When the Bishop Needs an Alibi

by Vannetta Chapman

  “By whom?”

  “We have a lottery, and in that way we believe Gotte chooses.”

  “And I thought waitressing was hard. At least I picked this job…” She started to add more, but shook her head.

  “It is a burden at times, but it’s also a privilege. As to why life is unfair, I’ve wondered that many times myself. When I see freinden suffer. When my own wife passed. When I felt alone and invisible.”

  “Everyone loves you, Henry. I’m an outsider, and even I can see that.”

  “I am surrounded by many gut people, it’s true.” His thoughts drifted to the Monte Vista arsonist, and further back than that, to a young girl named Betsy Troyer. “Sometimes—even amid freinden—I have felt alone and invisible. On those days, I remembered my parents’ voices, schooling me in the ways of Scripture.”

  “You’re talking about the Bible.”

  Henry nodded. “There are many promises in Gotte’s holy Word—promises of His love and care and forgiveness. But none that I know of promise an easy path.”

  “Then what’s the point?” A look of desperation came into Sophia’s eyes. “My grandmother kept a Bible near her bed and read it first thing every morning and last thing every night. She died in a tornado. That Bible, those words, didn’t protect her from an F4.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Sophia. For your many losses.” Henry didn’t attempt to talk her out of her grief. Instead he said, “Christ promises that when we are weary and burdened, He will give us rest. He will take our yoke, and we can learn from Him, but it’s also important to reach out to those around us—to the people He has placed in our path.”

  “My path is deserted.”

  “I’m here with you, and so are others like Emma and Katie Ann.”

  “I barely know any of you.”

  “We know each other well enough. The holy Scripture says we are to spur one another to love and gut deeds, to encourage one another.”

  “The only person…” Her voice faltered. Sophia bowed her head, whether in prayer or exhaustion, he wasn’t sure.

  Finally she glanced up, the small, tight smile back in place.

  “I probably won’t see you again, Henry.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m giving my notice this afternoon.” She stood, once again taking on the persona of the efficient waitress. “What I mean is, this is my last shift.”

  Henry stood also and put his hand on her arm. “Sophia, please. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so afraid? Who are the people you think are after you?”

  Shaking her head, she turned away, but then she faced him again, stepped closer, and said, “I think I’m close. I think…maybe this is about to end. But if it goes the other way…”

  “Goes what other way?”

  “Say a prayer for me, Henry. Okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if something happens to me, talk to Emma.”

  Twenty

  Her Amish contact is the bishop.

  Name?

  Henry Lapp.

  Relation?

  None.

  Maybe it’s nothing.

  Maybe it’s something.

  Continue monitoring SB.

  And if the bishop knows?

  We’ll take care of it.

  Twenty-One

  Sophia resisted the urge to once again place the battery in her cell phone.

  She’d charged it a few hours before at work and didn’t need to take the unnecessary risk of checking it again. Hitching out to the wildlife preserve had been a bit more difficult than the day before because there was so little traffic. It was already dark when she left Monte Vista, and no bird-watchers were traveling toward the refuge.

  She hadn’t minded the walk. Even though her feet hurt from standing all day at the diner, she was still filled with a nervous energy. She’d finally been offered a ride in the back of a farmer’s pickup, which she’d readily accepted.

  When she reached the refuge, a closed, locked gate stretched across the entrance. Waist high, it would stop vehicles but not people. Obviously the rangers weren’t worried about tourists making their way into the refuge in the dead of night. She easily climbed over it.

  The place was deserted. No cars. No people. No activity of any sort.

  She pulled a flashlight covered with red cellophane out of her backpack, shone it at the ground, and retraced her steps to the meadow she’d found the day before.

  She didn’t have a bedroll, but she did have a jacket and gloves and a scarf. She donned them all before crawling underneath the low-lying boughs of a pine tree. With her back against its trunk, she could see the meadow perfectly. Glancing up through the branches, she could just make out starlight.

  She sat there, certain she would lie awake all night, but she drifted asleep in the first hour. Her dreams were filled with disjointed images of Cooper, Henry, Emma, and men wearing ski masks. Cooper stood a few feet away, holding his hand out to her, but she couldn’t raise her arm, couldn’t move at all. Henry and Emma both held coffee mugs. They spoke softly to one another, and then they turned to watch her, compassion and worry shining in their eyes.

  The men leaned close, their breath hitting her face in hot, angry bursts. She couldn’t understand a word they were saying. It was as if they spoke another language, or perhaps—in the illogical way of dreams—she was deaf.

  Something about the eyes of one man seemed familiar, but each time she looked at him, he glanced away. The other two continued to scream, to push, and finally to hit her.

  She woke with a start, her heart racing and palms sweating. She stripped off the gloves and rummaged through her pack for a bottle of water. Only when the cold liquid hit her throat did she calm.

  It was simply a dream. She’d faced worse. She would probably face worse again.

  She didn’t sleep after that. Instead she listened to nature’s night sounds and allowed memories of Cooper to come. Their honeymoon in Ireland. How excited he’d been to show her the sights and sounds and food and people. They’d been to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, just as Burt and Gloria’s granddaughter had. On her bedside table at home sat a picture of them standing near the Cliffs of Moher. She missed their loft in San Diego more than she would have thought possible.

  After another hour, Sophia pulled out her phone and stared at the darkened display. She felt torn between a thundering paranoia and the need to speak with her sister. How long had it been? The funeral. Tess had come as soon as Sophia called her, catching the next flight out from JFK. She’d taken care of the arrangements, even though she was younger, even though Sophia had always imagined herself taking care of Tess.

  But Tess had always been that way—the practical sister. Their parents had proudly introduced the two girls as our thinker and our dreamer, not that the two are mutually exclusive. She could still hear her father’s booming voice. Had it really been five years since both her parents had perished in a head-on collision?

  It seemed that tragedy had colored her life since that spring day.

  She ran a finger over the display, thinking of Tess, wondering if she dared to call her. Henry’s words echoed in her mind. It’s important to reach out to those around us—to the people He has placed in our path. What if this were her last chance to make things right with Tess? Even if she couldn’t explain why she’d had to go, she could tell her sister how much she loved her. What would she be willing to give to have received such a message from Cooper?

  The sky had begun to lighten and the cries of cranes were becoming more prevalent. Sophia could just make out mineral blocks placed on the far side of the meadow. It must be nearing six, which meant it was nearly eight on the East Coast. If she called now, she might catch Tess on her commute. She pulled the cell phone’s battery out of her pocket and turned it over and over in the palm of her hand.

  Did she believe as Henry did? Her thoughts were filled with snippets of hymns and Bible verses, memories of sitting between her mother and fa
ther in a church pew, sweet recollections of the thing she had lost—family. What was more dear than family? And the only family she had left was Tess.

  Breathing the simplest of prayers, Sophia slipped the battery into the phone, pushed the On button, and waited for the icon to indicate she had reception. The screen glowed bright. She glanced across the meadow once more, then thumbed in her sister’s number. The phone rang as she pressed the device to her ear, her pulse thudding and sweat prickling her scalp.

  Her heart sank as the ringing stopped, and then she heard Tess’s recorded voice. Her sister always sounded up, her words seemed to shine with smiley faces, her eyes sparkled as if from some private joke.

  Sophia’s sadness and regrets fell away. This was the single person who understood her best. Why had she separated herself from someone so important? To protect her? Did she believe Tess would be in danger? Or had she simply wanted, needed, to do this on her own?

  She heard a beep and realized she was supposed to be speaking.

  She did, the words flowing from her heart. She spoke for a minute and a half, reminded Tess how much she loved her, and finally pushed the End button.

  And with that action, she was filled with a cold resolve. She deleted the call log, powered off the disposable phone, and removed the battery. She stored them both in her pack, removed her Canon ESO 760 camera, and placed its strap around her neck. She flexed her hands, neck, and feet. She heard a stirring in the meadow, and then a group of female elk stepped out from the trees, nosing at the blocks and finally pausing to lick them. Cows and bulls—she’d laughed when Cooper first told her what they were called. Bulls bark, cows mew. She’d dared him to bark then. He’d chased her around the loft, barking and demanding that she mew as she’d melted into a puddle of laughter and joy and love. That memory filled her heart and drove out the fear and the questions.

  She slowly, quietly, gently removed the camera lens cap and began snapping pictures of the cows. She guessed the largest of the three had to be at least four hundred pounds. They were so much larger than the mule deer she’d seen in California that it was almost comical. She clicked away with the Canon, zooming in so the mineral block was in focus and the cows were a blurry foreground. Suddenly the largest of the cows jerked its head up, snorted, and fled from the meadow.

  Sophia’s pulse raced as she wondered if this was it, if this was the minute when the men who had killed her husband would step out into the open. But no person had spooked the cows. A majestic bull sauntered out of the tree line. He raised his head, sniffing the air, and she snapped a photograph of his antlers that had to be nearly four feet long. If she’d thought the cows were large, she was completely unprepared for the size of this creature. The research she’d done had claimed the average bull weighed seven hundred pounds, and this bull was clearly bigger than average. Suddenly a herd of smaller bulls followed him into the meadow.

  She was snapping pictures nearly continuously now.

  The bull walked straight to the mineral block and began to nudge and then lick it. Several of the other bulls joined him as the rest grazed the meadow. Sophia realized how beautiful the scene before her was—if only she wasn’t trying to catch killers, wasn’t risking her life, wasn’t determined to avenge Cooper’s murder.

  She leaned forward, snapping quickly, already thinking about where she would send the files, the notification list she’d created and mailed to herself. She would see that this story made the front page of every paper in the country. Then she’d let the authorities deal with the fallout.

  With thoughts of sweet success filling her mind, she realized someone else was in the tree line. Then she became aware of the murmur of voices—possibly a male and female, clipped, and moving closer. She craned her neck to hear, willing the thundering pulse in her ears to quiet and managing to make out the words, “We have a visual…south side…roger.”

  They were only a few yards away. Clutching the camera to her chest, she cinched the straps of her backpack tighter, took a deep, cleansing breath, and began to run.

  Twenty-Two

  Threat eliminated.

  You did not have authorization.

  There wasn’t time to call and chat.

  You should have made time.

  We practically tripped over her.

  We need to meet.

  Too risky.

  Anything linking her to us?

  Burner phone. Nothing on it.

  Camera.

  ?

  I’ve already sent it to

  the Alamosa drop.

  And the harvest?

  Done.

  Then we proceed with

  the agreed-upon schedule.

  And the last harvest?

  It’s a go.

  After that?

  We clean up and vacate the area.

  Easy for you to say.

  We’ll get you transferred.

  Twenty-Three

  Henry knelt among the bulrushes and cattails beside Sophia’s body, shocked that what she’d feared had come to pass.

  Sophia—dead.

  It was almost more than he could wrap his mind around, and yet life in the valley continued unaware. Nothing had changed because one woman’s life had ended.

  The breeze continued to stir the hair at the nape of his neck. The distant cry of cranes still filled the air. Morning light splashed across the San Luis Valley.

  Lexi remained close, now quivering and whining deep in her throat.

  And Henry understood that everything had changed because the world would never know the woman Sophia might have become. His heart was heavy, grief flowing over him, piercing his heart.

  After he turned her over, he might have squatted there beside her body for a few seconds or a few minutes. He wasn’t sure. Eventually he became aware that a group of cranes had returned and were scavenging in the vicinity, sunlight was now brightening the day, and Lexi trembled at his feet. There was no doubt in his mind that Sophia was dead. Her arms jutted out from her side at an awkward angle. A light breeze stirred the dark hair draping over her cheek. Her eyes remained closed as if she were sleeping, though it was obvious she had passed from this life to the next.

  Henry didn’t doubt that she was indeed dead, but something deep inside needed to confirm it again, in case he’d missed something, in case he was wrong. He reached forward again, touched two fingers to her neck and waited. Still no pulse. The skin was cold and stiff to the touch. Henry stood, removed his hat, and murmured a prayer for her soul. Pulling off his jacket, he draped it over her body, hoping it would offer her some measure of dignity. Was there such a thing? Dignity in death? He prayed there was, and that she, even at this moment, was in the loving arms of their heavenly Father.

  Sparing her one last glance, he turned and jogged toward the parking area, Lexi at his heels. Flagging down a bird-watcher was easy enough, and of course the Englischer had a cell phone. With trembling fingers he placed the 9-1-1 call, and then Henry spoke into the phone.

  His voice shook as he gave detailed directions to the dispatcher, the Englischer watching him with a growing sense of alarm. But Henry didn’t stop to explain. Instead he returned the phone, thanked the man, and hurried back to the body, wanting—needing—to stand guard over her, to protect her from the elements and any curious people passing by. He felt an overwhelming need to afford Sophia that last measure of respect.

  He needn’t have worried. The bird-watchers had all moved north, following the cranes as they foraged.

  Had she been birding and died suddenly? But then why were there bruises around her neck? Had someone strangled her? Why would anyone do such a thing? Who would do such a thing? Who had she been afraid would find her?

  And why had he been the one to stumble upon her body here? Why was he, once again, in the middle of a mysterious death?

  The questions circled round and round until he raised his eyes to the sky and silently recited Psalm 84. Many of his congregation preferred Psalm 23, but for Henry the
eighty-fourth had always been a source of great comfort in most any situation. How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord Almighty!…Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself…Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere. The words flowed over his troubled thoughts and distraught soul. He realized his hands were shaking, and he shoved them into his pockets.

  Lexi stood close, pressed against his leg, and stared up at him, her eyes wide, worried, even concerned—if a dog could feel such things. Then the police arrived, and Henry stepped back and waited as they set up a perimeter. He understood that the sheriff would want to question him. This wasn’t Henry’s first murder. He was familiar with the process.

  He glanced again at her face, the bruises on her neck, and then the sun glinted off her necklace. He leaned forward and studied the dog tag. It held the words of the well-known “Serenity Prayer.”

  Thirty minutes after they arrived, Roy Grayson hitched up his pants, readjusted his sheriff’s hat to block out the morning sun, and stepped away from the body. He gave some last instructions to the crime scene techs and then walked over to where he’d told Henry to wait.

  “I messed up your crime scene. I’m sorry.”

  Grayson didn’t dispute that. He did say, “Must have been quite a shock for you.”

  The sheriff pulled out a notepad and pen. “Walk me through it. What you saw, when you saw it, your first impressions, absolutely anything that comes to mind.”

  Lexi sank to the ground, head on paws, as Henry began to recount the events of the last hour. When he was finished, he felt as if he’d lived through the horrible incident twice.

  “Looks to me like she’s been dead at least a day,” Grayson said. “There’s no identification on her. We’ll run her prints. See if any missing persons reports that match her description have been filed.”

  “Her name’s Sophia Brooks.” Henry shrugged when the sheriff leveled him with a surprised stare. “I was going to tell you earlier, but you were busy on your phone and radio.”