“A bird that can kill a grown man?” Heath asked.
“I heard someone talking about this in the grove yesterday, but I thought they were exaggerating,” I said.
“Nope, apparently it’s true. A cassowary can kill a human, especially if its kick slices a major artery. But there are other ways the bird is dangerous. In the last recorded case of a fatality, a cassowary killed a teenager with a single kick to the neck.”
“Wow,” I said as Heath gave a low whistle.
“According to what the guy from the game commission told me, the birds are huge and incredibly aggressive, with probably a hundred and fifty documented attacks on humans per year. They’re more commonly known for killing dogs or cows than humans, though.”
“So Troy was attacked by a cassowary?” I asked, more confused than ever. “Where on earth—”
“Well, no, that’s not likely. Yes, a cassowary is by far the more violent of our two choices here and could easily have made that gash, but while cassowaries live in the wild in places like Australia, the only ones you’ll find in the U.S. are safely ensconced in zoos or on registered farms, neither of which are anywhere in our region. Which leaves the second species as the far more likely culprit.”
“The one you called genus Drominus?”
“Dromaius,” he corrected. “That’s the only other Casuariiforme, the cassowary’s closest cousin. Unlike the cassowary, birds of the genus Dromaius are fairly common in the U.S. and are, in fact, held in captivity in numerous places throughout Lancaster County.”
Mike looked from me to Heath and back again, milking the moment, almost enjoying the suspense.
“Genus Dromaius, more commonly known as emu,” he said at last. “Unless there’s a cassowary running wild out here, Troy’s leg was sliced by an emu. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Sienna, but we had to bring Jonah down to the station. As it turns out, this isn’t the only evidence against him. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up being officially charged with Troy’s murder.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
I refused to believe that my cousin had anything to do with Troy’s murder. Jonah Coblentz was one of the kindest, gentlest souls I had ever known, not to mention a firm believer in nonresistance and turning the other cheek. I said as much to Mike now, but he countered by saying that not only was there evidence, but there was also motive. Troy and Jonah had had a very vocal falling out, one that dealt with racehorses, insider knowledge, and questionable betting practices.
“I already heard the story about that from Liesl,” I told him. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Troy caused Jonah to lose a substantial part of his income. People have killed over less.”
“But you have to remember that Jonah’s Amish, Mike,” I said, carrying two mugs of coffee to the table and setting them in front of the men. “He sees everything that happens, both good and bad, as God’s will. He wouldn’t have spent a moment plotting some sort of revenge. Instead, he would have been working on forgiveness. That’s what the Amish do when they are wronged. Above all else, they forgive, instantly and completely—and over and over again, if necessary.”
I put out cream and sugar and spoons, and then I grabbed my own cup and sat down with them.
“In theory,” Mike said wryly.
Heath interjected to elaborate. “Didn’t you see what happened after the Nickel Mines school shooting, when that man shot those Amish girls in their schoolhouse? Afterward, the Amish responded by almost instantly forgiving the killer. Gave the news media fits because they couldn’t understand it.”
“Seems weird to the rest of the world, but that’s the Amish way,” I added.
“Makes no sense to me,” Mike said, shaking his head as he stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. “That’s not the Jewish way.”
I glanced at Heath, thinking about Daphne’s saga and all the wrongs that had been done to her and to her people. For the Jews, forgiveness had to be a tough topic to handle indeed, as they had been wronged in ways that the rest of the world—myself included—could never understand.
“Jews believe that there shouldn’t be forgiveness without repentance. Even then, as Rabbi Sackett says, forgiveness should never be spontaneous or instant. It comes slowly, through hard work and resolve and transformation of the self.”
“But doesn’t that just prolong the pain of having been wronged?” I asked.
Mike shrugged.
“People have to take responsibility for their actions,” he replied. “If someone wrongs me, I’m not giving them a free pass. I need to see sorrow, repentance, and reparations. Troy offered none of that to Jonah.”
“But, again, Jonah didn’t need those things in order to forgive,” Heath said. “As soon as it happened, I feel sure, he forgave and forgot and moved on. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Not your typical profile of a murderer.”
Sipping my coffee, I once again looked from Heath to Mike, from the peaceful pacifist to the crusader for justice. Both men had their points, but on the issue of forgiveness I stood firmly on the side of the Amish.
Choosing my words carefully, I explained to Mike my own position. I wasn’t as quick to forgive as the Amish were, maybe, but my forgiveness didn’t require anything of the one who had wronged me. To me, forgiveness wasn’t a free pass at all. It was more like a “passing along” of the debt from me to God. When I forgave, all I was doing was giving up the right to be involved in a matter that was really between the one who had wronged me and the Creator who would ultimately hold him responsible on my behalf.
“As the Amish like to say, if I want God’s grace, I have to give grace to others,” I finished.
“Define grace,” Mike replied, eyeing me curiously.
“Unmerited favor. I didn’t earn it, but I have it anyway. I’m given it every day, all day long. Because of that, I have to give it to others.”
The three of us were quiet for a moment, and I realized what a blessing this was, to be in a position to share my faith with someone in a nonthreatening way, and to see that he was hearing me without any knee-jerk defensiveness in response. In my experience, discussions like these were usually quite rare, regardless of the religious beliefs of the respective participants.
“So how do you explain the illegal gun purchase?” Mike asked. “You can’t tell me that has anything to do with ‘the Amish way.’”
Surprised, I admitted I didn’t know what he was talking about. In response, Mike explained that several months ago, before Jonah and Troy had their falling out, the two men were involved in some sort of shady gun deal.
“Or rather, Troy bought a rifle, but he bought it for Jonah, at Jonah’s request.”
“How is that shady?” I asked, frowning.
Mike took a sip of his coffee before replying, taking his time with his answer. Then he said, “I can’t give more details than that. Just believe me when I tell you that the two men were involved in the illegal purchase and transfer of a firearm.”
Why Jonah might have wanted a firearm was beyond me, but that seemed beside the point. In my heart I knew, without a doubt, that Jonah could not have killed Troy.
“I’ll have to ask Liesl about it,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.”
Thinking of Liesl, I realized that she must be beside herself right now. Her husband had been taken away and was being questioned as a potential murder suspect. Glancing at my watch, I wondered if I would have time to go over there and give her some comfort before my appointment with the FBI.
“Anyway,” Mike said, obviously noticing my check on the time, “I need to get going. I just wanted to tell you about Jonah and also show you something. You want to walk me to my car? I’ll explain on the way.”
“It’s pouring rain.”
“Looks to me like it’s stopped.”
To his credit, Heath caught on immediately that Mike wanted to talk to me alone, and he didn’t make a fuss. Instead, he stood when we did
and excused himself, saying he had some calls he needed to make. Mike and I headed outside, where the rain had indeed stopped, though moisture still hung heavily in the air.
“I found something you’ll be very interested in,” Mike said as we walked across the spot where he and I had come perilously close to doing something we both would have regretted. “Found it late last night, and I couldn’t wait to show you.”
Mike was carrying a black vinyl case, and when we reached the car, he set it inside, on the seat, and pulled from it a heavy book. Standing there in the otherwise empty parking area, I waited as he flipped through the pages, maintaining a respectable distance as I did so, just in case Heath was watching from the window. He wasn’t usually the jealous type, but in this situation his radar seemed to be on full alert. I wouldn’t be surprised to know that he was keeping a close eye on us this very moment.
“Here it is,” Mike said, holding out the book to me. “Told you I had seen it before.”
Taking it from him, I looked down at the page and gasped. In vivid black and white was a photo of the German Gate—or at least of an identical version, though this one wasn’t in a grove.
“What is this?” I whispered.
“Buchenwald,” he replied. “That gate is at the entrance to Buchenwald concentration camp.”
Stunned, I flipped several pages backward and forward, as the shocking, horrific images seared into my brain: emaciated prisoners, rotting bodies, mountains of confiscated possessions.
Buchenwald.
It made so much sense. The poems on the markers on that section were from Daphne, all dealing with her ordeal in the Holocaust. It stood to reason that my grandfather would have framed that entire part of the grove within its proper context.
“The word ‘Buchenwald’ actually means ‘beech wood forest,’” Mike said. “Apparently, before the camp was built, that region was supposed to have been quite beautiful, a forest filled with beech trees.”
He went on to explain a bit more about the camp, how its primary purpose had been to kill its prisoners through work, torture, starvation, or illness from lack of hygiene.
“After liberation, when Eisenhower saw for himself the conditions in the camps, he said that if America’s soldiers hadn’t known before what they were fighting for, at least now they knew what they were fighting against.”
“Wow.”
Flipping more slowly through the pages, I thought again of that section of the grove.
“So this explains the beech trees behind the gate in the grove, the ones that are so perfectly aligned, just like soldiers standing in a row. That must be exactly how he intended them to appear.”
“No, actually, I think it’s probably the opposite of that. I have a feeling your grandfather used those trees to represent the prisoners themselves. They were required to stand at attention for roll call every day, sometimes for hours on end, in the snow or rain or cold without food or water or shoes or proper clothing. Anyone who fell down or passed out was shot.”
Overcome with emotion, I looked down at the book and tried to blink away my tears.
How could humans have done such horrible things to other humans? I couldn’t understand it.
We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of Floyd’s car, which was probably a good thing. I needed to get ready to go downtown, not stand here and dwell on man’s inhumanity to man. I would have to save that for later.
Floyd parked, said some quick, embarrassed hellos, and headed inside, and I told Mike I needed to get back in there as well so I could get ready for the meeting. He offered to let me borrow the book for a while, which I appreciated.
“See you later,” he said, sliding into his car as I tucked the book under my arm and headed up the walk.
THIRTY-NINE
While I was getting ready to go, Liz called to say she was on her way but she needed to meet me at our appointment downtown rather than here at the inn. She asked if Heath would mind riding along with me and retrieving Mrs. Prickles, saying that it was just a little too chilly today to leave her precious baby in the car.
Heath didn’t seem to mind at all, and in a way I was just as glad he wouldn’t be in the meeting. I had no idea what was going to happen in there, but I sure didn’t feel like a repeat of last night’s humiliation.
I wasn’t overly familiar with the city of Lancaster, so we gave ourselves a little extra time to get there. As it turned out, the building itself wasn’t that hard to find, but we had to circle the block twice before securing a parking spot. After he turned off the car, Heath said he would text our location to Liz and they could do the doggie drop-off without me if I felt I needed to go on inside. The meeting was supposed to start in ten minutes, so I thanked him for helping, gave him a quick kiss, and told him I would see him later unless, of course, the feds decided to ship me off to Guantánamo Bay.
“I’ll be praying for you the whole time,” he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Sienna. You don’t need to worry. Just be honest with them—and remember to do whatever Liz tells you to.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving him a hug and getting out of the car.
Inside, the building was set up like a doctor’s office, including a waiting room complete with magazines. Instead of a receptionist, however, there was a sign on the wall, posted between the inner door and a doorbell, that said Please press the button and then have a seat. We will be with you shortly. According to my watch, I was still a few minutes early, so I decided to have a seat without buzzing and hoped that Liz would arrive before it was time.
I just wished I weren’t so nervous! Sitting there alone on a cold vinyl chair, I couldn’t help but wonder if a camera was pointed at me, and if somewhere in the bowels of the building federal agents were watching me.
Nonchalantly scanning the room for hidden lenses, I told myself to calm down and get a grip. After all, I was the one who had asked for this meeting, not them.
Four more minutes to wait for Liz.
Clasping my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling, I knew I should pray, but at the moment that was the last thing I felt like doing. Wasn’t it just this morning that I had been wishing my boyfriend would have his way with me? It would take a lot of nerve to thumb my nose in God’s face and then turn around and beg for his help in another matter just a few hours later.
No, for the moment I was going into this on my own strength and feeling pretty frightened and vulnerable. In light of my sin, the whole idea of God and his comfort seemed to be evaporating around me like mist in the grove. Despite what I had said earlier to Mike and Heath about the unmerited nature of God’s grace, I was still finding it hard to believe that he was very happy with me today, or that he felt like granting me any special protection right now.
This wasn’t just about my losing control with Heath. It was about the past week, the past month, maybe even the past year or two. What had God become to me? An obligation? A random thought? A candy machine dispenser?
Somewhere long ago in my past, God had been as real to me as if I were standing in his presence. He was holy and magnificent and revered, the Creator of the universe. These days, however, God seemed more like an idea than a Supreme Being, more like a lifestyle than the Alpha and Omega, the Maker of heaven and earth. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. Perhaps, as Liesl liked to say, I had gotten myself on a “slippery slope,” one of just enough affluence and compromise that I hadn’t even realized it was happening.
The only thing I knew for sure in this moment was that I was tired of living in a strange netherworld, in this in-between place of foggy faith. Maybe it was time for me to examine my commitment to God, and get on with the rest of my life, either fully in or fully out. All I knew was that sitting on this particular fence was turning me into someone I didn’t like very much, a hypocrite and an empty theology spouter.
Liz breezed into the room just in the nick of time, interrupting my melancholy thoughts. She looked
stunning, as usual, her black hair pulled into a French twist, her elegant yet professional outfit straight off of a mannequin at Nordstrom’s. After receiving a brief hug and a quick, instructional pep talk, I hit the buzzer, ready to roll. Somehow, just having her here beside me, the united front of Beauty and Cutie together again, was incredibly comforting.
As it turned out, our big meeting with the FBI was nothing to have worried about. I had been expecting an interrogation of sorts, probably by the same two men who had eyed me so strangely yesterday at Burl’s place. Though I saw one of them in the hallway as we were being led to our meeting room, the person who ended up talking to us was an older man, a silver-haired fellow who treated me not as a suspect of some sort but rather as a source of helpful information. At first he was so nice I was afraid it was a trick. When he paused to go get Mike and bring him in on the discussion, I was doubly worried. But the mood remained cordial throughout, and it was clear from Mike’s demeanor that he harbored no suspicions toward me of his own.
Liz was wonderfully impressive, listening intently to every word, speaking when necessary, advising and clarifying as needed. All in all, by the time we were finished, I felt like doing a couple of cartwheels. When the man told me that the U.S. attorney general’s office was no longer considering me a person of interest in their particular investigation, I felt sure my sigh of relief could be heard all the way to Jon and Ric’s office in Philadelphia. Of course, this did nothing to solve the problem of Cap and his ilk showing up in search of the treasure. If that happened, I didn’t know what we would do. At the very least, I knew we had to find those diamonds before anyone else did.
Then another person joined us, a thick-waisted woman in a frumpy brown suit and sensible shoes. She introduced herself as the liaison between the various organizations involved in the investigation, and after speaking with her for a few minutes, I understood why. She was obviously quite intelligent and fully informed. Best of all, she actually seemed to listen and hear what was said to her.
Secrets of Harmony Grove Page 30
