Gathering Shadows (7 page)

He shrugged. “Different towns have different spirits, Wynter. Sanctuary is a wonderful town full of incredible people. We just—”

I grinned. “I know. Have secrets.”

Reuben laughed. “No matter how you say that, it doesn't sound right.”

“So the Fishers were Amish?”

He shook his head. “No, they've always been Mennonite. There are quite a few Mennonite families in Jamesport.”

“Can you tell me a little bit more about Elijah and his family?”

He rubbed his chin, which sported a day's worth of stubble. Normally, I liked a clean-shaven face, but for some reason, on Reuben, the unshaven look worked.

“Well, Elijah's father, Nathan, is a farmer. They have a beautiful farm not far from town. His mother, Anna, is a very sweet woman. They're leaders in the church.”

“Which church? I noticed two when we came into town.”

Reuben nodded. “That's right. Sanctuary Mennonite is the more conservative church. That's where the Fishers attend. The other church is Agape Fellowship. We have Mennonite roots, but it's much more liberal.”

“How liberal?”

Reuben grinned. “Not that liberal. We're nondenominational—similar to other mainstream churches, but we haven't completely shaken off our Mennonite roots. We still believe in simplicity, but only as a choice we make—not as a directive from the church.”

“How do the two churches get along?”

“Great. We support and respect each other. We have dinners
and activities together. Sanctuary Mennonite is just a place where our conservative residents feel more comfortable. Some of them were brought up in strict Old Order or Amish homes. Although they've moved beyond a lot of the restrictions, they aren't willing to discard all the traditions they were raised with.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I agree with many of the doctrines they endorse. I just don't choose to live as starkly as they do.”

“So the Fishers are very involved in the church?”

“Yes. Nathan is an elder.”

“And who is the pastor?”

Someone called out Reuben's name, and he waved to an elderly man sitting on a bench across the street. “Jacob Troyer is their pastor. And you met the pastor of Agape yesterday.”

I frowned at him.

“Jonathon Wiese.”

“Wow, he seems pretty young to hold a position like that.”

“He's a little older than he looks, but he's younger than some, I guess. He went through seminary, so he's fully qualified. He's a great pastor.”

“I think it's wonderful the two churches work together so well. Not sure that happens much in other towns.”

“We all work hard to keep the peace.”

“And then some woman from a television station waltzes in and turns everything upside down?”

“That's about it.” He chuckled. “Don't worry. We've weathered worse storms than you. You're only a minor squall.”

“Gee, thanks. No one ever called me that before.”

Reuben laughed. “I'll call the Fishers and see if they'd be willing to talk to you.”

“That would be great. I'd really like to meet them. Even if
they don't want to be on camera, I'd love to ask them a few questions.”

He shrugged. “We'll have to see. I wouldn't get your hopes up though.” His eyebrows suddenly shot up as he looked at something over my shoulder. “Good timing. There's Elijah. Would you like me to introduce you?”

I tried to stay calm, but turning around and seeing Elijah walk toward us startled me. I tried to say yes, but somehow I choked on the word. All I could do was nod.

Reuben looked at me with concern. “Are you all right? Maybe this isn't a good time.”

I waved my hand at him. “No, I'm fine.” My voice came out in a whisper. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Really, I'm okay. Just a tickle in my throat.”

“Okay.” He still looked a little alarmed, but he called out Elijah's name.

I don't know what I expected. That somehow we'd look at each other, and I'd instantly know the truth. But it didn't happen that way. As Reuben introduced the young man, I studied him closely. The resemblance to Ryan was startling—but there were differences. Elijah's hair was darker. Almost black. Ryan's had been light-brown. Of course, aging could explain that. My father's hair darkened as he grew older. Elijah's jaw was stronger. Not unusual for a boy on the verge of becoming a man.

“Elijah, this is Wynter Evans. She works at a television station in St. Louis.”

“Yes, I heard you were here.”

The young man's voice didn't ring any bells. Of course, I hadn't heard my brother speak in nine years, and I couldn't remember what he sounded like. Besides, his voice would have deepened by now.

“I'm glad to meet you, Elijah.” I searched his face for any sign of recognition. I'd changed since my teenage years, but probably not so much my brother couldn't make the connection. There was nothing abnormal in Elijah's reaction. Yet somehow I felt . . . something.

“Wynter is doing a story about Sanctuary,” Reuben said. “She wondered if she might be able to interview you for it. Off camera. She wants to know more about your conservative lifestyle. Would you be willing to do that?”

Elijah was silent for a moment but finally shrugged. “I don't know. I'll have to check with my parents.”

“Thank you, Elijah,” I said. “Reuben says you've lived in Sanctuary about seven or eight years?”

He nodded. “Before that, we lived in Jamesport. My father inherited some farmland outside of town from one of his brothers, so we moved here.”

I cleared my throat, partially because it still felt odd after my choking experience but also because I was nervous. “And how long did you live in Jamesport, Elijah?”

“I was born there.”

If what he said was true, he couldn't be my brother. When he spoke, I noticed his pupils dilated slightly, and he looked away. I'd read a book once about how to tell if someone was lying. I figured it might come in handy during interviews. Reporters were frequently pulled into fantastic tales by people who just wanted to be on TV. Being able to differentiate between those who were dishonest and those who told the truth was critical. If I believed the signs I'd learned from that book, Elijah Fisher had just lied to me.

“Why don't you talk to your parents and let Wynter know about the interview?” Reuben said. “If they have any questions,
tell them to talk to me. I can assure them you won't be filmed.” He looked over at me. “You don't have to use his name either, do you?”

“No. Not if his parents are uncomfortable about it.”

Reuben swung his gaze back to Elijah. “How does that sound?”

“It sounds all right to me, but like I said, my parents will have to make the final decision. I'll talk to them and let you know.” He nodded at me. “It was very nice to meet you, Miss Evans.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Elijah. I hope to talk to you soon.”

I watched as he walked away. The entire time we talked, he'd seemed nervous and distracted. I hadn't spent much time around teenage boys. Maybe I was reading too much into his mannerisms.

Or maybe Elijah Fisher had recognized me.

By the time I got back to Esther's, Zac had caught up on my brother's case. He ushered me into his room and shut the door.

“I don't think we should do this very often,” I said, once the door was closed. “I don't want Esther to think something's going on.”

Zac snorted. “You're not really my type.”

“Thanks. But not the point.”

“I get it.”

“I met some people in town. Got permission to do a couple of interviews. Have some ideas about what we can film. It's still not enough. Reuben's going to set up some other interviews for us. Hopefully, we can start filming soon.”

“Sounds good,” Zac said. He sounded distracted, and it worried me. Although my priority for being here was to find my brother, we still needed to work on the story. Ed wasn't going to be happy to find I'd ignored his directive to avoid this town. Our only way around incurring his wrath was to do an exceptional job on the Sanctuary piece. All I could do was hope it would be enough to save our jobs.

Zac went over to his laptop, which he'd put on the bed. He'd pulled a stool up next to it to create a makeshift workspace. “I've found a lot of information, but I wish we could talk to someone official. It would really help.”

I pushed away my concerns about our story and switched my focus to what Zac was saying. “I have a contact in the St. Louis police department, but I hesitate to call him. We use him for news stories. If I get in touch with him, he might tell someone at the station.”

“It's possible he couldn't help us much anyway. The case is pretty cold.”

“I know. Besides, I've spent the last few years doing all the research I can. I even talked to one of the detectives that worked on Ryan's case. I don't think speaking to someone who had nothing to do with the original investigation would uncover anything I don't already know.” I sighed. “It would help if Harland Burroughs, the serial killer suspected of taking Ryan, hadn't been killed in prison.”

“Did he ever admit to kidnapping your brother?”

“No. According to the detective, Burroughs talked in length about the boys whose bodies were found. Like he was proud of what he'd done. But anytime he was asked about Ryan, he clammed up. Wouldn't say anything. The authorities were so intent on finding my brother, they decided to offer Burroughs a deal. Life in prison instead of the death penalty. Not something they wanted to do. But in an effort to find Ryan, they were willing to try anything. Unfortunately, Burroughs was murdered by an inmate before they had the chance.”

“Why was he killed?”

I shrugged. “I guess even criminals have a code of honor. Child killers and abusers are targeted in prisons. The police
suspect a guard purposely left him vulnerable, but it was never proven.”

“Well, even without talking to the police or Burroughs, it didn't take long for me to notice something odd about your brother's case.”

I peered over his shoulder and looked at the information he'd pulled up on his computer. “There are a lot of strange things about his abduction.”

Zac stared up at me, his hazel eyes full of concern. “Harland Burroughs killed eleven boys. Every single body was discovered. He didn't try to hide them. As you said, he was proud of himself. So why wasn't Ryan found? It doesn't make sense.” He pulled up a different screen. “Here is Burroughs's kill zone. You know that killers have an area of comfort. All the other boys were taken from this ten-mile radius. But Ryan was way out of this zone.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “Also, Ryan had brown hair. Every other boy was blond. Ryan was seven. All the other boys were between twelve and fifteen. No matter how you look at it, Ryan doesn't fit Burroughs's profile.”

“These are the same things I found, and the inconsistencies bothered me too.”

“Did anyone else bring this up with the police at the time?”

“I asked the detective that question. They were convinced the similarities outweighed the differences.”

“What about your parents? Did they have problems with the way things were handled?”

“I have no idea. I was just a kid when Ryan went missing. My parents tried to shield me from the details. I didn't even know about Burroughs until I saw something on TV. My father and I didn't talk about what happened until I was almost twenty.”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much. Just the basics. I asked him if Ryan might still be alive, but he didn't believe it. He said Ryan would have tried to contact us.”

Zac was quiet as he considered this. “Did Ryan know his address and phone number?”

I shrugged. “I honestly don't know. Our home wasn't normal before he was taken. I get the impression most kids would be taught to memorize that kind of information, but I don't remember anyone sitting us down and teaching us much of anything.”

Zac frowned. “What do you mean?”

I sat down in the chair across from the bed. “My father started drinking a couple of years before Ryan disappeared. Most of my mother's attention went to him. My brother and I got what was left over. After Ryan went missing, my father stopped drinking . . . for a while. I think he was trying to be strong for my mother. Then he started up again and eventually left. My mother lost her son and her husband in the span of a few years. No one should have to go through that.”

“Maybe Ryan wanted to contact you but didn't know how.”

“All he had to do was ask someone for help. His story was all over the media.”

Zac sighed. “Burroughs was a hot topic. The media highlighted all the boys he abducted, not just Ryan. I think your brother was lumped together with the other cases. There aren't many stories just about Ryan. I hate to say it, but the enormity of Burroughs's crimes may have helped to cover up your brother's case.”

“I hadn't thought about it like that,” I said slowly, “but I see what you mean. Maybe someone saw him, but no one really remembered one boy's face from the long list of pictures in the
paper.” I thought a moment. “But that doesn't explain why Ryan didn't tell someone he needed help.”

“What about Elizabeth Smart? She was fourteen. Twice Ryan's age. She didn't try to get away, and by all accounts she came from a very happy family. Then there's Jaycee Dugard and Shawn Hornbeck.”

“You're talking about Stockholm syndrome,” I said. I took a deep breath. “All of those children were—”

Zac held up his hand. “I know that, Wynter. But not all cases of Stockholm syndrome include physical or sexual abuse. Emotional manipulation makes kids easy targets. And with problems at home—”

“Ryan would have been a perfect candidate for a kidnapper.”

“Almost makes you wonder if the kidnapper knew that.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “He just happened to pick a vulnerable kid. Who knows? Ryan might not have been his first attempt that day.”

Zac nodded. “Any reports of other children being approached?”

I shrugged. “Not that I know of. No one ever mentioned it to me.”

“So, if Ryan's alive, and he was kidnapped, how in the world could he end up in a Mennonite town with a family that loves him?”

“I have no idea. Before they came here they lived in Jamesport.”

“The Amish town? So they were Amish?”

“No. According to Reuben, they were always Mennonite. Jamesport has Amish and Mennonite families.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd guess most kidnappers aren't Amish or Mennonite. Kind of hard to make a getaway
in a horse and buggy.” Zac stared at his computer screen for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. We're missing something important here. What better place to hide out than in an Amish or Mennonite town? Limited media access. Not much connection to the outside world.” He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “It makes a strange kind of sense, doesn't it?”

I frowned back at him. “Yes. But I just can't see conservative Mennonite people kidnapping a young boy. Doesn't fit with their religion.”

He snorted. “Religion. A lot of evil things have been done in the name of religion.”

I exhaled sharply. “And a lot of good has been done as well.”

He shook his head. “Let's stay focused.” He closed his eyes for a moment, obviously thinking. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. “What if the person who took Ryan wasn't Mennonite? What if he gave him or sold him to a Mennonite family?”

This time I couldn't hold back a laugh. “You mean like the Amish Mafia?”

“No, Wynter. I'm not joking. What if the family didn't know he was abducted? What if they thought they were just giving him a home? The kidnapper could tell them the boy was an orphan. Maybe even set it up like an adoption.”

I stood up and walked over to the window. As I stared out at the town of Sanctuary, I tried to make sense of his question. “Why in the world would someone kidnap a child and set up a phony adoption with a Mennonite family? I don't think most Mennonite people would have large sums of money. Couldn't have been very profitable.”

“I know the premise is a little confusing. But you have to admit that hiding someone in a town like Sanctuary would be a great way to keep a kidnapped kid from the prying eyes of the world.”

“I . . . I guess it would, but I still think someone trying to profit from stealing a child would approach a family with lots of money. Not a simple Mennonite family.”

Zac started to say something else, but I turned and raised my hand to stop him.

“It's almost three o'clock, and I promised Esther we'd talk.” I walked over and patted him on the back. “Look, I appreciate everything you're doing. A lot of what you say is logical. Especially about Burroughs. Frankly, I'm beginning to think you picked the wrong side of the news. You could be a great investigative reporter.”

He smiled, but I could see the intensity in his eyes. “Maybe the money side of the adoption scenario doesn't make sense, but the rest of it does. It's possible there's something else behind this besides money.”

“Thank you, Zac. I feel . . . I don't know . . . better, I guess, having someone else to talk to. Someone who doesn't treat me like I'm crazy for thinking my brother might still be alive.” I was shocked to feel tears form in my eyes. I quickly turned away, but I wasn't fast enough.

“I don't think you're crazy,” he said gently. “If he's out there, we'll find him, Wynter.”

I nodded and left the room. Being vulnerable made me uncomfortable, but at the same time, I felt a huge sense of relief. As if the weight I'd carried around for so many years had lightened a bit because someone else was helping me carry it. Zac's comments rolled around in my head. There certainly were secrets in Sanctuary. Could my brother be one of them?

I found Esther in the kitchen, taking cookies out of the oven.

“Wow, those smell great.”

She smiled. “These are sugar drop cookies. My mother used
to make them. I think you'll enjoy them.” She put the cookie sheet down on top of the stove. “How about some coffee?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“You go sit in the living room. I'll bring our cookies and coffee out there.”

I headed toward her large living room. It was a room that had been lived in. Whispers from the past created pictures in my head of children running across the floor, calling out to each other. The carved oak furniture was old and beautiful, but small scratches and scuff marks from little shoes proved it was a room where life had been lived with enthusiasm. The sheer curtains covering Esther's windows moved gently in a light breeze like ghosts from the past dancing on wisps of memories.

I thought about my childhood home. Before my father started drinking, Ryan and I had been joyful, rambunctious. I could still hear my mother yelling at us to settle down and quit running in the house, but there wasn't anger in her voice. Just the sound of a family sharing one another's lives. Then little by little darkness began to push out the light. Our house grew quiet, and all of us became captive to my father's mood swings. Mom's attempts to oblige him made her grow old right in front of our eyes.

Then one day everything was gone. First my brother. Then my father. And finally, my mother. She was alive, but only in shadows. After my father sold our home, Mother and I moved to a small tract house. No running. No laughter. Everything kept clean and in order as if a perfect environment could mend our broken hearts.

It didn't.

Smelling moisture in the air, I went to the front door to look outside. Sure enough, dark clouds slowly rolled toward us, full of the promise of rain. As if confirming an incoming storm, a
gust of wind picked up gravel and whisked it down the road in front of Esther's house.

Standing on the porch, looking out across the small town, I felt a sense of peace. As if the problems of the world waited somewhere outside the boundaries of Sanctuary. I remembered one of my favorite Scriptures as a child
: He
will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings
you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield
and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night
, nor the arrow that flies by day.
That's just how it felt, as if God himself had created this place of safety. I stood there for a few minutes, allowing the tranquility to surround me. Although Zac's comments confused me, there was something about standing on that porch that soothed my jumbled emotions.