Shadows of Lancaster County (4 page)

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

“You may be right about that,” I said finally into the receiver. “More than you know.”

With the man’s gun still pointed toward me, I somehow managed to conclude my call, promising the distraught and confused Lydia that I’d
be in touch as soon as possible. As I disconnected, I wondered if I was cutting off the one chance I had to scream for help and be heard. Then again, how could she possibly help me from an Amish farm three thousand miles away?

“Who are you?” I asked as I put the phone in my pocket and tried not to sound as scared as I felt. “What have you done?”

Instinctively, I reached for Kiki’s wrist and felt for a pulse, which was faint but still there. Turning my attention to her face, I pushed back her hair to find the source of the bleeding. I expected to see a bullet wound, but instead it looked more like a gash, the result of being hit in the head by something hard and sharp edged, probably the butt of his gun.

“Your friend didn’t want to cooperate,” the man said. “Maybe you can learn by her example.”

He took a step closer, and as he did, I stood, anger and adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“What do you want?”

“I think you know what I want,” he replied, his eyes boring into me through the holes in the ski mask. “I’m here for the rubies. The whole set.”

“The
rubies
? What rubies?”

He took another step toward me, with something like excitement flashing in his eyes.

“The Beauharnais Rubies. I know you have them.”

He might as well have asked me for the Hope Diamond or the Crown Jewels. I had no rubies in my possession—and no idea what he was even talking about.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said earnestly, stepping backward and nearly tripping again over Kiki’s body. “I drive a car that’s held together by duct tape. I have less than a hundred dollars in my checking account. Do you really think I’d be living this way if I had something as valuable as rubies?”

“Who knows why anyone lives as they do?” he replied. “Get them. Now.”

“This is crazy,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re crazy. You have the wrong person, the wrong house.”

He spoke evenly, cocking his gun.

“Your name is Annalise Bailey Jensen, currently going by the name of Anna Bailey. You are the sister of Robert ‘Bobby’ Jensen, the daughter of Charles Jensen and a descendant of Peter and Jonas and Karl Jensen, among others. I’m in the right house, and you’re the right person. Now hand them over.” Whoever this guy was, he knew more about my family tree than I did. But what he was asking for was ridiculous. I had never owned any rubies—and doubted I ever would.

Looking around, I tried to decide what my chances would be if I made a run for it. He was tall and looked strong under the form-fitting black shirt—though the ski mask could become a bit of an impediment. Unfortunately, as he spoke his steps had closed much of the gap between us.

“I’ll ask you one more time, and then I’ll have to get serious,” he said, coming to a stop in front of me and resting the gun barrel against my temple. “Where…are…the…rubies?”

Our eyes met and held. At that moment, Kiki let out a small whimper, stirring on the ground between us.

That was enough to make him glance down for just a second. In a flash, I reached out and pulled the bottom of his mask downward, so that the eye holes were somewhere around his chin. Afraid he would start shooting blind, I turned around and dove low through the door and then rolled toward the stairs.

By the time I got to my feet and was halfway down the stairs, one explosive shot had rung out and he was just bursting through the bedroom doorway himself, mask on straight and eyes blazing.

I reached the bottom two and three steps at a time, hesitating only for a moment at the sight of the front door. That way was closer, with a greater chance of spotting someone outside who might help me. Still, I made the decision to run to the back door, pausing long enough to knock down chairs and a small table behind me as I went, in the hopes of slowing him down.

I was fast, but he was faster. By the time I was through the living room and the kitchen and had reached the back door, I could feel him grab for the back of my T-shirt, catch hold for a moment, and then lose
his grip. Shouting for help, I flung open the door, ran onto the porch and turned immediately to the right, jumping over the most rotten section of boards. Directly behind me, just as I hoped, the man made the mistake of stepping in exactly the wrong spot. With a resounding crash, one hard step broke through the porch floor and sent him falling into the crawl space below.

I had known that if my little plan worked, it would buy me some time to get away while he struggled back out of the depths. What I hadn’t counted on was that his gun would go flying as he fell, and that I would be able to recover it from where it landed on the sand.

It wasn’t until I was standing on the side of the porch, gun pointed down at the hole, that my hands began to shake. Soon my entire body was trembling so fiercely that I was afraid I might drop the gun.

“Freeze or I’ll shoot,” I yelled, meaning it.

“Help me,” the man cried in a wavering voice. “Please!”

I thought he was trying to trick me somehow, but when I leaned slightly forward to peer down at him, I saw why he was so upset. His right leg had been impaled on what looked like a jagged piece of rebar.

“Don’t move or you might bleed to death,” I told him, reaching for the cell phone in my pocket. “I’m not kidding.”

I managed to dial 911 and sound fairly coherent as I explained the situation, leaving out only the strange bit about the rubies. I ended by describing the intruder’s painful predicament and saying I was now in possession of the gun, and it didn’t look as though this guy, whoever he was, was going anywhere.

“Tell him not to move,” the operator said as she activated emergency services.

“She said don’t move,” I repeated, feeling guilty for the satisfaction in my words.

Once I was assured police and ambulances were on the way, I hung up the phone, bent forward at the waist, and put my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I wanted to run upstairs and check on Kiki, but I didn’t dare leave my prisoner here alone, impaled leg or not. I had seen too many scary movies to know that the moment the bad guy was down
and the heroine thought she was safe, that’s when he would spring back to life and nearly do her in.

“Anna? Hey, Anna!”

I turned to see one of our neighbors striding briskly across the sand, a retired old gentleman from two houses down whom everyone called “Colonel.” I’d always thought that was his nickname because he bore a striking resemblance to the face on the bucket of fried chicken, but at that moment I could only hope he had earned it in the military instead.

“What’s all the ruckus? Was that a gunshot I heard?”

I tried to tell him what happened, but as soon as I started explaining, I burst into tears. Somehow, through my hysterical babbling, he was able to put two and two together. Drawing himself up to his full height, clad in a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts with black socks and sandals, he took the gun from my trembling hand and assured me the cavalry was near and the situation was under control.

“Cover your ears,” he added. Then, to my surprise, he pointed the gun toward the sky and pulled the trigger.

Within seconds, several of his cronies came spilling off of his deck and heading our way across the sand.

“The Screaming Eagles of the Hundred and First Airborne at your service,” he said with a salute. I was so relieved, I planted a big, teary kiss right on his cheek.

“Can you keep this guy prisoner until the police and ambulance get here?” I asked, wiping my damp cheeks with the back of my hand.

“We stood at Bastogne in the Battle of the Bulge. I think we can handle a burglar with a stick through his leg,” the Colonel said, reaching out and removing the ski mask from the man’s head. The face his action revealed was sweating and flushed red under greasy black hair. I didn’t recognize the guy, though I studied his features now to make sure I’d never forget him again.

“Thank you, Colonel,” I whispered.

Tears still streaming down my face, I gave a grateful wave to the advancing troops and went inside, desperate to see if Kiki was still alive.

When I reached the bedroom, I knelt down at her side, noting that she
hadn’t moved and that the pool of blood surrounding her head had grown. I again pushed back her hair, revealing a face that seemed unnaturally pale.

Hands trembling, I gently lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse, but this time I wasn’t quite sure if I could feel one or not. I leaned forward, my tears dropping into her hair, and begged her to hang on just a little longer. Despair clenched at my insides, and I felt sick at the thought that once again someone might die because of me.

Not knowing what else to do, I got up and crossed the hall to her bedroom, the obvious site of their primary struggle. With a wave of nausea, I looked at the mess surrounding me, realizing that all those noises I’d heard while I was on the phone with Lydia were the sounds of Kiki trying to fend off a madman.

Remembering that madman, I went to her back window and opened it, leaning out into the bright sunshine to see what was happening below. Obviously, the old guys had the situation well under control. In fact, they seemed positively energized, pacing back and forth on the sand and taking turns holding the gun on the prisoner. One of them had run home to grab a camera, and I watched as he creakily lumbered back across the sand, waving it in the air. Seeing that, I pulled myself in and closed the window, hoping that those would be the only photographs taken here today. After all I had done to disappear and start over, I couldn’t take the chance that the media might somehow get hold of my image and blow my hard-won privacy right out of the water. Worse, I didn’t even want to think how they would twist this situation around.

When the police and emergency services arrived soon after, it was to find me sitting beside Kiki, holding her hand and crying. The paramedics were gentle but efficient, checking her out and then stabilizing her, all the while assuring me she was indeed still alive—for now. Once she was loaded up in the ambulance and it had driven away—followed closely behind by the one carrying our injured intruder—I was able to let out my breath. I pulled myself together, went into the living room, and sat on the couch, ready to answer the policemen’s questions. I tried not to look at
the mess that had been made when I knocked things over in an attempt to slow down my attacker.

The detective in charge wore a neatly pressed suit, its smooth surfaces providing a stark contrast to his wrinkled and weatherworn face. He introduced himself as Detective Hernandez, and he seemed professional and compassionate as he questioned me. Jotting down notes on a small pad as we talked, he had me go through the scenario over and over, pausing each time to verify exactly what the intruder had said to me. When the detective asked me how to spell “Beauharnais,” I replied I had no idea.

“B-o-r-n-a-y-s?” I suggested. “Really, I don’t know. I’ve never heard that term before.”

He seemed to take me at my word, and for a brief moment I felt guilty for being less than honest in the beginning, when I had given him my fake name rather than the real one. But then I thought of other policemen in the past, ones who were far less compassionate, less trusting, and my heart hardened. This man had all the information he needed.

As Detective Hernandez and I were talking, I glimpsed through the window a news van pulling up in front of the house, probably tipped off by one of the Screaming Eagles who wanted his heroic moment to make the twelve o’clock news. Seeing my expression, the detective turned to look. I watched over his shoulder as the van pulled to a stop between two police cars.

“Can you make them go away?” I asked softly.

He turned back toward me and shrugged.

“I can keep them off the property, but I can’t stop them from doing a report.”

Heart pounding, I considered the situation in full as I watched a sharply dressed woman hop out of the passenger seat of the van. She was their on-air reporter, no doubt.

“Is there a problem?” Detective Hernandez asked me, sounding vaguely suspicious.

Summoning my nerve, I turned my attention from the scene outside to the man in front of me.

“I’m a former…celebrity,” I said, using the term loosely. “You know how embarrassing it can be when someone who was, um, famous in their youth gets caught on the news as an adult. Especially living in this ramshackle old house…” Glancing over his shoulder, I spotted the driver opening the back of the van and pulling out camera equipment.

“I knew it!” the detective replied softly, grinning as he searched my face. “I knew you looked familiar. Who were you? I mean,
are
you? Who are you? You were on some sitcom, right?”

“I went by a different name back then,” I answered truthfully.

“Let’s see. If you were just a kid… What was it.
The Facts of Life
?
Growing Pains
?”

“Please, help me out, okay? Right now the last thing I need is to be on the TV news.”

“
Mork and Mindy
?
The Cosby Show
?
Doogie Howser
?”

“Please?”

He seemed to consider my request, and then he finally snapped his notebook closed.

“No problem,” he told me. “I think we’re done here anyway.”

To my vast relief, he took charge, stepping outside to steer the news crew to the back porch. As they went, he came inside and rounded up his men, who also seemed ready to go.

“I’ll tell the news crew to get out of here once they’re done filming the old guys,” he said, handing me his business card. “Call me if you think of anything else related to this case.”

“Will do. Can you thank the Colonel and his friends for me? Tell them I’m too distraught to come outside and thank them myself just now.”

“No problem.”

I waited as he gathered his things and then walked him to the front door, thanking him again for everything.