Voices Carry (2 page)

At the edge of the woods, just a stone’s throw from the shoulder of the road, she paused. Crouching behind a large oak and straining her ears to listen, she gathered her tattered nightgown around her so that it would not flutter in the slight breeze that had picked up. As the pounding in her chest and in her head began to subside, she realized that no footsteps followed behind her on the path. Was it possible that he’d given up trying to find her? Afraid to believe that he or something else equally evil wasn’t just beyond the last bend in the path, she did her best to blend into the shadows, alternately watching the road and watching the path.

Headlights from an approaching car lit up the night suddenly, then just as suddenly disappeared.

Somewhere nearby, she knew, was a lake. And around the lake, there were cottages. That would surely be her best bet to find a safe place to hide. But which way was the lake?

She leaned back against the tree, trying to get her bearings, trying to remember what Mrs. Allen, her teacher, had told the class to do when you are lost. This was the same Mrs. Allen who had taught them that when someone tried to touch you in places where you knew they shouldn’t, that you needed to get away by any means possible and get help. Mrs. Allen’s advice had already come in handy once that night.

When you’re lost, retrace your steps.

Well, she couldn’t very well do
that.
Not with Brother Michael—and who knows what else—back there someplace.

She concentrated really hard, forcing herself to think, trying to take that journey again in her mind.

Brother Michael had taken her down past the tennis courts. Across the soccer field. She remembered seeing the goalposts in the moonlight. Then down a path slightly to the right, far into the woods, to the clearing where the candles had flickered and glowed. From there, it seemed she’d run downhill a lot.

She remembered that once she had stood on the top bleacher at the soccer field, and she had seen the lake straight ahead. There was a narrow stretch of beach there, but nothing else, a cyclone fence closing it off to the rest of the world. Somewhere off to the right, however, beyond the fences, there had been small houses. And, she reasoned, since she’d run to the right through the woods, the lake and its cabins should be just ahead, on the other side of the road.

She rose quietly, cautiously, then as quickly as she could, ran from the shelter of the trees to cross the road. Slipping furtively as a wraith into the small grove of wild roses, she waited, still listening for the sounds of a pursuit that did not come. When she was convinced, finally, that she had not been followed, she picked her way through the thorny bushes, and keeping to the shadows, walked toward the lake and the small community of summer cottages she knew awaited just around that curve in the narrow road.

All she wanted was a place to hide, a place to rest for a few hours. What she would do after the sun rose the next day. . . well, she’d have to figure that out in the morning.

Exhausted, she leaned against the mailbox at the end of the short driveway of the first house. The dog barking from the screened porch frightened her, and
she skittered away in the dark, on feet too painful to think about, to the next house.

A dim light over the front steps cast just enough of a glow that she could find her way to the back of the small cottage, which had a deck overlooking a long expanse of grass that led down to the lake. Hugging the shadows, she crept up the three wooden steps and settled into the farthest corner, her back to the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was cold all of a sudden, despite the night’s heat and humidity, and she began to shiver. Pulling the torn nightgown tightly around her small form, she tried to keep sleep at bay by singing, in the tiniest of whispers.

“Jesus loves me, this I know. . .”

Over and over, until finally, even this comforting assurance could no longer keep her awake.

She was barely nine years old.

Genna Snow awoke in a sweat, shaking and disoriented, her fingers twisted tautly in the sheets. She slammed herself upright, her back against the wooden headboard, and drew the soft, lightweight blanket up to her neck. And there she sat, shivering with the deep chill that invaded her entire body, her heart racing, while she tried to will her erratic breathing under control.

Eventually, her heart slowed to its regular beat, the sweating stopped, and her hands loosened their grip on the blanket. She stretched her legs out in front of her, the muscles aching from having been clenched so tightly in the same position for. . . how long?

From the next street, church bells chimed one, the only sound in her oh-so-quiet apartment.

One o’clock in the morning. The dream had come just past midnight.

No great mystery there,
she thought as she swung her legs over the side of the bed where she sat for another moment or two, taking deep breaths. The dream had always come around the same time, though it had been so long since she’d had it that she had almost convinced herself that her demons might be gone forever. Disconcerted to discover she’d been wrong, Genna lowered her feet to the soft carpeting and trudged into the bathroom where she snapped on the light and without confronting her image in the mirror, turned on the faucet and splashed water on her face, over and over again, as if to wash away any last remnants of the dream. It wasn’t until she lifted her head to dry herself with a soft blue towel that she caught her reflection.

Damp hair the color of rich, dense honey, more brown than gold and mussed from sleep, curled around a face that watched the world from a wary vantage. Pallid skin, devoid of its usual natural blush, set off by dark hazel eyes that were wide-set and haunted.

“Hardly the face of a self-assured FBI agent,” Genna muttered, dispassionately assessing the woman before her.

Turning off the bathroom light, she returned to her bed, where she straightened the summer weight blanket before getting beneath it. Punching the pillow to slightly elevate her head, she stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out why the dream had come back now. She’d done her best to keep certain old memories where she believed they belonged—in the past—and wasn’t pleased that through the dream,
they had surfaced to disturb her now, when she had more than enough on her mind.

That must be it,
she assured herself as she turned over in the dark.
It must be just that there’s so much going on at work right now—so many cases to deal with.
And that situation being compounded by the fact that Steven Decker, the Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, of the field office to which she’d been reassigned earlier in the year, had called her late in the previous afternoon to tell her that she needed to be in his office at ten the next morning. It wouldn’t have done any good to have asked why. Decker liked his little moments of suspense, liked to keep his people guessing. It was just one of the little games he liked to play with the agents under his command.

Maybe he’s come up with a new report form he wants us to start using,
she almost smiled, relaxing—finally—for the first time in hours. Decker loved his forms. . .

Genna reached one arm out from under the covers and smacked the alarm clock into submission when it taunted her at six the next morning. She smacked it again at six fifteen, then once more at six thirty. At six forty-five, she rose reluctantly and headed for the shower, annoyed with herself for having overslept.

Her disposition hadn’t improved much by the time she arrived at her office just before eight
A.M.
and clicked on the harsh overhead light. Stepping over the piles of files that littered her floor, she dropped her briefcase onto her chair, turned on her computer, and sought coffee. Next she checked her e-mail and found responses from two law enforcement agencies in upstate New York that she’d queried
about the arrests of alleged child pornographers suspected of being part of a larger network along the eastern seaboard. As a member of the Violent Crimes and Major Offenders Program, Genna’s assignments were mainly kidnapping cases or cases involving the sexual exploitation of children.

The case she was working on at that moment was giving her major headaches. One step forward and three steps back. She shook her head, wondering when she’d get the break she needed. So far, she’d received nothing but shadows where she needed substance. She printed out the information—sketchy though it was—before forwarding the notes via e-mail to several other agents in her office, then read the hard copy again as she sipped at her coffee and wondered if the respective police departments would be able to keep the suspects under lock and key until someone from her unit—preferably her—was able to get there and have a chat with all involved parties.

Three follow-up phone calls to the sending agencies later, she had memos of her own to share internally before refilling her coffee cup and rising to straighten her gray linen skirt and head for Decker’s office, five minutes early, as was her style. She’d been taught that punctuality was a virtue, and that early was infinitely better than late.

Sharon, Decker’s secretary, was on the phone when Genna reached the end of the hallway that dead-ended where the SAC’s office began.

“He said you’d be early and that you should just go on in,” Sharon covered the mouthpiece with one hand and waved Genna onward.

Genna knocked lightly on the half-opened door,
then stepped in without waiting to be acknowledged.

“Good morning, Genna.” Steven Decker stood at the windows, looking out, greeting her without turning around.

“’Morning, sir.” Genna took a seat in the chair at the right corner of her superior’s walnut desk and slid an unused coaster over to place under her coffee mug, waiting for him to begin with his usual line.
I guess you wondered why I called you in this morning. . .

“I guess you wondered why I called you in this morning,” he said, turning now and walking toward her across a well-worn carpet.

Genna suppressed a smile and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Do I recall correctly that you spent considerable time out in the western part of Pennsylvania while you were growing up? Near Erie, was it?”

“Yes.” Genna’s smile began to fade, and she wondered where this would lead.

“And your foster mother still lives in that area?”

“Patsy lives outside of Pittsburgh, though she does still own a summer cottage on Bricker’s Lake, maybe twenty miles southeast of Erie.”

“Would you say you know the area well, Agent Snow?”

Whenever Decker switched from first name to title, something official was in the air. Genna’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted now was to be taken off her current case.

“Yes. I know the area well.”

“Growing Amish population in the area, I understand.”

“The Amish have been in that area for decades. Certainly for as long as I can remember.”

Decker walked around from behind his desk and sat on the left corner, opposite from where Genna sat. It was the most casual gesture she’d ever seen him make, and a sign that he was getting to the point.

“Have much contact with them—the Amish—when you were growing up?” He asked.

“Very little. Most of the Amish kept to themselves. I did get to know a few kids very slightly when I was thirteen or fourteen. Patsy knew their grandmother. She bought eggs and produce from Mrs. Frick—Granny Frick, they call her—every week. Still does. I usually went with her, but I always felt pretty awkward there, you know. I was the odd one, the outsider.”

Genna leaned against the hard chair back and watched Decker pace a few steps in either direction, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trimly fit jacket, his face showing no small amount of concern. Finally his lanky frame found its way around the desk and lowered itself into his chair.

“We have a situation there. . .” he began, causing Genna to lean forward and ask, “At Bricker’s Lake?”

“Close enough. Wick’s Grove. You know the town, of course.”

“Of course. It’s the only town for several miles from the lake. I always think of it as the town that never changes. It still has the same grocery store, the same gas station with the same little newsstand, run by the same families as when I was a kid.” Genna smiled. “Wick’s Grove is the only place I’ve ever been where there’s no dry cleaner, no pizza place, and no place to rent a video.”

“The Amish influence, I take it?”

“They own the greater part of the land in the area
by far, have, for generations.” Genna nodded. “Wick’s Grove is little more than a crossroads on the way from Erie. It’s one of those places that time hasn’t seemed to touch.”

“Well, time’s catching up to it, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears that three young Amish men—cousins, we think—are suspected of being involved in laundering some of the money that’s coming in from Canada.”

“WHAT?” Genna almost fell forward from her chair. “That’s too preposterous. . .”

“Preposterous, maybe, but the information we’re getting indicates that there’s a connection within the Amish community and a local bikers’ club that calls itself JYD. Junk Yard Dogs.”

Decker tossed an envelope across the desk to a mute and stunned Genna, who caught it with both hands and opened it. A stack of black-and-white photos slid out. Decker watched her face as she thumbed through the pictures, occasionally raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“Who exactly are these bikers?” She waved several of the photos.

“A few Canadians, a few Americans. All ex cons—mostly drugs, weapons offenses, assaults. Nothing surprising there. And the fact that they’re involved in drug trafficking isn’t anything new. What is new is the fact that they’ve managed to tangle a few of these Amish kids in their net.”

Genna shook her head. “It defies belief. You’re talking about people who don’t have electricity or modern farm equipment. To visit one of their farms is like going back in time a hundred years or so.”

“That’s pretty much what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to visit a farm. This farm.” He picked up a second, larger envelope, and held up a photograph. “I believe you’ve been there before.”