by Leanna Ellis
The house sat off the roadway, sheltered by a copse of trees. Just beyond was a shallow lake, the water level low this time of year. A dog barked at his sudden approach. A soft breeze ruffled the laundry left on the line. The isolated house appeared deserted, the windows dark, shades drawn.
He followed the scent toward the barn. Were Roc and Rachel staying here with friends, or with strangers? He had been following their faint scent for miles and was beginning to think he’d lost it, when he’d caught the strong smell in the air above the barn. A lantern glowed in the depths and lured unsuspecting moths and June bugs, which circled and buzzed. But the smell of blood drew him into the shadows.
He smiled to himself. Roc would not survive this night. And then Rachel would be his.
Altering his form, he never once slowed down but continued the movement with rapid footsteps. He rounded a corner and came to an abrupt stop.
Tear-stained eyes widened at the sight of him. She was young, not more than fourteen or fifteen. She held a knife in her hand, the blade stained with her own blood. She’d drawn bloody lines across her forearm.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
Inside, he burned. He hadn’t found them after all. He had been led astray by the wrong scent, the wretchedly wrong beating of a distressed heart. A heart that lured him off track.
Still, it wasn’t a full loss. For he was famished. And he spoke in low tones: “‘It was a low, dull, quick sound’—that which brought me here—‘such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. It is the beating of his’…or her”—Akiva smiled—“‘hideous heart.’”
Chapter Forty-Five
After a week, they’d settled into a routine. Roc made his usual rounds at twilight, the stars just beginning to poke holes in the grayness, the pale sky shimmering and the insects tuning up for the night’s orchestrations. Roc walked the perimeter of the house and workshop where Jonas built rolltop desks, deck chairs, and bird houses of all shapes and sizes. The scent of pine, cedar, and sawdust hung heavily in the air, the fragrance tinted with the pungent odor of stain, paint, and sealer.
On this night, the Fisher family had already had their supper of chicken, corn on the cob slathered in butter, creamed peas, fresh-baked bread, and honey, and then the family scattered in their own directions. The women were cleaning the kitchen and planning to do some needlework. Jonas had settled into his chair in the family room to read The Martyr’s Mirror, and Samuel had gone to spend time with friends.
From the guarded looks Jonas and Sally gave each other, Roc could tell they weren’t pleased with their youngest son’s outings, but they didn’t say anything. Rachel had explained it was his rumschpringa—the time of his running-around years. Roc had learned about the time-honored tradition when he was in Promise, hanging out with rowdy teenagers, who’d provided him with lots of insights to the Amish. He remembered the young men he’d met there and shared a few beers with. They were basically good kids, and Roc suspected the same of Samuel. Kids were, after all, kids, and they needed freedom to make mistakes and learn and grow. But of course, he knew if he was ever a parent, he might feel differently. Not that he’d ever be a parent.
He’d wondered if Jonas and Sally kept quiet about their concerns because Rachel and he were visiting, but Rachel had assured him it was the Amish way. These parents turned a blind eye to their teenagers’ doings, as long as they kept up with their chores and showed no disrespect. The teenagers, after all, had not yet made a pledge to God. “Sinners,” she said, “sin. What else can you expect them to do?”
Roc would have preferred that philosophy utilized on him as a teen rather than his old man waking up from an alcoholic stupor and ragging on him for staying out and screwing around. But even that was drunken gibberish. What hounded Roc the most was the time when his father invoked his mother’s memory. “It’s a good thing she’s gone.” Remy would shake his head, his whole face drooping with disappointment. “Her heart would be broken.”
“Yeah, well, what do you think she’d feel about you?” Roc had fired back, buying him a busted lip.
In the stillness of evening, as he walked the perimeter, Roc thought about his father. Had Remy Girouard really visited him only a week ago? If so, what did it mean? Was his father dead? And why had Roc thought he’d seen Remy standing outside Brody’s apartment, keeping guard? It made no sense. And Roc had no answers.
Putting the past where it belonged, Roc veered toward the back of the workshop where the barn was situated, his footsteps more sure in the dark than when he’d first arrived in Ohio. A cooling breeze stirred the air, and the clouds bunched together. He’d grown more accustomed to the country sounds of horses and cows and chickens. But he wasn’t going to become lax. Every sound kept him on alert and vigilant. He wasn’t taking any chances that Akiva might be hanging out, lurking around, waiting for an opportunity.
Thankfully, he hadn’t heard any whispers or seen any signs or even heard about any animals dying or folks disappearing. But would Jonas Fisher tell him if there were? Maybe he should visit the general store where stamps could be bought and gossip traded. For Roc knew Akiva would come if he could find them. And then all hell would break loose.
He stepped inside the barn and heard the stamp of a hoof and a whiffling snort. A kitten stretched out on a hay bale, its limbs askew and its eyes closed blissfully. The scent of hay and dung saturated the air. He wasn’t a country boy and usually kept his distance from the horses, but still he walked between the stalls. Solemn brown eyes watched him. He gave a nod to each horse, which were all looking for a handout. He’d seen Rachel giving them carrots and apples, but he hadn’t brought anything with him tonight. Maybe he should. Someday, they could be informers.
As he approached the last two stalls, he heard a shifting of hay. The last stall should have been empty. Maybe it was a kitten.
But then he heard whispering. Whispering so low he couldn’t make out the words. Whispering, light and feminine.
Whispering.
A jolt of fear shot through him. In less than a second, Roc whipped his Glock out of his pocket, fingering the leather strap he always carried. His stake was unfortunately in the bedroom.
Pointing his Glock toward the stall door, he kicked it open. It crashed against the wall and snapped back. But the brief second provided a flash of bare skin and a shriek. Arms and limbs jerked and flexed and tried to cover up before the door slapped back into place.
Roc shifted the point of the gun toward the loft and backed away from the swinging stall door. With a wry grin and shake of his head, he waited in the walkway. Huffing accompanied whispers of “Let go. Get dressed!” Scrambling hands and feet scraped wood and kicked straw on the other side of the stall door. Finally, Roc shoved his weapon back in his coat pocket.
It had been a while since he’d broken up a romantic tryst. Back in New Orleans, he’d tapped on steamed windows and encouraged teens to find a safer place to do the deed. The boys were sometimes red-faced, sometimes not, but Roc always treated them like men and told them to treat their ladies right and get a room…and a condom.
The squeak of the wooden stall door gave him a heads-up, and he turned toward a very red-faced Samuel Fisher. From a distance, the tall, rail-thin teen had reminded Roc of Levi, but up close, the two were distinctly different. Samuel still had a smooth complexion. His eyes held a worldly knowledge but not wisdom. His shirt remained untucked from his trousers, and his suspenders hung down along his legs.
Samuel shoved a hand through his tousled mane of hair. “Uh, Roc, did you…uh need something?”
Funny how having seen folks in the altogether made it more difficult to find something to say to their face. “Nah, man.” Roc attempted to fill the awkward silence without laughing at the absurdity of the situation. “Sorry about that. I heard…Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
“You’re
not gonna say—”
The stall door opened again, and a young woman emerged, looking as out of place in an Amish barn as Lady Gaga. Her long reddish-blond hair set off her pale skin and matched the occasional freckle. She wasn’t classically beautiful but more striking, with cat-like green eyes, heavy-lidded still with desire, and a pouty and pink mouth. The skimpy top revealed the clear outline of her obvious curves and showed off her pierced belly button. Short shorts exposed every inch of her long legs.
It was easy to see what Samuel saw in this girl and what he wanted, but Roc wasn’t so sure what this worldly gal saw in an Amish kid. Sure, he was a handsome kid, and maybe Samuel was showing her how things were done on the farm. Or maybe she liked corrupting innocent kids. Then again, maybe Samuel wasn’t so innocent. Not that it was any of Roc’s business.
“Andi,” Samuel said, “this here’s Roc.”
She slipped an arm around Samuel’s hips, her fingers hooking onto the waistband of his trousers.
Roc gave a nod. “Guess I’ll head on back to the house. You’ll lock up the barn when you’re…uh…finished out here?”
“Sure.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, as if he could erase the image burned into his brain, Roc turned away.
“Hey, Roc?” Samuel called. “What are you carrying that gun for?”
Roc hesitated. “Old habit.”
“You hunt?” the girl asked.
“Occasionally.”
“Samuel does too.”
Roc’s gaze shifted from the girl to the teenage boy, whose Adam’s apple plunged and then rebounded. “Oh? What do you hunt?”
“Quail and deer. Pop likes venison in the winter.”
“Maybe you boys can compare weapons some time.” Andi grinned.
Roc rubbed his jaw, suppressing a reflective smile. She was a feisty one. “All right, then. G’night.”
“So”—Samuel drew out the word in an effort to hold Roc in place—“does Pop know you’re not Amish?”
Roc gave a flippant salute of forefinger to brow and walked away. “Does your father know what you do in his barn?”
Chapter Forty-Six
Akiva watched closely for his one chance. It came later in the week, once the moon had risen and given off watery light.
He’d lost Girouard’s scent. So after he’d taken care of the cutter girl, he’d retreated to the only place he could think to look, the one place he couldn’t imagine Girouard taking Rachel. Then again, maybe they had holed up in Promise simply because it was such an obvious spot.
Akiva heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching and stepped into the roadway until the yellow lantern light hit him squarely. The horse came to a halt and nickered. The driver leaned forward, peering into the darkness. Beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat, the man wore a typical Amish beard.
“What do you want, Jacob?” the driver asked.
“No ‘good evening’ for your own brother, Levi?” Akiva stepped solidly into the circle of lantern light, and the horse bobbed its head. “No ‘how’ve you been?’”
The reins dangled from Levi’s easy grip, but he didn’t take the bait. Insects clicked a pulsing sound in the knee-high grass on the road’s edges.
“You know what I want, Levi.”
“Haven’t you caused enough harm?”
Akiva laughed. “I haven’t even begun.”
When his laughter faded, Akiva squinted with effort as he pushed into Levi’s mind.
Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood—
A growl rumbled out of Akiva. He breathed heavily from the exertion. Levi had strengthened himself, fortified his mind with scripture, which acted like a thick wall impenetrable by Akiva.
“Is this really the way you want to live, Jacob?” Levi asked.
“Where are they?”
“‘Finally, my brethren, be strong—’”
“I could kill you.” Akiva fisted his hands.
Levi drew a calm breath. “You could. Yes.”
“And Hannah.”
“This is true. I doubt there is anything I could say or do to stop you.”
“You always were the perfect martyr, Levi. Have you been reading that old garbage about our ancestors again?” Akiva clenched his teeth. “Now tell me: where are they?”
“Where they will be safe.”
“Not for long.”
Hatred swelled up inside him, and Akiva launched himself at Levi, transforming and taking flight, all in the blink of an eye. The horse startled and shied away.
But Levi didn’t move, didn’t flinch even. Akiva flew straight at Levi, but before he could reach him, several men suddenly appeared all around Levi, sitting beside and behind him. Their skin glowed brightly, and their eyes glinted like cut sapphires.
In terror, Akiva veered skyward, knocking the straw hat off Levi’s head, and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Night had become his friend.
Roc stayed outside later than usual, until the sun had made its final bow for the day, and the curtain of darkness had closed. A blanket of clouds hung heavily in the sky, making it look like gray flannel, and blocked any stars or moon, which he craved to light his path. Even the usual insect noise seemed quieter this evening. Or maybe Roc’s focus was simply diverted.
The truth was: he was avoiding climbing those narrow stairs, shedding his clothes, and climbing into bed next to Rachel.
It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman—his wife—and he hadn’t wanted a woman since Emma. Sure, he’d thought about a one-night stand here or there, even going to bars in New Orleans to pick up someone as needy as he. But he’d always found an excuse…her eyes were too close together, her boobs were too small, too big…it didn’t matter the reason. The fact was: she, whoever she was, was not Emma.
He’d had his share of offers. Before he left the force, a few of the female officers made it clear they were available. But he didn’t mix work and pleasure. And there were other excuses. It wasn’t the right time. He was on duty. He was off duty. Even a wife of an officer came onto him. But he wasn’t biting. So he’d ended up drunk, back alone in his own bed—even though sometimes he didn’t know how he got there.
It was in those dark, lonely nights and days bleeding one into another when he began to understand his father. When his mother, Helen, had been alive, Remy hadn’t been able to live up to her standards, and the guilt drove him to drink. And when she was gone, killed by a cancer that ate her from the inside out, Remy missed her, craved her scent, hungered for the taste of her, the feel of her soft skin, her warm body. At least that’s how Roc imagined it. It was the closest he ever came to forgiving his father.
But tonight, loneliness crept over him. A croaking bullfrog sounded as if it was crying out and waiting for an answer. The night offered no comfort. Not here in Ohio, anyway. There were no distractions of movies or music or bars to detour his thoughts, his needs, his loneliness.
After finding Samuel and his girlfriend the other night, a raw need bore down on him, tightening his insides. He needed release. It was biological, normal. And yet when those feelings roused themselves inside him, and his thoughts focused on Rachel, as they did tonight, he felt anything but natural.
She was Amish. He was not. And never would be. She was fifteen-months pregnant, or so it seemed, and yet…she was beautiful, like a ripe peach ready for picking.
Steeling himself against any impropriety, he finally snuck into the house after everyone, even Samuel, had gone to bed. Every creak sounded as loud as the firing of a weapon and made his skin retract.
In the thick darkness, Roc scaled the
stairs without the help of a kerosene lamp. He made his way along the stairwell then hallway and finally secluded himself in the bathroom—stripping, ripping off the shoulder bandage, and dousing himself with ice-cold shower water. He stood in the bathtub, surrounded by the white plastic curtain, for far too long before shutting off the water and toweling off.
The bedroom was dark when he entered, devoid of even moonlight slipping around the edge of the shades covering the window. Without the benefit of air conditioner or ceiling fan, the air felt hot and steamy. Roc edged forward, one step at a time, trying not to stub a toe. He hung his trousers on a peg, then with the towel wrapped around his hips, he took his side of the bed. The Glock went beneath a pillow. He checked his cell phone, but it still couldn’t find a server. Was there no service out in Sleepy Hollow or whatever this place was called? How would he ever get help if he needed it?
Finally, he stretched out on top of the thin quilt. The chirping of insects outside and Rachel’s soft breathing forced his mind to think of details…imperfections that would erect a firm barrier between them.
Of course, Rachel had no imperfections—her eyes were round and blue, her skin soft and supple, her mouth full and tempting. The imperfections were in him. Her deep, abiding faith pointed toward his deepest flaw. He’d seen firsthand what rock-solid faith could do to a woman. He remembered his mother whispering her prayers, clicking her rosary beads, planting concrete saints in the yard in hopes of driving away the demons threatening her family. But her desperation hadn’t led to salvation. Her husband, a man without faith or hope, had never made life easier for her. And it felt as if Roc had now become that man too.
Rachel shifted, her foot jutting outward as she shifted and rolled onto her side, facing him. His breath caught in his chest. He watched her. In spite of the lack of light, his eyes had adjusted, and he could see her features, the soft contours, the slope of cheek, the squareness of jaw, fullness of lips, which parted slightly. She made a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and her brow furrowed. Again, she shifted, rolling over and facing away from him. Her hair streamed out behind her, and he resisted reaching out to smooth the long strands.
