Moonie laughed. “Plenty of booby traps, though I prefer to think of them as unique home security measures, but nothing you need to worry about. True, if need be, this place can make the Temple of Doom look like a funhouse, but you can wander about most of the property without any giant boulders chasing you.” Moonie paused, as if waiting for a comment from Jim. When none was given, he continued: “The place is safe for the kids; it’s safe for you too.”
“Fine,” Jim noted with a disgruntled tone. “Let’s just get to it. How about fillin’ me in on this plan of yours. For starters, why am I expected to stay here for so long? What exactly do you want from me?”
Moonie turned his eyes in the direction toward the playful sounds of the children’s voices from the other room. Jim could tell that they were back in their own little world, happily engaged in their activity, and apparently oblivious to the conversation in the quaint, little kitchen. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Panco,” he answered Jim with a lowered voice, “I think it would be best if we wait until tonight. It’s too long a story to start now. Once the kids are asleep, I’ll be happy to explain…”
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Moonie,” Jim interrupted, “I’d really like some answers now. I hope you can appreciate everything I’ve been through before coming here. Now, I’ll admit that this ain’t what I expected to find when I got here, and my instincts tell me that you’re not my enemy, but I’ve been wrong before. I have no idea who you people are, what you want from me, or whether or not I should trust you or anything you’ve said about them kids you’re holdin’ here.”
Moonie gave him a strange look, as if he were taking what his guest was venting about into consideration, as well as studying him with curiosity and amusement. “Tell me, Mr. Panco, exactly what answers are you looking for? Do you want me to verify everything I’ve said about the children is true? Is that why you’re here?”
Jim hesitated. “No. I’m here because your friend, if that’s what he is, gave me instructions to come here. He told me that if I didn’t follow his instructions exactly, that I’d never see my daughter again. So as much as I don’t understand what in God’s name is goin’ on here, as much as I’m tired to shit from this crazy roller coaster you kids got me on...” He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he couldn’t hold back his emotions any longer; he could hear the frustration in his own elevated voice… “I’m playin’ along if it means getting her back. So if we’re done pussyfootin’ around, either you tell me where she is, or give me my instructions right now so we can get this over with.”
Moonie did not move. He still regarded him with that pondering stare. “Instructions?” he repeated.
“Yeah. He told me I would receive further instructions when I got here. So. Give ‘em to me.”
Mysteriously, the legless man gave a kind smile, then wheeled himself toward the main counter, where he opened a sliding drawer. With his back turned toward him, Moonie addressed the old electrician: “Would you consider yourself a patient man, Mr. Panco?”
Jim sighed. He suspected there was nothing he could say or do at this point that would change the course that was laid out for him; it only irked him to no end that he had no control over it. “I can show patience,” he said blandly, “when I have to.”
“I hope so,” Moonie went on, pulling out a metal spatula and pair of tongs from the drawer, “because you’re gonna need a lot of it. I can’t tell you where Megan is because I don’t know. And to be frank, if I did know, I still wouldn’t tell you, for your own good. I know that doesn’t make sense to you, and I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through right now; I don’t have any children. But, unlike you, I do know what’s going on… everything. So believe me when I tell you that there is nothing you can do for your daughter right now but to stay here and wait. I know this is frustrating, but it’s for the best.”
“And just what am I waitin’ for?”
Moonie turned his head slightly. “The new moon.”
Jim sighed again. “That’s what he said. Don’t know what the hell that means.”
“I know,” Moonie sighed as well, turning his chair back to face him. “There’s a lot you don’t know. That’s why you’re here, Jim. Now I’ll make a deal with you. Your second instruction is to be patient and wait here. That’s it. If you can at least do that until tonight, when the kids are in bed, then we’ll sit out on the back porch and have a nice conversation over as many beers as you like. I’ll tell you everything I can. Answer any questions you have. I’m confident that, by the time we’ve finished our drinks, you’ll be more willing to accept me as your host and remain here for the time being. If you’re not satisfied, you’ll be free to go. But wherever you go, whatever you do, it won’t increase your chances of finding her. At least here, you’ll have a much better understanding of things.” He rolled the wheelchair back to where he had been before, directly in front of Jim. “So whaddaya say?”
Jim eyed him for a moment, calmer, more thoughtful. “Fair enough,” he finally agreed. “So, if that’s my second instruction, what’s my first instruction?”
Moonie’s smile returned. He tossed the spatula he had retrieved from the drawer to the electrician. “How good are you on the grill?”
Chapter III
“So where we headin’ now?” Gibbons asked nonchalantly from the passenger seat of Harrison’s Ford. “Not too many homeless guys around these parts. We callin’ it a day?”
Harrison, behind the wheel, shrugged. “Pretty much. Just taking a detour on the way back to precinct.” They were heading along Old Philadelphia Pike, north of the Lancaster Outlets, just west of the town strangely titled Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania.
“You lookin’ to question some of the Amish and Mennonite folks,” Gibbons joked, “or do you just get a kick outta swerving ‘round all these horse-and-buggies?”
Harrison grunted a short laugh. “You don’t like the culture here?”
“I’m used to it. Just not my style.”
“You have to admit, it’s got its own beauty here,” Harrison pointed out.
“Oh sure,” Gibbons acknowledged. “Lot of farmlands, handmade furniture and quilt shops, and let’s not forget Jeb’s Buggy Rides for the tourists. Don’t get me wrong, partner, it’s nice. Hell of a change from Baltimore though.”
Founded in the earlier half of the 18th Century by migrating Quakers and Swiss Mennonites, the town lay along Old Philadelphia Pike, the road originally constructed to connect Philadelphia to Lancaster. According to local folklore, two road surveyors debated between heading into downtown Lancaster and remaining at their present spot. One of them had apparently commented, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” implying that a sure thing was better than a mere chance at something more profitable. As a result, the surveyors stayed in a hotel nearby, using it as their base of operations, instead of traveling back and forth to Lancaster every day. Once construction began on the eighty-six mile long Pennsylvania Railroad between Philadelphia and Columbia, PA in the 1830’s, the village that was temporarily referred to as Enterprise, due to the name of the local post office, became the most important stop in that area because of its coal and lumber yards. By 1876, the town was officially renamed Bird-in-Hand. Today, a large population of Amish and Mennonite families reside and make their living within the community.
Harrison made a left from the main road, still along the eastern border of Lancaster City, before entering the peaceful, historical township. The section he was heading towards was plotted with a few, scattered neighborhoods among the farmlands, consisting of the county’s more upscale homes: peaceful, but rich with state-of-the-art modernizations. The wealthy residents of Lancaster had made their mark within the lands of the Amish and Mennonites, surprisingly without interfering with their culture that forbade them from adopting the amenities of modern society. For generations, Americans have continuously sought ways to advance their lifestyles with industrial and technological products that ma
de everything faster, easier, and more convenient. In contrast, Lancaster’s true Pennsylvania Dutch, especially the Amish, have lived off the land in the same manner they have always done for centuries. Harrison had always held in his heart an admiration for their kind; surrounded by the accelerating pace of the world around them, in an age when the average American commuter could not function without the internet, a GPS, or a smart phone, they have endured in the face of it all. And no amount of commercial, economic, or political influence could shake their steadfast love for the simple life.
Mostly…
Word had it that there was a rather large controversy among the Amish community regarding cell phones. According to their belief, it is forbidden to have anything wired to their homes. Therefore, they have operated without the use of electricity or phones. However, most properties would have a separate outhouse or shed built with a landline attached. As they are not exempt from state or property taxes, the Amish still have had to generate income, and felt it appropriate to use a phone to conduct business with the outside world. Furthermore, even though they have their own doctors, they will call for an ambulance in an emergency. They have associated with the modern society as little as possible, but they couldn’t completely shut it out, as they remain dependent on several public services.
Since cell phones are wireless, there has been a significant number within the Amish community who have argued that they don’t fall into the category of landlines, and should therefore be approved in their homes. Many of the senior members, who have held to tradition, have counter-argued that cell phones need to be plugged in for charging, and that using them, even if kept in the buildings separate from the main home, would bring a temptation to adopt more unnecessary conveniences into their culture, which was strictly forbidden. Harrison learned about this new controversy when he found himself staring in disbelief at a young, beardless Amish fellow who was talking on a cell phone while riding in his buggy.
Through sheer curiosity, he had stopped by Jeb’s Buggy Rides, a simple tourist attraction he and Rhonda had enjoyed as newlyweds. Having tipped the driver well, after their five-mile tour of Amish country, he remained on good terms with Jeb. Jeb had been born Amish, but when he was fifteen, his parents converted to the Mennonites. Much later, when he was married himself, he and his family had broken off from the community with several others, and started their own independent church. But, as tourists enjoyed his buggy rides mainly for the educational lectures his drivers would give about Amish country, the man still kept up to date on the happenings of the cultures in the area. It was through Jeb that Harrison learned of the current cell phone debate.
Though Harrison and his partner had recently joked about the idea of possibly having to issue a citation to an Amish fellow on the road for “texting and buggy-driving,” he personally had hoped they wouldn’t adopt the use of wireless phones. He respected their way of life how it was, how they managed without such distractions. There was something magical about a culture that remained untainted by change, especially in a world where change was inevitable everywhere else.
He found cell phones to be a nuisance himself, though having one seemed a necessity in his profession. It was one of the many issues between him and Rhonda, but the one, he believed, mainly responsible for their divorce.
“Definitely no homeless guys ‘round here,” Gibbons commented, pulling Harrison back to the present. “We upgrading our suspects to the upper class now?” He was indicating to the fine, beautiful homes in the neighborhood they had entered, homes that had all but dollar signs painted on the windows.
Harrison ignored the question. “Thanks for helping me work my beat today.”
Gibbons shrugged. “Not like I’m getting’ nowhere with mine. You were right, Harrison; this Williams kid’s a ghost. So far, I got nothin’. Nobody’s seen him.”
Harrison nodded as he made a right turn onto a quiet street within the neighborhood of Lancaster’s upper class. “Someone has to have seen him.”
“Yeah?” Gibbons looked at his partner. “Who? Only a few people even know the guy: the priest, the psychiatrist lady, and some of the other church people. Most of them that do know of him have only met him once or twice. Those that knew him better, haven’t seen him.”
“So they say,” Harrison added.
“Well, I ain’t authorized to pull out a polygraph on ‘em.”
Harrison let out a grunt that may have been a sarcastic laugh. It was followed by a more serious tone. “And then there are a couple that apparently knew him well…”
“And they dead,” Gibbons finished the thought for his partner with an equally serious tone. “Go figure.”
“Ever deal with anything like this before?”
“You mean someone who could just create an entire fake life and then disappear at a whim? Nope.”
“Me neither.”
“Some crazy shit, man. This Cliff guy we lookin’ for, the ghost boyfriend, no prints or DNA in the girl’s car we found, other than her own. None of it’s right if you ask me.”
“Preaching to the choir, brother,” Harrison agreed as he slowed his car, giving all of his attention to the two-story, colonial home on the left. A familiar Mercedes Benz was parked in the driveway.
“Who lives there?” Gibbons inquired. “You stalkin’ the ex?”
Harrison laughed. “No man, you know the ex moved back to Chicago. Just admiring the car.”
“Aw bullshit, man! You was scopin’ that place out. Who is it?”
Harrison, having seen nothing out of the ordinary, returned his eyes to the street and accelerated his Ford back to the speed limit. “No one,” he answered with a defensive tone.
“Come on,” Gibbon’s prodded, “you know you can’t lie fo’ shit, brother. If you could, you’d actually win a hand or two against me at Poker Night.”
Harrison turned to him. “Now you know I can whoop your ass in Poker! I just won thirty bucks off you last time!”
“See, now you changin’ the subject. Now, you brought my black ass out here. We should be off the clock, and I could be home right now makin’ a booty call. So tell me what the hell we doin’ all the way out…”
“Booty call, my ass!” Harrison interrupted. “You know damn well yo booty call is just you wastin’ yo money on one of them damn hotlines, sittin’ in yo crappy ass bed with a tub of K.Y. and…”
“Man,” Gibbon’s shot back, “stop talkin’ shit! You just keep avoidin’ the subject cause you hidin’ somethin’.”
“I ain’t hidin’ shit.”
“Oh no? You think I don’t know you? Mister prim and proper? Mister ‘it’s important to speak all professionally when we on the job,’ who thinks that means talkin’ like you white. Well guess what, nigga? You talkin’ with yo ghetto accent now.”
“So what’s that supposed to mean?” Harrison countered, suddenly being wary of his speech.
“What’s that mean? That means you all defensive cause you hidin’ somethin’. Got yo ass all riled up cause I’m callin’ you out on somethin’ you don’t wanna say.”
Harrison made another right out of the neighborhood and back onto the main road, south toward Old Philadelphia Pike. He didn’t respond.
“Miles,” Gibbons prodded with a taunting, sing-song voice. “Oh Miles… who you scopin’?”
Harrison shook his head as he let out a smile. He and Gibbons had been partners off and on, and friends for a long time. Sometimes, nothing was more enjoyable than the occasional bantering back and forth with him. When they argued, they were loud and obnoxiously animated. It was a sign of true partners on a case. He supposed they both liked to think, without confessing to each other, that they were the real-life portrayal of Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys. “Promise you won’t give me shit?” he finally said with a sigh.
Gibbons lifted his three fingers of his right hand into a scout’s honor sign.
“It’s the psychiatrist,” he let out with slight hesitation. “Dr. Palmer.�
�
Gibbons stared at him for a moment. Then he put his head back against the headrest with his eyes on the road. “Shit, man. You trippin’ now.”
“Hey, you promised you wouldn’t…”
“Chief is gonna have yo ass…”
“…give me shit.”
“…fo’ dinner! Didn’t he chew you out for questioning her?”
“He didn’t exactly chew me out. He just gave me a talking to.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Gibbons snuffed. “You know, you gonna get us both in trouble!”
“Like you said,” Harrison countered, “we’re off the clock. Anyway, there’s nothing that says we can’t drive by.”
“Yeah? Drive by fo’ what, Harrison? You really think she’s got something to do with this?”
“Don’t know. Probably not.”
“She’s a witness, man! You should be out looking for this Cliff mother fu…”
“What do you think we did all day?” Harrison shot back. “What do you think I’ve been doing all week? I spoke to the woman for less than ten minutes on Monday morning. Since then I’ve spent every shift going through names on that Outreach list and working the streets. Nothing else. It’s what, Thursday now? We’ve gone through almost the entire list, and every bum we found and questioned had nothing! No one recognizes the sketch of this guy.”
“So they say,” Gibbons returned the comment that was thrown at him moments earlier.
“Well no one’s talking,” Harrison stated.
“So, now you wanna look in the least likely place. Come on, Harrison. I get it. You don’t wanna leave no stone unturned. But you looking at this woman cause she had a couple patients from long ago who disappeared, and this other guy, Summers, who snapped and killed his family… like it’s her fault he smoked some bad shit. The autopsy showed heavy narcotics, man.”
“I know,” Harrison conceded. “Just hard to believe that even drugs could make a man do what Summers did.”
The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2) Page 19
