He can’t live on peanut butter and hot dogs. He had peanut butter for lunch.”
Joe looked at her. Then he looked at Bobby.
“A peanut-butter sandwich it is,” Joe said. “With purple jelly.”
“Joe…”
He gave her a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. She wasn’t sure what that shake meant, but she wasn’t happy that he intended to give into Bobby’s demand. She had gone to a lot of trouble getting the ingredients for tonight’s dinner, and she didn’t appreciate him ruining Bobby’s appetite with yet another peanut-butter sandwich. It wasn’t good parenting. And besides that, it hurt her feelings.
She finished chopping the vegetables for the stir-fry while Joe set Bobby up with milk and a sandwich.
“Can I watch cartoons?” Bobby asked.
“Sure thing.”
Joe turned on the DVD player with some old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Then, as the little boy ate his sandwich and giggled at the cartoons, Joe took Rachel by the elbow and led her into the living room.
“Is there something you wanted to say to me?” he said. “Something about not catering to Bobby’s demands, for instance?”
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
“A peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich is Bobby’s comfort food.”
“So?”
“So, when he starts asking for peanut butter morning, noon, and night—which he’s been doing for the past couple of days—it’s a pretty good sign that he’s feeling stres
sed.”
“He’s six. Why would he be feeling stressed?” Rachel asked.
“When we walked through the door,” Joe tried to explain, “what we saw was a woman attacking a handful of carrots like she was killing snakes. Your fury was noticeable. Bobby hasn’t seen a whole lot of that kind of anger. It scared him. Heck, it scared me! He was hungry and frightened, and the child needed a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.”
The frustration and bitterness in her heart yet again spilled out of her mouth. “I don’t suppose Grace ever got angry, did she?”
It was a snarky thing to say, and she hated herself for saying it. The moment she heard the words come out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back.
Joe was silent in response, and Rachel knew him well enough to know that his own anger was rising. His patience was not without limits.
“Grace got angry, but she was a much better actress than you,” he said. “She made certain Bobby never, ever took the brunt of her anger.”
That hurt.
“Okay. I’m sorry,” she said. “But you have to understand, until I married you, I didn’t have to monitor my actions or tone of voice. I could chop carrots any way I wanted.”
The sound of Bobby’s laughter floated back to them from the kitchen.
“It sounds like he’s okay,” Joe said. “I’m going to ignore what you just said because I know you didn’t mean it. I know you love me and my son. Today is just a bad day. Now, tell me more about your confrontation with the ex-con.”
“Carl is an old man, and he looks it,” Rachel said. “He was holding two filled coffee cups when I startled him, and he spilled some. He looked scared. What hair he has left is gray. He wears glasses now.”
“In other words, he no longer looks like the monster you remember?”
“He doesn’t look like a monster,” Rachel conceded. “What he looks like is someone’s down-and-out grandfather. But he is recognizable. While I was at Bertha’s, it suddenly came to me that I saw him at the Fab Fifties. He was the one standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at that Thunderbird. He was the ‘bad man’ I must have been warning Anna about in the hospital. I guess that seeing him was more than my subconscious wanted to acknowledge.”
Rachel's Rescue Page 13
