Abiding Mercy

by Ruth Reid

  “Was I?” He sobered for an instant, but his dimpled grin reappeared. “The only one asking about you is me. Nett the bishop, nett the elders, nett even your parents. Just me.”

  “Oh.” Dare she ask what piqued his curiosity? No, some things were better left unspoken. She fell silent, but that didn’t stop her mind from turning over his words. “Most people join the church just prior to getting married.”

  A few minutes passed when neither of them spoke. Then Gideon veered a few steps over to a deeper section of the creek where the water was a dark copper hue. “I should’ve brought mei pole.” He studied the water, his gaze darting in all directions.

  She located the school of bluegill he was watching. Even if he had his pole, the fish were too small to be considered a legal catch.

  “Where there are bluegill, there’s usually bass, walleye, and pike. Smallmouth bass like a hard rocky bottom and a little faster current than pike.”

  Standing in the shaded area of the creek for any length of time made her shiver. “I’ll leave you to your fishing expedition.” She plodded forward, suppressing her desire to stay and hang out longer. It wasn’t right that her sister’s bu had become such a close friend. Lately, she had spent more time with him than any of her chummy girlfriends, but that had more to do with her girlfriends being on their rumspringa and Faith working so many hours at The Amish Table.

  “Hey, wait up.” Gideon sloshed up to her. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  She glanced at her sopping dress. She hated the thought of someone from their district seeing her on the way home, walking with her wet dress clinging to her legs. But she’d already spent too much time alone with Gideon. Talk had a way of spreading like honey and was just as sticky too. “Danki, but I should probably—”

  “I wanted to talk with you about Olivia.”

  Of course he did. Faith focused on the sandy river bottom.

  “I think you should know . . .”

  His pause, whether intentionally or not, drew her attention.

  Concern flooded his expression. “She’s getting ready to jump the fence,” he said.

  “With who?”

  Gideon stared without blinking, pain hooding his eyes.

  Faith swallowed hard. “With you?” She waited for him to deny it, but he just stared.

  Chapter 5

  Bloomfield Hills, Michigan

  Fifteen years ago

  In a matter of minutes, the FBI had converted Roslyn’s eight-thousand-square-foot home into a field headquarters. Special Agent Sanderson introduced himself as post commander, then briefly introduced his team, including the only woman in the group, Special Agent Dunford, a family and media liaison specialist. Roslyn attempted to keep track of the agents’ names, but with her head still throbbing from the throttling she took in the parking lot, they jumbled together. Once introductions were made, the team began setting up equipment in her husband Brandon’s office.

  Agents Sanderson and Dunford approached Roslyn. “While we wait for the surveillance footage from the market, we would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “There’s a video?” Her attention flitted from Agent Sanderson’s stoic face to Agent Dunford, whose expression was no more revealing.

  “It’s being obtained,” Sanderson finally said. “We should know something soon.”

  Roslyn glanced at her Rolex. “Five hours later,” she muttered.

  Dunford tilted her head slightly, offering a sympathetic smile. “All things considered—”

  “I know. Had I not been knocked unconscious, admitted into the ER as Jane Doe, you would have been involved sooner.” Roslyn pushed her hair behind her ear and winced at what felt like hot irons searing her head from all angles.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Colepepper?”

  No, she wasn’t okay. Her daughter was missing. She glimpsed Brandon across the room, riffling through his file cabinet. Surely he wasn’t looking for something for work. Their daughter was in the hands of strangers, who might—on a whim—hurt, torture, even . . . Stop! Take control. A burst of white dots clouded her vision.

  “Mrs. Colepepper?” Agent Sanderson repeated. “Any information you can give us . . .”

  “Yes—yes of course.”

  Agent Sanderson removed a pen and pad from his shirt pocket. “This may have been a carjacker unaware of your daughter in the vehicle. Then again, Adriana may have been the target.”

  “And if it was my Jag they were after, what do you think will happen to Adriana?” Snippets of information from an article she’d once read jogged her memory. A high percentage of carjackers were often ex-cons who dealt hand in hand with drug lords. Within hours, the stolen cars were stripped down, repainted, and posted on the black market. Unless the car was stolen by juveniles on a dare or joyride. But even those cars were often abandoned in some alley in downtown Detroit.

  “There’s a good possibility the carjacker will drop your daughter off at a hospital or fire station. We’ve issued an Amber Alert. Both local and state police are involved. We’ll do everything we can to get your daughter back safe and sound.”

  “My daughter’s name is Adriana,” Roslyn said. “You called her Amber.”

  Agent Sanderson offered a weak smile. “I’m sorry, I should have explained how the Amber system works. It’s an alert notification sent out automatically to the surrounding counties. We have issued notice of your daughter’s abduction to law enforcement agencies as well as newspapers, radio, and TV stations.”

  “And they know what she looks like?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He consulted his notebook. “Brown hair, blue eyes, weight approximately twenty-two pounds, height approximately thirty inches. Abducted from the Best Choice Market on Telegraph Road, last seen in a green 1963 Jaguar four-door Saloon. License plate SPOIL-1.”

  “She was wearing a pink flowered dress,” Roslyn added.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Stained with raspberries . . . her dress.” A dull, throbbing ache cinched Roslyn’s throat. She should have left the store earlier instead of pacifying Adriana with animal crackers. If only she had parked closer to the building . . .

  “In the meantime,” Sanderson said with a slight clear of his throat. “I’d like to concentrate on people who would have had access to your schedule. I’ll need the names of your household staff, a list of their duties, length of employment, and anyone who might have a grievance against you or your husband.”

  Roslyn drew her head back in confusion. “Where do I begin? We’ve had multiple people work for us over the years.” Several terminated for one reason or another.

  Sanderson’s pen remained poised over the tablet. “Start with your current staff.”

  “We have two housekeepers. Milly, who works Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Georgette, who is—was—Monday through Friday.”

  Sanderson looked up from his notepad. “Was?”

  “Georgette took a leave of absence to care for her sick grandmother.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A month. Why?” A chill settled over Roslyn. “You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “We’re not ruling anyone out at this time.” Sanderson continued, “Did she leave any contact information? An e-mail or physical address?”

  “No, she said she’d be in touch.”

  Agent Dunford broke her stiff stance and leaned forward. “And has she?”

  “No, but it wasn’t like we were friends on a social level. I had given her a letter of reference, so other than possibly requesting her personal recipe book be mailed to her new address at some later date, I don’t expect her to contact me.”

  “Do you still have the recipe book?”

  “Yes, it’s on the shelf in the kitchen with the other cookbooks. Georgette’s has a black binder.”

  Agent Sanderson nodded at his partner, and without saying anything, Agent Dunford left the office.

  Her housekeeper forgetting to take her cherished recipe book ha
d struck Roslyn as strange at the time. The recipes had been handed down through Georgette’s family, some stretching back to her great-grandmother. She wouldn’t have left such a treasure behind on purpose. An image of Adriana eating macaroni and cheese with her fingers came to mind. Her daughter loved the meals Georgette created. Who was feeding her child now?

  “Is there something else you want to say, Mrs. Colepepper?”

  “Georgette was very fond of Adriana,” Roslyn volunteered. “On her last day, Georgette told Adriana she’d see her again soon.” Roslyn placed her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. She had to stay strong. Help with the investigation.

  “Agent Dunford is dusting the recipe book for prints, and she’ll run them through the database, but we need to move on.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Colepepper, time is of the essence. Does your daughter attend day care?”

  Roslyn shook her head. “We have a nanny, but she’s been sick lately. I’m in the process of having her replaced.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Brittany Cox. She’s been with us a few months and came with an impeccable background.” Roslyn’s gaze drifted to the wall of windows overlooking Turtle Lake and the infinity pool. Only a few weeks ago, Brittany was giving Adriana swimming lessons. The two of them got along wonderfully and Adriana loved the pool. The musky scent of Brandon’s cologne wafted in the air, and she turned as his hand settled on the small of her back.

  “How’s your head, honey? Do you need a break?”

  “I’m fine, and no, I don’t need a break.” She forced a smile. He wasn’t often this tender.

  “Mr. Colepepper.” Agent Sanderson nodded at Brandon. “We were discussing your nanny.”

  “Brittany.” Brandon’s hand dropped from Roslyn’s back. He folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t think she has anything to do with this, do you?”

  “As I told your wife, we’re not ruling anyone out at this early stage.” He paused a half second, his dark eyes difficult to read. “Do either of you know where Brittany is now?”

  “She had a cold,” Roslyn said. “I didn’t want her infecting Adriana, so I dismissed her for the day.” Roslyn wrapped herself in a hug. She wasn’t chilly. Just lost. Empty. “I think she has a night class tonight. She attends Oakland University. Design . . . Fashion design, I believe.”

  “Architecture,” Brandon corrected.

  Roslyn eyed her husband.

  “She’s in architecture design,” Brandon repeated.

  Roslyn’s headache worsened. This wasn’t the time to probe her husband for answers, yet she needed to know if the past was repeating itself. “Do you know her schedule too?”

  “She asked me for a job once she graduates.” He faced the agent. “I’m sure you know already that I’m the president and CEO of Colepepper Hotels. She was interested in working with the design team on future projects.” He glanced over his shoulder at Roslyn. “I didn’t promise her anything.”

  Sure. Roslyn glanced at her watch. “What other information do you need from me?” Without giving the agent time to answer, she continued. “The grounds are cared for through Updike Garden and Lawn. I can provide their business number, it’s in my book. I have no idea the names of all the men. I recognize some every week and others come when extra work is required, like removing leaves in the fall or planting flower beds in the spring. Anderson Pool and Spa maintains the pool and patio. It isn’t always the same person each week, so again, they will have to provide you with the names of their employees.” She drew a breath. “I fired a housekeeper the temp agency sent last week. I think her name was K.C.”

  “I’ll need the name of the staffing agency.”

  “Yes, of course. I have it in my—” Her PalmPilot was in her purse, which she’d left in the Jag. “I’ll have to look it up in the phone book. My purse was in the car.”

  Sanderson lifted his brows. “And credit cards?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Good. Let’s hope they use the cards.” The agent jotted a few notes, then looked up. “Anyone else?”

  “I’m sure there are others, but I’m drawing a blank.” Roslyn faced her husband, arms crossed. “What about you, Brandon? I’m sure you have an assortment of disgruntled secretaries, designers, and guest-services hosts to add to the list?”

  “This isn’t the time, honey.” Brandon turned away from the agent. He narrowed his eyes at Roslyn, then stormed away, retreating behind his large hand-carved mahogany desk.

  Agent Dunford reentered the room, her gaze on Sanderson. Was that a nod she gave him? Roslyn studied Sanderson, but his body language said nothing. They were probably trained to not show emotion, remain calm, but right now, she didn’t think she could stand not knowing what they were thinking. “Did the agent find something? A note? A clue?”

  “Let’s take a break, Mrs. Colepepper,” Sanderson suggested. “I know this is all overwhelming.” He removed a sheet of paper from his pad and handed her a pen. “If you think of more people we should investigate, please write them down.”

  Roslyn nodded.

  Sanderson crossed the room, spoke with Dunford in a whisper, then the two of them promptly left their temporary headquarters.

  Roslyn wandered out of her husband’s office, finding it impossible to walk more than a few steps in any direction without having to dodge another agent. She couldn’t possibly come up with names if she couldn’t think. Not only was her husband’s wall-to-wall glass office packed with people, the hallway, grand foyer, and parts of the kitchen were crowded as well.

  The doorbell chimed and Roslyn rushed to the front door, glad of the distraction. Only one of Sanderson’s men intercepted, his body blocking the view. Relief flooded at the sound of her sister’s voice. She wedged between the agent and doorframe. “Chrisla, please come in.” Roslyn narrowed her eyes at the man when he didn’t immediately step aside. “This is my sister, Chrisla Hollingsworth.”

  “Brandon’s secretary called me,” Chrisla said, throwing her arms around Roslyn’s neck. “How are you holding up, sis?”

  “Not very well.” Roslyn clung to her younger sister. “I want my daughter to come home.”

  “You’ll get her back.” Chrisla gave her a squeeze, then pushed her out to arm’s length. “Your driveway looks like the time you hosted that dinner party for Congressman Morrison. I’ve never counted so many black SUVs in one place before.”

  Roslyn didn’t attempt to conceal her eyes as she began to tear up. “I wish that was the occasion.”

  “What can I do to help?” Always the organizer, her sister jumped into action. Shedding her jacket as she walked into the kitchen, she tossed it over the back of a chair and rubbed her hands together. “I’ll make coffee. You go back to doing whatever you were doing.”

  Roslyn wiped her face. “I’m glad you’re here, Chrisla.”

  “I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I called Dad’s office. Apparently he’s campaigning out of town all this week, but I was able to obtain a copy of his updated itinerary, so I left a message at his hotel in Traverse City.”

  Roslyn sniffled. Their father’s state senate run had him on the road for weeks at a time with speaking engagements, and it wasn’t even an election year. Her sister held much too liberal views to help with their father’s campaign, but Roslyn was interested in politics and, until the nanny came down with her latest flu-like symptoms, Roslyn was scheduled to join him at a fund-raiser dinner tomorrow night. But none of that mattered now. Political views, plate dinners, respiratory infections. It all seemed so trivial.

  “You should be with Brandon. I’m sure he needs your support.” Chrisla shooed her away. “Go.”

  Roslyn fought control over her quivering lips. Brandon never needed her. But this wasn’t the time to rehash the past. She went to the built-in desk at the far end of the kitchen, opened the bottom drawer, and removed the phone book. With something to keep her mind occupied, she headed down the hall towar
d the office. As she reached the doorway, the phone rang. The roomful of FBI agents donned headphones, and Roslyn rushed to her husband, who was seated at the desk, hand poised to answer upon Agent Sanderson’s nod.

  Second ring.

  Roslyn gripped the back of Brandon’s chair, her nails biting into the soft leather. By the third peal, she narrowed her eyes on Sanderson. With her child’s life in jeopardy, she couldn’t stomach the FBI dragging this out any longer.

  Fourth ring.

  “They’re going to think we’re not home.” She couldn’t lose Adriana forever. Roslyn lurched over Brandon’s shoulder for the phone—her only link to her daughter.

  Brandon snatched the receiver first. “Hello.” His deep voice held a faint quiver that probably no one else in the room detected. Her husband’s shoulders slumped. “Roslyn, it’s for you.”

  She grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Colepepper, I ah . . .” Brittany coughed.

  Roslyn released a pent-up breath, exhaling any patience she’d managed to retain. “Brittany, Adriana is missing. We have to keep this line open.”

  A brief pause preceded another coughing fit.

  Roslyn hung up the phone. She had to keep the line clear for the kidnapper.

  “Less than a minute,” one agent announced, removing his earphones.

  “Checking voice recognition,” another agent said.

  “That was our nanny, Brittany Cox.” Roslyn faced Sanderson. “I know her voice. You don’t have to waste your time with voice recognition.”

  “It’s routine, Mrs. Colepepper.” Sanderson picked up the headphones, covered his ears, then hand signaled the agent operating the computer.

  Brandon pushed his chair back and stood. He reached for Roslyn’s hand and led her away from the group of agents camped in his office. “Let’s give them a few minutes,” he said, directing her to the bay window. “They need to investigate every call.”

  “Oh, please. Brittany’s a college kid, not a carjacker slash kidnapper. They need to put their time and effort to better use and find Adriana.”