A Perfect Square (21 page)

Driving back to Shipshe, Callie and Deborah both tried to find something positive gained from their trip. “We were able to spend time together,” Callie pointed out.

“
Ya
. Why don’t you follow me to the house for dinner? Maybe we can think our way around this.”

“No. I really feel I should go see Ira. Deborah, I want to know more about the Palm Sunday Tornadoes. I did some research on the Internet, but I would like a more detailed, more personal account. Do you know of anyone who could help me?”

“You’re a bit determined about this.”

“If anything it could ease Ira’s mind …” But Callie was remembering the confidence in Ira’s voice when he’d said he knew his daughter was still alive. How could he know that? He couldn’t. Not after all these years.

“There’s a display at the visitors’ center that gives quite a bit of information.”

“Yes, I remember you told me that before.”

“And then there’s the president of the historical society.”

“Shipshe has a historical society?”

Deborah turned to hand Joshua a soft toy to play with, then reached into her purse and pulled out a receipt and a pen. She scribbled a name on the back of the receipt. “I don’t know her phone number.”

“I’ll find it. Thank you so much.”

“Remember, right now we need to stay focused on Reuben.”

“I understand, but I don’t know what else we can do. We seem to have hit a dead end.”

“
Gotte
will give us direction, Callie. He always does.” Deborah
pulled Callie into a hug before climbing into her buggy with Joshua.

Then they drove off in different directions, the afternoon sun and the fall wind sending a shower of leaves down between them.

“A
DALYN’S HERE TO SEE YOU.”
Gavin’s voice was quiet, revealing nothing. There’d been a type of truce between him and Reuben for the last few days, since Reuben had agreed to see Tobias. Since Tobias had stormed out of the jail.

Reuben glanced up from his bunk in surprise.

He hadn’t been expecting to see Adalyn Landt again so soon.

What more was there to say about the upcoming hearing?

Why had she come?

Maybe Samuel had returned.

But the boy had run — for whatever reason, he had fled. No, he wouldn’t be returning to Shipshewana unless he, too, had metal cuffs around his wrists. And how would he survive such a thing? Some days Reuben didn’t think he could endure it another moment himself.

As Reuben allowed Gavin to place the handcuffs around his wrists, waited for the door of his cell roll open, and walked down the hall, he thought of how quickly one’s routine could change. He should be in the field today. He could feel it in his bones. But something told him he wouldn’t be sifting earth between his fingers for some time, and it wasn’t a lack of faith.

It was a deep sorrow building in his soul.

Then he saw the sheet of paper — the photograph — Adalyn placed on the table. Pulled from her black leather bag — her Louis Vuitton bag. He saw it and understood why she’d come. Shane Black was putting all the pieces together, and soon even Reuben’s silence wouldn’t be able to hide the facts.

“It’s an
Englisch
phone,
ya.
What about it?”

“We go before the judge in six days. By then Black will know every call that has been made to or from this phone. And he’ll know where the person was standing when the calls were made.”

“Black found it?”

“Actually Callie found it — in your coat pocket. Any idea how it wound up there?”

He tried to think back to the evening Samuel had come to him. It was a jumble of images and words, promises given long ago, and decisions made in haste. Reuben was accustomed to resolving things in his life deliberately, often over a period of days if not weeks.

That day, there’d been cause to move quickly.

“Not sure,” he admitted.

“You’re not sure.”

“You heard me.”

“That’s not going to work on the witness stand.”

“Thought you said I wouldn’t have to testify.”

“True. The state can’t compel you to testify against yourself. But we had discussed that it might help your case if you did give your version of what happened that night.”

Reuben scratched his face, trying to remember. Had he picked up the phone? He didn’t remember doing that. He didn’t know why he would have under the circumstances. He rarely even used the phone shacks as most things he needed to say could wait until he saw the person he needed to talk to face-to-face, so why would he have grabbed this phone?

Shaking his head, Reuben glanced up at Adalyn — weariness
once again settling over him like a blanket. “Can’t recall picking it up, but I’m also not accustomed to anyone else putting their hands in my pockets. If that’s where it was found, then I must have put it there.”

To his surprise, Adalyn shrugged and put the sheet of paper back into her leather bag. He might have been seeing things, but it seemed she offered a hint of a smile. Soon Reuben’s own frown disappeared. He didn’t know quite what the joke was, but she was tickled about something.

Soon they were both grinning.

It was probably the first moment they’d shared without tension.

“You might be aware that the police can lift fingerprints off a cell phone. In fact, that technology has progressed in recent years. They can now tell if the person whose fingerprints they find is a smoker or not or if they have recently ingested drugs.”

Adalyn studied her hand, rubbing her right thumb against her index finger.

“All of those residues come through your dead cells and skin oils, and they land …” she pushed a finger against the tabletop, leaving a smudge, “… in your fingerprint. Rather remarkable, the advances in forensic science.”

Reuben grunted, not quite sure where she was going with her lecture.

Adalyn stood and pulled on her jacket. Only then did Reuben look up at the small window, notice the wind blowing the now bare tree branches outside. “Unfortunately this phone passed through a few hands before it landed on Shane’s desk, so it’s not likely to reveal much. Too many fingerprints make deciphering difficult.”

She walked to the door, tapped on it. “They also can’t see inside a man’s head — yet.”

Gavin opened the door and Adalyn turned to leave, but before
she did, she stopped and faced Reuben again, drilling him with her steel-blue eyes. “The girl from Cedar Bend? She came to Shipshewana, but lost her phone here before boarding a train to Chicago. Ran off with an older guy who’s in a rock band, and called home yesterday when she saw her face on the news. Seems you’re not a suspect in that case anymore.”

Then Adalyn left, leaving Reuben to stare at his own hands and think about fingerprints. What story would his tell if they could?

Callie walked into the hospital room and noticed at once how much smaller and older Ira looked in the bed with bandages wrapped around his head. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position and started talking.

“You didn’t bring Max? I told them I wanted you to bring Max!” He thumped his hand against the blanket. Callie was relieved to see some energy and color in his wrinkled face. She was also thankful to see his cane was on the other side of the room, out of reach.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” The nurse smiled and made a quick escape.

“What are you doing here, Ira? Erin Troyer told me something about a horse and you being kicked.”

“
Ya
. That horse is stubborn, and I should have never turned my back on it. I’m an old fool.” Doubt clouded his features like a storm passing in front of the sun. “Sharon will understand though. Is my wife on her way? I imagine Caleb went to fetch her. I thought they might be here by now.”

His hand plucked at the covers, and he looked around the room as if he could find a clue as to where he was, who he was, and what had happened to his world. Unsure what else to do, Callie pulled the single extra chair closer to his bed, reached out,
and placed her hand over his. When she did, he stared down at it a moment, his lips trembling.

Then his eyes closed and he seemed to relax.

They remained that way for the space of a few heartbeats. Until a Carolina chickadee landed on the windowsill and started raising a ruckus. Callie didn’t know many bird names, but she knew that one — the little guy with a black-and-white-striped face had been a constant visitor on her apartment patio in Houston as well.

“That would be the reason I was kicked to begin with,” Ira confessed, without opening his eyes. “Turned to look and see what kind of bird was making so much noise. Turned and didn’t keep my eye on that brute of a horse. He’d been a bit ornery all morning, and he kicked me right in the keister.”

Ira’s hand went to the bandage on his head. “Horse hurt my hip. Ground hurt my head. Landed in the dirt as if I were a sack of potatoes someone had thrown out in the lot for the pigs.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Callie patted the top of his hand with hers, then pulled away, sitting back in the chair. “Well, I’m glad it’s your keister he kicked and not your head. While you seem stubborn, I’m not sure how well you’d take that.”

“Worried about me, were you?”

“Of course, Ira.”

“Are you any closer to finding my girl?”

“I was planning to stop by the exhibit at the visitors’ center after I leave here. See what information they have.” Callie tugged at the hair that now curled well past her collar, thinking of Deborah’s words of caution. “But Ira, I don’t want to raise your hopes. It’s not likely that Bethany even survived the tornados, and if she did—”

“She did. I know in my heart she did, and don’t start asking me again how I know or why it is that I know now. Maybe it’s a gift the Lord has given me here in my last days.”

“Maybe so.” Callie paused, then plunged on. “That doesn’t mean he’s given me the gift of second sight though. I’m not sure exactly how to find someone who has been missing for so long. Someone who probably wouldn’t know they’re missing.”

“You found that editor’s murderer.”

“He was right here in town, and he was still looking for something.”

“Well maybe my
dochder
is looking for me, in her heart. Maybe she is but she doesn’t know it yet.”

Callie nodded, because she knew that she should. She nodded and forced herself to wait, but she really wanted to go see what was at the visitors’ center and speak to the president of the historical society.

After a few more minutes had passed, Ira began to nod off. Callie stood and tiptoed to the door. She was pulling it open when Ira called out from the bed.

“Don’t forget, when you find her, tell her how much I love her and that I’ve missed her every day.”

“If I find her, you can tell her.” Callie stepped out into the hall and collided with Caleb Bontrager.

“If you find who?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk into you.” Callie looked down at the linoleum floor, then across the hall, and finally at the roundish man standing in front of her. He bore a strong resemblance to Ira, though he had a full head of dark hair and, of course, a dark beard.

“No harm done. Nice of you to stop in and see my dat.”

“Yes. Well, I was relieved to see he’s recovering nicely.” Callie pasted on her best smile. “You have a nice evening, Mr. Bontrager.”

She thought she’d made a clean escape, was a good two doors down the hall, when he called out.

“You won’t find her. I don’t even know that she exists. I have no memory of my
mamm
mentioning a girl.”

Callie stopped and turned toward him, but didn’t walk back down the hall.

“He talks about all manners of things when his mind clouds. Moves from today to years past. It’s hard to follow, hard to know how best to answer.”

Callie nodded, met Caleb’s gaze and held it for a moment, then continued out of the building, out into the waning afternoon light.

A stop at the visitors’ center turned up facts and a lot of information. But Callie also hit a dead end of sorts there.

Miss Morton, the president of the Shipshewana Historical Society, had been working the afternoon shift behind the counter and had been happy to help her. Callie had the sneaking suspicion someone had told Miss Morton that Callie was on her way over — Shipshe was a small town. Callie had to keep reminding herself of that. She wasn’t in Houston anymore.

“No Amish people from Shipshewana lost their lives in the storms, though one Amish man was killed in the cleanup operation,” Miss Morton told Callie.

“Are you sure?” Callie peered down at the historical account that Miss Morton had pulled out and set on the counter.

“Positive. I don’t need to look at this book to tell you that. I’ve been president of the Historical Society long enough to know the history of the biggest catastrophe to ever strike this town.” Miss Morton paused, tapped the book once with a sensibly manicured nail, no polish. “Now what is it you’re looking for, exactly? Don’t tell me that you’ve lived here six months and suddenly had a burning desire to know about the Palm Sunday twisters.”

Callie thought of making up an excuse. She understood how crazy her quest would sound — as if she were searching for a letter that had been left out in the rain for years on end. Worse, she knew that if she spilled Ira’s story, she risked losing more than Miss Morton as a good source of information; she risked losing
what little respect she might have from someone she had already decided she’d truly like to learn more from. There was more than one story here, more than Ira’s story. Now that she’d spent time in the center, she understood that Shipshewana’s entire history was contained within its well-designed walls.

And not all of it was in the displays. Some of it was in Miss Morton’s memories, in her knowledge of the town. So Callie took the risk and, instead of putting a bow on it, pulled in a deep breath and told the truth.

“It’s not
what
I’m looking for, it’s who.” Then she told Ira’s story, in a condensed version.

Miss Morton didn’t scoff at her, didn’t so much as blink.

When Callie had finished talking, Miss Morton pulled a slip of paper off her notepad and wrote down a name and number. “Call this man. Or go and see him. He teaches at Notre Dame, and he’s had a Tuesday evening class every semester for the last twenty years. If there’s anyone who can help you, it’s Professor Reimer.”

“But, well … Do you mean just show up?”

“You could wait until tomorrow, but didn’t you say Mr. Bontrager is in the hospital and upset?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you say he suffers from dementia?”

“He does.”

“Then I wouldn’t waste any time. If there is a girl to be found, and she’d be nearing her fifties by now, you want him to remember her — at least during his good moments. Yes, it sounds like a bit of an emergency.”

Callie stared at the small piece of paper covered in Miss Morton’s neat handwriting.

“The campus is in South Bend, forty-five miles west from here. I imagine you used to commute farther than that.”

Before heading to the campus, Callie stopped by her shop
and checked her phone messages. One was from Margie asking if Callie’d like to go see a movie. One was from Trent telling her he’d been visited by Shane — he sounded somewhat amused and not the least bit put out with her. The call made Callie realize that that would be Trent’s way — doing his job one minute, cordial and friendly the next. The last message was from Nancy Jarrell saying she had the go-ahead for the Chicago quilt exhibit if Callie and the quilters were still interested.

None of the calls seemed important enough to return immediately. Instead, Callie changed clothes and prepared Max for a ride in the car. She didn’t know if taking her Labrador to Notre Dame was an acceptable thing to do, but it felt like the right thing. Daddy had always raised her to think safety first. And as she’d told Shane Black during the last investigation, she had a handgun permit, but she hadn’t brought her firearm to Indiana. No, it seemed God had given her Max for any protection she might need when wandering around alone in the dark. She clipped his leash to his collar, straightened his scarf, and locked the door to the shop behind them.