The Amish Heiress (The Paradise Chronicles Book 1)

by Patrick E. Craig

  Suddenly, the door burst open. Bobby Halverson stood there. The look on his face was grim.

  “Bobby, what is it?”

  “Where’s Jonathan?”

  “He’s lying down.”

  “Take me to him.”

  Jenny led Bobby down the hallway to her bedroom. She opened the door. Jonathan was lying on the bed reading his Bible. He looked up when Jenny and Bobby came in, and he laid the Bible down. A puzzled look came over his face. “Hello, Bobby, what’s going on?”

  “Jonathan, you’ve got to get up and get dressed. Rachel is in desperate trouble. I just got a call from Willy, a friend of Daniel King. Daniel is in trouble in Connecticut and he told Willy that Rachel is being poisoned by the St. Clairs. We’ve got to go get her, now!”

  A pained look came over Jonathan’s face. “I can’t go, Bobby. Rachel is shunned. The Ordnung says...”

  Jenny looked at Bobby. His jaw was working and his face seemed to set like stone. He walked over to the bed, grabbed Jonathan by his shirt and dragged him up to a standing position. Jenny cried out. “Bobby, what are you doing? Jonathan isn’t well...”

  “Stay out of this, Jenny.” Bobby pulled Jonathan up close and almost shouted at him. “To hell with the Ordnung, Jonathan! This is your daughter who’s dying. Now man up and get your clothes on. You are coming with me if I have to kick you down the hall!”

  Jenny couldn’t believe this was happening. She tried to pull Bobby’s hands away from Jonathan, but Bobby’s grip was like a steel trap. “Let him go, Bobby! Let him go! You’ll hurt him!”

  Then Jonathan took hold of Jenny’s hands and pulled them away from Bobby’s. He looked into her eyes and a sad smile came on his face. “No, Jenny, don’t. Bobby is right. I’ve been hiding behind the Ordnung too long, and you’ve been helping me. I know you mean well, but you can’t protect me anymore. Rachel’s in danger and I’m her father. I’ve got to go, no matter what.”

  Bobby let Jonathan go. “That’s my boy. Now get moving. The truck’s outside, ready to go.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “Okay.” Bobby turned and walked out of the room.

  Jenny’s heart was pounding. Then a conversation she had with Rachel before all this happened came back to her. It was the day Rachel left. They had been standing in Rachel’s room while she packed and Rachel’s frustration and anger had poured out on Jenny...

  “When he left us, Mama, everything changed. We went back to Ohio and you were so sad for so long. Everything was about you, your sorrow, your grief. What about my grief? You thought I was doing okay but I was not. And you were so lost in your own pain that you had no time to really find out how I was feeling. At least I had Grossdaadi and Grossmutter, and they helped me for a while. Then they died and I was so afraid.”

  “Afraid, Rachel?”

  “Yes, Mama. I was afraid—afraid you would leave me too. I used to wake up at night feeling like someone was standing on my chest. I just knew something was going to happen to you and then I would be alone. And then he came home and it did happen.”

  “What happened, Rachel?”

  “You left me, Mama.”

  “But how? I was right here all the time.”

  Rachel’s voice rose. “No, Mama, you were not. Suddenly we had a stranger in our house and everything was about him. Poor Jonathan, he’s not well. Poor Jonathan, he shouldn't be disturbed. You never had time for me anymore, and I hated that. It was like I was a stranger, standing out on the porch and looking into this house where all this love used to be, but I was out in the cold and you both were inside.”

  As Jenny remembered Rachel’s words, she felt as though she had been slapped. Rachel was right. She had protected Jonathan and tried to heal him in her own power. She had forgotten the lesson the Lord had taught her so long ago; to trust in Him alone and stop living life in her own strength. Jenny put her hands to her face and burst into tears. Jonathan turned as he was buttoning his coat. He came to Jenny and took her in his arms. Jenny sobbed. “I’m...I’m so...so sorry, Jonathan.”

  “Sorry for what, my darling?”

  “Rachel...Rachel...was...right. I left her. I’ve been so focused on saving you that I...I...left her...alone.”

  Jenny felt strength flow back into Jonathan’s arms as he held her tight.

  “I know, Jenny. And I’m sorry, too. I’ve been so afraid of living that I’ve been like a dead man; to you and to Rachel. Now maybe du lieber Gott is giving me another chance; a chance to live again. Pray for us, my precious wife. We’ll find her.”

  Jenny held him tight for one more minute.

  Bobby’s voice came down the hall. “You can do that when we bring Rachel home! Let’s go!”

  Jenny and Jonathan both laughed through their tears. Then Jonathan kissed Jenny quickly and walked out the door. Jenny was alone in the room. She looked down at the Bible lying on the bed. There was a bookmark in it. She picked up the Bible and opened it at the marker. Jonathan had been reading in Proverbs. The first verse leapt out at her.

  Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

  In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

  *****

  Sergeant Oliver Cromwell Franklin was very grumpy. He had just hung up from a nasty phone call with Augusta St. Clair’s man, Gordon Randall. Randall had been a little perturbed that the police department had not found Daniel King, and he told Franklin in no uncertain terms that his job was on the line if they did not find King soon. He also demanded extra police patrols around the St. Clair estate, which definitely put a strain on Franklin’s manpower. In fact, it meant that Sergeant Franklin would have to get off his rear end and get out on the streets in a patrol car, a job that he thought he left behind when he got promoted. He flipped the switch on the dispatch microphone. “Parkins! Parkins, are you there?”

  The unit squawked and then Parkins came on. “Yeah, Sarge, I’m here.”

  “Any sign of King?”

  “Not yet, Sarge. I’m just about to go off shift.”

  “Yeah, well get your tail back in that car. Nobody goes off shift until we find Daniel King. Is that clear? I’m coming out there myself.”

  Parkins snickered. “Got a phone call from Augusta, eh, Sarge?”

  Sergeant Oliver Cromwell Franklin snarled back at his officer. “It was from her security man, Gordon Randall. Now listen up, smart guy. You’re in this as deep as I am. I suppose you forgot about the nice vacation to Aruba that Augusta popped for last summer. That wouldn’t look very nice to the local yokels if some snoop dug up where the money came from, would it? Or any of the other little perks over the years.”

  “No, Sarge.”

  “Right! So I suggest you get in gear and find that kid. And keep your smart remarks to yourself.”

  “Okay, Sarge, okay. Sorry.”

  Oliver Cromwell Franklin lowered his voice. “Look, Parkins. There’s something going on out at the St. Clairs’, and if it blows up in our faces, we can kiss our jobs goodbye. So just find that kid and put him on ice. Do it now!” Franklin switched off the CB before Parkins could answer.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Deep Games

  Gordon Randall looked at his watch. It was 8 a.m. and the police had not found Daniel King. He parked the SUV on the service road behind the house and turned to Rose and Jamison. “Things are spinning out of control here. First, Gerald betrays us, then Headley gets himself killed, and then Daniel King escapes. The local boys haven’t seen any sign of him. That means he found a hiding place, he got out of town, or he’s trying to get back to Rachel. We need to move up the schedule of events before King tries something.”

  Jamison scowled. “So what’s plan B, Colonel?”

  “The girl has to die today unless...”

  Jamison glanced at Rose. “Unless what, Colonel?”

  “I’ve got some business to take care of with Augusta before we finalize Rachel. I want the girl alive unti
l it’s all settled. If Augusta doesn’t go for my proposal, we might have to use Rachel as our ticket out of here. What about Gerald? I don’t want him interfering again.”

  Jamison grinned. “Gerald is pretty stoned. I’ve been giving him barbiturates, so he’s out of it. As far as setting the guy up, I mixed arsenic into the ginger ale he’s been giving her and I’ve got his fingerprints on the soda bottle, her glass, and the pill bottle.”

  “What about the hypodermic needles you’ve been injecting her with?”

  “I used the very smallest needle you can get. Unless someone is specifically looking for an injection mark, they won’t see it.”

  “Good. Has the girl gone into a coma yet?”

  “No, but she’s very weak. She couldn’t walk three steps, much less get away. One more big dose and she’s a goner.”

  “Okay, and what about Headley?”

  “Everything seems normal with the staff this morning, which means that nobody knows about Headley’s death. The basement of the cottage is like a meat locker. He’ll keep until we leave.”

  “Good, Jamison. Are the other men here?”

  Rose nodded. “Yeah they got here about fifteen minutes ago. They dumped their gear at the cottage, and they’re waiting for orders.”

  “Okay, I want those guys out front, patrolling the gate and the service road. We have to keep everyone out of the St. Clair estate until tomorrow morning. I don’t even want the cops in here. They can patrol outside but I don’t want anyone on the grounds until we are gone. If everything goes right, we’ll be out of here by ten, leaving Augusta and Gerald holding the bag for Rachel’s death. If we pull this off, there will be a big bonus for you guys.”

  Jamison smiled. “How big, Colonel?”

  “One hundred thousand each.”

  Jamison rubbed his hands together. “I like that, Colonel. I like that.”

  Rose’s face was impassive.

  Randall nodded. He picked up a briefcase from the seat next to him and tapped it. “I’ve got one more little card to play with Augusta and then we’ll put this operation to bed.” Randall got out of the SUV. “Okay, Jamison, I want you to watch Gerald and the girl.”

  Jamison nodded.

  “Rose, you’re a rover. Keep patrolling the grounds and stay visible so that the staff knows there is a security team here.”

  “Got it, Colonel.”

  “Oh, and one last thing. Is the nuclear option set?”

  Jamison smiled and handed Randall a small paper bag. “All of the propane tanks are set with a small charge of Semtex and a wireless receiver. These are the detonators—a main and a backup.”

  Randall slipped the package into his pocket. Jamison walked off, headed for the east wing of the mansion, and Rose drove away on his rounds. Randall watched them go. His professional instincts were on high alert. Something was very wrong with this whole operation. It was time to play his trump card and get out before the police showed up. He thought about his options.

  I’ll keep the girl alive until Augusta signs over the securities. The last thing Augusta wants is the police talking to a live Rachel.

  The wind picked up as Randall walked down the path from the service road to the main house. Snow was beginning to fall, hard, icy snow that stung his face. There was a big storm blowing in off the Atlantic and it would be arriving soon. In the distance, he could hear the sound of heavy surf pounding against the point. The Weather Channel had put out a winter storm warning and was broadcasting that the whole area would be shut down by that afternoon. Randall liked that. After his job was over and he had squeezed Augusta for the big bucks, he would send the incriminating material to the police. They would find Gerald stoned on downers in his room, the dead girl and the glass and bottles with Gerald’s fingerprints in the secret room, and the taped conversations with Augusta. Randall and his men would be long gone under the cover of the storm.

  Randall entered by the side door and walked down the hall to Augusta’s office. He knocked twice and then went in without waiting for a response. Augusta was sitting at the desk with her head in her hands. When she heard Randall enter, she looked up. Her face was a question mark. “What’s going on, Randall? Did you know Daniel King was here? How did he get away from your trained professionals? He’s only a stupid, Amish farm boy.”

  “One question at a time, Augusta. Yes, we’ve had a little glitch in our plans. Daniel King was supposed to be eliminated by my man. Unfortunately, Headley underestimated the strength of the boy. He got himself killed because of his carelessness.”

  Augusta’s eyes widened. “Killed? But...but how?”

  “King got him out on the patio and Headley slipped on the ice. He fell backwards against a wrought iron post and it penetrated his brain. He was dead instantly.”

  Augusta stood up from her desk. There was panic in her eyes. “Gordon! You promised this would go off without a hitch. Now someone who can cause us a lot of problems is loose out there.” She sank back into her chair and put her face in her hands. Then she looked back up at Randall. “I want that girl dead.”

  Randall nodded and then he reached in his pocket. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that, Augusta.” He opened his briefcase and took out a bundle of photographs held together by a rubber band. “I think you should look at these first. You see, Augusta, one of the things that people in my profession always do is find out everything they can about their clients. I did a little exploring here a few nights ago and came up with some very interesting information about you. I printed up some copies. The original photos are in a very safe place.”

  Augusta took the photos from Randall and rolled off the rubber band. She began to leaf through them. After a moment, she looked up at Randall. He had never seen such a venomous look on a person’s face. Augusta was trembling. “Why, Randall, you clever boy. You broke into my office.”

  “Yes, and I photographed everything—the diary, the letters, the photos, the papers. I finally figured out what you’re really up to, Augusta.”

  “And what would that be, Gordon?”

  “It’s never really been about the St. Clair money for you, has it? It’s always been about Robert St. Clair.”

  Augusta’s face became set like flint. Her eyes seemed to focus somewhere beyond Randall. She whispered the name. “Robert St. Clair. Robert, my dear Robert.” Then her eyes focused again and she looked up at Randall. “Yes, Gordon, it has always been about Robert St. Clair. Ever since the day I met him. He was so much different than that limp-wristed little pantywaist, Jerod. He was a real man, strong, beautiful, powerful. You know nothing about how I felt about Robert.”

  “You hated him, I know that.”

  “No, I loved him.”

  “You hated him with all your heart.”

  Augusta smiled and tipped her head to the side. The coquetry reminded Randall of a faded Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. “Well, I suppose you could call it a love-hate relationship, Gordon. What’s that to you?”

  Randall pulled out some pictures from the pile. They were the ones with Robert, Rachel, and Jenny. “I’m assuming these are the pictures that Robert sent to his father in 1948, the ones you said you never found. You stole these from Max. You knew all along what Rachel Borntraeger St. Clair looked like. When she showed up in New York, you were ready for her. And you hated her. You had her put out of the hotel and you hired Joe Bender to degrade her, get her strung out on heroin. You didn’t want her dead. You wanted her to suffer, like you had suffered.”

  Augusta sighed and then tittered. It was a strange, grating sound. “Well, Gordon, you’re a very astute young man. You probed and you dug and you sneaked and you kept at it and you struck gold, didn’t you? You’ve discovered my little secrets.”

  She got up and walked to the window. She stared out at the snow blowing wildly across the grounds of the estate. “Everyone has a purpose in life, Gordon. You are a professional killer. That’s who you were made to be. You can’t be anything else. I wonder
ed what my purpose was for a long time. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be some middle-class, dumpy housewife living out her life in the Bronx with a stupid husband and screaming brats. I was meant for much greater things.

  “And then one day, it was the very day Robert St. Clair rejected me, everything became perfectly clear. We were sitting in the Stork Club and Robert was telling me that he was going to marry that Amish whore. While Robert was going on and on about the new love of his life, it was like I couldn’t hear him anymore because there was another voice speaking to me. And I knew who it was. It was God himself, and in that instant, I knew that I had been called to serve God in a wonderful way. I had been chosen to be his hand of vengeance against the whole evil, corrupt St. Clair family. And I have performed my duty. Well, not quite all my duty.”

  She turned back to face him.

  Randall stared at Augusta. Something had changed and Randall knew what it was. The mask had come off and Randall was looking at the real Augusta St. Clair—a conniving, climbing, murderess named Francine Bosnan—a woman capable of anything, a woman who was totally insane. The thought chilled him. He took a stab. “Max and Margaret, Robert’s parents?”

  Augusta nodded.

  “Your own son, Francis, and his wife?”

  Augusta shrugged. “He was Robert St. Clair’s son, and I hated him as much as I hated Robert.” Augusta sat back down and folded her hands together. She put on the glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. The change was startling. She looked like a prim, maidenly schoolteacher. She looked up at Gordon and spoke to him in a businesslike manner. “Well, Gordon, you didn’t do all this sneaking and uncovering for fun. Obviously you want something from me. What do you want?”

  “Money, of course.”

  “How much?”

  “One million dollars.”

  Augusta stiffened. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Really, Augusta? I photographed the Swiss Bank Account Book under the name of Francine Bosnan. You’ve been siphoning money from Gerald’s trust for years. Right now you’ve got eighty million in Zurich and two million in New York. I also saw the list of negotiable securities, which are held right here in the Greenwich bank. There are over a million dollars’ worth within a fifteen-minute drive. I want you to call your banker and get him out here with enough securities to meet my price. You hand over the securities, I give you all my photos, Rachel dies, and my men and I disappear. You take it from there.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight-fifteen. You have one hour.”