Forsaken (4 page)

Roc didn't have time for this. A normal traffic jam would be bad enough, and he'd sat through his share in New Orleans, but one with horses and buggies was just plain bizarre—like he'd suddenly been transported to some long forgotten time and place.

He slammed a hand against the steering wheel of his black Mustang but it did nothing to ease the tension knotting his shoulders or his impatience, the fuse of which was firing down to its natural conclusion. What was it with the buggy? Couldn't it pick up the pace? Or at least move over? Get out of his way?

He swerved into the oncoming lane, ready to gas it, but realized he was fourth in line to three other horse and buggies. And coming toward him was another.
What is it with these people? Wake up and smell the gas fumes and smog of the twenty-first century!

He'd hit Philadelphia late yesterday, checked in with Mike, slept on his couch a couple of hours, and was now headed for the hometown of the missing Amish teen. Now here he was in Intercourse, PA, at the crack of dawn, which he figured wasn't a bad time for intercourse. Was there ever a
bad
time for that particular recreation? Not if he'd had time or the inclination or a warm and willing lady. Still, maybe he'd check the map later to see if just past Promise, PA, there was Foreplay.

Ahead, one of the buggies turned down a gravel drive. Followed by another. Was this some kind of a parade? If so it didn't compare to Mardi Gras. No green and purple beads. No bared breasts. No booze. Did these folks know how to party? Maybe they were going to a funeral.

The thought slammed into him.
A funeral
. Or prayer meeting. Any kind of gathering meant tongues would be wagging. If a missing teen caused news in these parts, then these folks would be talking. And he should be there.

He leaned forward over the steering wheel, peered out the windshield at the somber black and gray buggies inching along, and caught a glimpse of a driver—a sour-faced, somber-looking man. Roc had crashed events from funerals to wedding receptions in his time as a cop, managing to blend in with the mourners, but that might be more difficult considering the circumstances. His T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket weren't exactly Amish attire, not to mention his set of wheels.

During his time as a cop, he'd learned to trust his gut instinct, never knowing where it would lead, which was often down schizo bunny trails. But then again sometimes…those trails led to a clue or a motive or a suspect. Or even a monster. Could one be lurking in this seemingly innocent farming community?

The picture-postcard farmlands looked as peaceful as a Currier and Ives' Christmas card, minus the snow. Oh, man, he hoped there wouldn't be snow. But peace, Roc had learned, was a façade when you didn't know what lurked in the shadows. According to Mike, the Amish lived in their own little world, protected by their freedom of religion and their fear of all things current or containing an electric current, oblivious of the prowling danger.

But Roc knew. This monster left no obvious trail. No fingerprints. No footprints. Only the trail of blood. And the dead. He suspected this monster was on the move and that the trail led right into the heart of Amish country.

The black and gray buggy turned down a narrower road, this one with only one lane, which led toward a farmhouse. The plain two-story, with limestone rocks at the base of white clapboards, had a rambling construction as if the original structure had been added onto over the years. With its white paint, the house looked pristine yet functional. A laundry line ran from one side of the house to a white pole. Green shades covered each window, kept nosy outsiders like him from peeking inside.

Could something sinister be hidden behind those shades? He'd learned in the NOPD to take appearances at face value. Some of the wealthiest families had the worst problems; some of the most abusive husbands or fathers had the widest smiles; some of the most devout hid the worst sins. Could the Amish cover evil as easily as wood slats with white paint? A porch embraced the entire structure and gave the place a homey feel, but it resembled something dreamed up by Hollywood more than any reality he'd ever known. Suspicion rose up like a serpent inside him.

The buggies pulled into a row at a diagonal slant, all seeming to know where to go without the benefit of painted lines on the dry, winter grass. Roc parked next to the one in front of him and killed the engine. An older man with a gray, scraggly beard—not a normal beard, but one without a mustache—wearing a black coat and trousers waved to the drivers. With what seemed like a practiced hand, the man patted the horse standing next to Roc's car and eyed the slick machine as if it might bite.

Roc pulled his Glock out of the glove compartment and slid it into his shoulder holster, tugging his jacket over it. With one flick of his wrist, he opened the Mustang's door. A frigid gust of wind blasted him and tossed his hair, which whipped at his face. In self-defense, he slicked it back, fastening it at the base of his neck with a rubber band, which he kept on the dash.

He hadn't been in Pennsylvania long and already the cold had burrowed deep into his bones. November sure wasn't the same up north. He was convinced hell wasn't hot like the parish priests warned. Roc's own father had laughed at that and boasted, “If I can live through a New Orleans summer, I reckon I'll do okay in hell.” But Roc suspected God would punish Remy Girouard, so hell must be cold, cold as ice—maybe as cold as Intercourse, PA.

Several of the other men moved on past him, hollering greetings to one another in what sounded like German, giving him a passing glance. Mike had told him the Amish spoke Pennsylvania Dutch but that they could also speak English. Chin down, Roc peered over his shades at the Amish man and gave what he hoped would be considered a friendly gesture. The elderly gentleman nodded and waved at those he was familiar with but kept a steady eye on Roc, finally returning Roc's gesture and moving toward him. They sized each other up, like two Wild West gunmen not looking for a fight but not backing down either.

“Hello there. Can I be helping you?”

“Maybe.” Roc held out a hand. “Roc Girouard.”

“Ephraim Hershberger.” His handshake was solid—the man's hands knew hard work—but Roc could feel age settling into the enlarged knuckles.

“This your place?” Roc nodded toward the house and beyond that the matching white barn.

“My son-in-law's.” Hershberger's gaze veered toward the chrome bumper behind Roc.

He stepped aside, giving the older man full view of the Mustang. “You like?”

“Haven't seen anything like this. Doesn't much go with the line of buggies,
ja
?”

“Guess not. But the colors coordinate.”

A hint of a smile emerged, just a hint. “They do at that. What is an
Englisher
such as yourself doing out this way so early in the morning?”

Not exactly sure where to begin, Roc crossed his arms over his chest, but before he could answer a yellow lab trotted up to investigate. Ephraim put a hand out, which the dog nosed before sitting and staring at Roc with mild curiosity. “Nice dog.”

“Toby is awful good.” His words had a clipped yet melodic sound to them. “He is accustomed to strangers getting lost here. Is that what you are, Roc Girouard? Lost?”

“Wouldn't be much Promise in that. But then there's Intercourse.” Roc offered a friendly grin, hoping his little joke would break the ice, but it was met with a slow, perplexing blink. Roc coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thing is, I got caught in the tide.”

The man remained silent, watchful, wary.

Roc glanced around, searching for some common ground, something to extend the conversation. “How do you folks tell all these buggies apart? Or do you just swap them out?”

“We know our own, just as the good Lord knows his children.”

“Can't say I know about that.” Roc peered inside one of the buggies, which had a black side and gray top. The inside was a solid bench seat and a window open to the elements. The whole thing looked to be made out of wood. Roc could just imagine the buggy as a splintered mess if it ever got rammed by a car or truck. He bent down looking underneath the buggy and at all the wheels. “They look the same.”

“Similar,
ja
, but not twins, more like you and me. Men, the same, are we not? But they look different.”

Roc could see a lot more differences between Ephraim and himself than just their clothes. A long pause weighed between them, not too heavy but weighted nonetheless, as if the man was deciding what to do or say with the outsider standing in his yard, but Roc had learned to wait out silence. Folks, in their discomfort, always started talking, and that's when things got interesting. But maybe this man wasn't in a hurry either and had the patience of a croc.

“Some of the youngsters,” Ephraim admitted, finally breaking the silence, “sneak around and put radios in the back of their buggies.”

“Guess teenagers are the same in your world as well as mine.” Growing up a marginal Catholic, he was well versed in the Ten Commandments and such, but he didn't remember anything about radios or music being bad. “So radios are considered a sin?”

“Not a sin. But not allowed by the
Ordnung
.”

“Not allowed?”

But Ephraim offered no explanations.

Roc wasn't here for a treatise on Amish culture, even if his curiosity was piqued about why radios weren't allowed and yet teens had them. But he'd gotten way off track. This place had a lulling effect, the façade of security and safety. Still, Roc knew better. No place was safe.

“Amish and
English
teens make their parents hair turn gray.”

The older man glanced at Roc's dark brown hair. “You don't speak from experience.”

“No.”

Ephraim stroked his wiry, gray-streaked beard that came down to the middle of his chest. “Children are a blessing from the Lord.”

“Even those that go missing?”

Not a muscle in the old man's wrinkled face twitched, but his gaze shuttered like the windows on the farmhouse.

“A girl went missing hereabouts,” Roc prompted.

“Are you an
English
policeman? Or a reporter?”

“Neither. Just trying to find out what happened to her.”

Ephraim shrugged. “Young folks go off during
rumschpringe
. Sometimes further than their parents would like. And they usually come home after a time.”

“Rum…?” Roc attempted the unfamiliar word then waited for a translation.

“Before baptism, before they become members of the church, young folks are not held by the same rules.
Rumschpringe
is their running around years
.
So for the most part, teens in your world are the same as in mine.” Ephraim placed a hand on the buggy then his chest. “You and me,
English
and Amish, our buggies even, yours and mine, are the same.
Ja
?”

“More than we realize. Guess that's my problem then.” He winked and the man's eyes widened. “I'm still in my running around years. Explains a lot actually.” He looked toward the barn where a group of men were unloading long planks from a wagon and carrying them into the house. “The men here run around earlier in the morning than where I come from.”

Ephraim gave a tolerant smile. “It is our way.” His gaze followed Roc's to the group of men working together. “They are here to help a friend. Can I help you find your way then?”

“Find my way? Gotcha, see…” Roc rubbed his jaw and the bristles of not shaving for over a day scraped his hand. “I'm not really lost. I'll just check my GPS, thanks.”

“GPS?” The old man's forehead creased beneath the brim of his black felt hat.

“Sure. I'll show you.” He slid into the Mustang, cranked the engine, which made a horse nearby bob its head, but he motioned for the old man to peer in through the open window. “See.” He pointed to the screen's map. “Here we are. Right here.”

Someone hollered something incomprehensible, and Hershberger knocked his hat on the window's opening and juggled it in his hands, then placed it back on his head as he stepped away. Ephraim turned toward the Amish fellow walking his horse past them, the hooves clomping on the gravel with a metallic sound. The younger Amish man's gaze strayed toward the black Mustang that was as out of place there as drive-thru daiquiris would be.

Ephraim Hershberger raised a hand. “I will be along shortly.”

“I apologize for intruding on your”—Roc searched for a word—“gathering here. I'll be—”

The black clad shoulders squared. His jacket looked homemade. No lapels. But the old guy wore a plain, store-bought dress shirt. A smile creased his face. “It is my granddaughter's wedding this day.”

“Well, then, congratulations. So a party's brewing, eh?”

“
Ja
! It is a good day. Would be better if my Ruth was still with us.” He rubbed his jaw and shook his head, his tired eyes looking moist.

Roc knew that pain and looked away.

“I would invite you to stay but—”

“No, no.” Roc cleared his throat. He was focused on death when others were going about living. “I understand. Sorry I intruded. It's a bit on the cold side, but I reckon the happy couple can keep themselves warm.”

Ephraim rocked back on his heels and laughed. The contrast of the man's somber exterior and his robust sense of humor intrigued Roc. “I won't keep you as I'm sure you're busy with wedding stuff.”

Nodding, Ephraim waved and walked in the direction of the house, his shoulders stooped to combat the wind, the yellow dog following along beside him.

Roc ran his hands over the steering wheel, stared at the GPS screen, and contemplated his next move.

“How many horsepower?” A deep male voice intruded on Roc's thoughts. It was a young man with the same bowl-shaped cut and clean-shaven jaw as all the other younger Amish men he'd seen so far. This man's German heritage was obvious in his curious blue eyes, blond hair, square jaw, broad shoulders, and long limbs. Roc always appraised folks he met by whether he could take them down if the need arose, and he hoped the need wouldn't arise with this fellow because he looked as strapping and sturdy as…well, as a horse.