A Home for Lydia (The Pebble Creek Amish Series) (41 page)

Whatever the situation, he didn’t appear to notice them. Unaware of the flashlight in his hand, its beam shining up on the ceiling, he stood there for maybe fifteen seconds. Instead of calling out, or running, he stared past them for a moment, and then he walked across the room and began shoveling David’s toys into his duffel bag.

Aaron became aware that Clara was clutching his arm, pulling him down and away from the window. When all three of them were crouched near the ground, huddled in the darkness, she hissed, “I know who that is!”

“What?” Lydia squeaked.

“It’s Jerry Beiler!”

“The bishop’s nephew?”

“
Ya
.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Girls, I hate to interrupt, but if you’re certain maybe that’s all we need to know. We can go to the phone shack and call Officer Tate. As long as you can identify him—”

Aaron never finished his sentence.

Before he had a chance, before he even realized what she was
doing, Clara had let go of his arm. Initially he was relieved to have the pinching sensation stop, but then he understood she meant to go inside. She meant to confront this Jerry Beiler.

He reached out for her, but his hand closed around darkness.

Lydia was also gone. She was sprinting after her sister.

And he was running to catch up, following them up the steps of the office, through the front door, and into the midst of the burglary.

As they thundered through the door, the two burglars turned to stare at them, their hands frozen in the middle of pouring more goods into their bags.

Aaron understood two things instantly.

The taller of the two was more than ill. He was off in some other sense, completely disconnected from the reality around him.

And the second burglar? He was not a
he
at all, but rather an Amish girl, no older than Clara.

Lydia skidded to a stop in the middle of the room, bumping into her sister, who had stopped a few feet shy of Jerry Beiler. Maybe she was mistaken. Could the eighteen-year-old in front of her be Jerry? She hadn’t seen him in several years. Now that she was closer and saw him in the light of his and Mattie Keim’s flashlights, she wasn’t absolutely sure.

It was their neighbor Mattie standing beside him, though she wore a man’s clothes, with a ball cap covering her hair. She looked pale and scared, but not sick—not like Jerry. Only determined.

“Jerry! Are you
narrisch
? Why are you here? Why are you stealing from us?” Clara threw the words at him, as though they were rocks, and she could make him drop his flashlight and duffel bag and run away.

Instead, Jerry clutched the bag in his hand and glanced first at Mattie, back at them, and then to Mattie again—his eyes widening. He flinched at Clara’s words, drawing back into himself, pulling his
jacket around his shoulders tighter and looking up at the ceiling. Did he expect more people to jump out at him?

“Clara?” he asked, but he didn’t sound certain as he pointed the beam of his flashlight directly at them.

“Of course it’s me. I work here. Who else would it be? Me and my
schweschder
and Aaron also.” Clara’s voice remained loud and angry, like when she was scolding one of the younger girls at home.

Lydia reached out, put her hand on Clara’s arm, and pulled her back away from Jerry a few steps. There was something about him that bothered her. Something that wasn’t right. His eyes continued to dart about, and he had a hacking cough.

Mattie still hadn’t spoken. She had moved closer to Jerry’s side of the room.

What was she missing? What was actually going on here?

Aaron seemed to sense it as well. He spoke in calm, even tones. “Jerry, I’m going to light this lantern, the one over the table.” He held up his hands, as if to show he had no weapon.

Jerry twitched or maybe he shrugged. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. By the time the lantern was lit, he had resumed shoving items from the shelves into his bag.

“Stop!” Clara still hadn’t lowered her voice. “Why are you doing that?”

“Because he needs to.” It was the first words Mattie had spoken. “Because
we
need to.”

They all turned toward her in the soft light of the table lantern. She clicked off her flashlight and slipped it into the pocket of her oversized jeans.

“Mattie, I don’t understand.” Clara moved toward her, but Mattie raised her hand to stay her off.

“You don’t understand. No. Of course you don’t. How could you?”

“Did you…did you steal the key from me? Is that how you got into the office? The one I lost? Did you take it from my pocket at church? Why would you do that? I thought you were my
freind
.”

“And what do you know of being a
freind
, Clara Fisher? Did you notice Jerry growing sicker each day? Did you notice the way his clothes droop on him like fabric on a scarecrow? Maybe you did and you looked away. Fine! Fine. We don’t need you. But don’t stare at me that way for taking a key. Leave us alone. We’ll get what we came for and then we’ll be on our way.”

“You will not.” Clara stomped her foot. “Aaron won’t let you.”

Lydia was listening to Mattie, trying to hear what she was saying beneath her words. While the girl was talking to them she never took her eyes off Jerry. She didn’t look afraid exactly, but terribly sad and more than a little concerned. Though her words spoke of a deep pain, her voice never rose. She used the same tone Miriam did when Rachel was sleeping. Only Mattie spoke almost as if she was afraid of Jerry, almost as if she wasn’t sure what he would do next.

Lydia remembered now that she had heard the two were courting. But were they accomplices? They certainly looked like it, dressed the same, both holding duffel bags filled with stolen goods.

But something was off, other than the fact that they were being burglarized.

Why was Mattie watching Jerry as warily as they were?

The feeling persisted that things were very wrong between these two. Something she didn’t yet understand.

Jerry was ignoring them, still stuffing items in his bag. She noticed he worked with jerky movements, and he kept pausing every few seconds to scratch at his arms and his torso. His face was even shinier in the light of the table lamp.

Was he sick? Running a fever, maybe? Why wasn’t he concerned about being caught?

And what was going on with Mattie? Why was she supporting him in this burglary?

She had heard rumors about Jerry—that he’d been on his
rumspringa
too long. That Bishop Beiler might send him away to live in a different district, or even send him to live with a Mennonite group. She’d heard about the drinking parties with
Englischers
and even with
other Amish boys, but she hadn’t witnessed it herself or asked Clara since the night they had caught Stephen staying out late.

Mattie was a good girl, though.

Lydia knew Mattie’s family, who lived close to her parents’ home. It hadn’t been that long since Mattie had been in school with Clara. What could have gone so wrong in only a few years? And why hadn’t Lydia noticed it? Had she been so caught up in her own problems that she hadn’t taken the time to pay attention to a family who attended church with them?

Guilt and regret washed over her, much like the rain still falling gently outside the window. Mattie and Jerry were a part of their community. This shouldn’t be happening. They shouldn’t be stealing, and certainly Aaron shouldn’t call the
Englisch
police.

Whatever the cause of this problem, they could handle it among themselves.

They could call their parents and talk it over.

While she’d been sorting through her feelings, and studying Mattie, Clara had moved closer to Jerry and was now trying to take the duffel bag from him.

“Give it back. It’s not yours.”

Jerry pushed her away hard enough to knock her into the pie safe. Dishes rattled and a bowl they used for serving fruit fell off the top shelf, landing on the floor and shattering. Jerry flinched, as if the shattered pottery had somehow pierced his world in a way they hadn’t been able to.

Lydia stepped forward, moving toward Clara, ready to step around the table to help her.

Clara had hit the edge of the pie safe, and though she hadn’t fallen to the floor, she was off balance. She grabbed the edge of the table as an “Oh” escaped from her lips and her feet nearly came out from under her.

Aaron was closest, and he moved to catch her, to keep her from falling completely between the table and the cabinet.

Everyone was moving too quickly. Later, Lydia realized maybe the
problem was the shadows or the abrupt silence left by the absence of Clara’s accusations.

Whatever it was, it spooked Jerry.

He turned back toward them suddenly. In one smooth movement, he pulled a knife from his pocket, touching a button on the handle to release the blade. Even in the dim light from the lamp hanging over the table, Lydia could see how sharp and long the edge was when it popped opened.

How deadly.

“Get back,” Jerry screamed. “Just get back. Why are you here? Why are you after me? I want you to leave me alone!”

But he moved toward them, jabbing at the air with the tip of the blade, striking the air in front of Clara and Aaron.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Aaron stayed where he was, between the pie safe and the table, Clara half in his arms. And for once, Lydia didn’t feel even one ounce of jealousy. She was so grateful they were there, together, and at the same time so frightened that Jerry might harm them.

Why was Jerry doing this? What had happened to him?

The silence was broken by Mattie’s voice—quiet and soothing, as if she were speaking to a small child.

“It’s all right, Jerry. They didn’t mean to startle you. It’s only that Clara slipped. Remember last week when we were in my
grossmammi
’s house? I slipped in the kitchen because the floor was wet. It’s the same. See? The floor is wet where Clara’s shoes tracked in the rain and the mud.”

They all glanced down at the floor, which was indeed a mess of mud and rainwater. Jerry looked back up and stared at Mattie.

“Hand me the knife, Jerry, so you can finish filling up the duffel. When you do, we’ll go and buy you what you need.”

His tongue darted out, moistened his lips again, and he swiped at the sweat running down his face.

“I’ll hold the knife for you while you finish. I promise I’ll give it right back.”

He licked his lips once more, coughing as he did. Deftly he switched the knife to his other hand so he could scratch at the insides of his arm, which was when Lydia saw how red his skin was, how raw. He’d scratched the top layer off in places, until there was nothing but sores.

“Something’s crawling on me, Mattie.”

“I know. I know it is, Jerry.” Her voice started to break, but she pushed on. “It’ll get better soon. It always gets better.”

Jerry switched the knife back, and Lydia saw the burns on the inside of his palms.

“Finish with the bag, and we’ll go. The car—it’s just down the road. Clear off that shelf.” Tears tracked down her cheeks.

“After I do, we’ll go?” he asked.

“
Ya
. Sure. We’ll go.” She was only a foot away from him.

It occurred to Lydia that the girl was both incredibly courageous and unbelievably foolish.

Jerry nodded once, flipped the knife closed in one fluid movement, and dropped it into her hand.

Chapter 35