A Marriage for Meghan (30 page)

Fifty men could accomplish a truly amazing amount of work in one day. By the time the Yost sisters helped set out the evening meal, the Yoder produce market was almost finished. With that many workers, teams had assembled the twelve-foot walls individually. Once the four walls were stood in place and anchored to the foundation, ceiling joists and roof rafters could be hung from the center beam. After lunch, the men laid plywood sheeting across the rafters, while skilled carpenters framed the window openings to the exact dimensions of the double-hung windows on order. A team of Amish roofers finished the shingles within four hours, while the rest of the men installed doors and built interior partitions and display tables.

Thomas had been impressed with the progress, although his personal involvement had consisted of carrying loads of two-by-fours, feeding sheets of plywood up the ladder, and cleaning up the building site. Even considering his limited carpentry abilities, he still felt more successful on the construction project than with his surveillance. He’d neither seen nor heard anything useful all day long. The men talked mainly in
Deutsch
except when addressing him, while the women chatted exclusively in
Deutsch,
peering at him warily when he subtly tried to eavesdrop. Absolutely no unknown or irate
Englischers
lurked around the site, no unfamiliar cars stalked the road in front of the house, and no suspicious packages arrived by clandestine foreign couriers. Nothing to warrant the services of a Quantico-trained federal agent. During supper he devoured baked ham, German potato salad, and spiced apples to the point of exploding, and then he nearly jumped a foot off the bench when his cell phone rang.

“Where are you, Agent Mast?” barked the familiar voice of Sheriff Strickland. “I’ve been calling you for hours. I’m at the Yost farm right now, and nobody’s here but a bunch of cows and horses.”

“I accompanied the family to an Amish construction project to get a feel for what’s going on in the community. The ladies are also replacing quilts destroyed by the vandals.” Thomas stood and moved away from the table so he could talk without curious ears listening in.

“Catch any bad guys while you were up on the scaffolds?” asked Strickland.

Thomas grinned as he said, “No, but I gotta do
something
with my time. I’ve had few leads to go on while waiting for the evidence results to come back from the lab.”

“Then you should have answered your cell phone sooner.”

Thomas glanced down at the phone’s display. He’d missed three calls while immersed in the noisy beehive of market rebuilding. “Sorry, Bob. I didn’t hear the thing ring. What have you got?” He felt the same surge of adrenaline he had each time a case opened up a notch.

“The trace evidence and DNA results are back from your lab. They copied me on the report. Nothing turned up on those two spray paint cans we found in the bushes outside the quilt shop, but remember that ball cap we found?”

“Of course,” Mast said. Detectives had found a dirty hat stuck in some rhododendrons, close to the paint cans. It could have been discarded by a tourist months ago and gone unnoticed by the widows, but the investigator had sent it in to be analyzed. “Were they able to pull DNA out of the sweatband?”

“They were.” Strickland’s answer was concise and to the point. “I know you ran a check on Justin King, the ringleader of that merry band of thugs at Misty Meadow Campground.”

“We got lucky. He’s in the system for a misdemeanor involving disorderly conduct.”

“So I’m thinking if we run a comparison between the two DNA samples, we might just get a match. Of course, I don’t want to tell you your business, Thomas. You might be on to something at that barn raising and bake sale.” The sheriff injected a slow, Southern drawl into his voice.

Surprisingly, Thomas felt no irritation from the ribbing. It seemed as though they had been colleagues for a long while. “It’s a farm market, not a barn, and a quilting bee. There are no pies for sale, or I would pick up a few for your department.” He paused before adapting a serious tone. “Send my lab the DNA profile of our suspect and order the comparison. I’m on my way in to your office now.”

“What, and miss the bonfire and sing-along?”

Thomas chose to ignore the question. Instead he asked one of his own. “You know any friendly judges you can call after hours? Sounds as though we’re in need of a search warrant. And because I’ll probably miss the bonfire and s’mores, you might brew some coffee. I’d love a
fresh
cup, not that reheated sludge from the last shift.”

“You got it,” Strickland said before hanging up.

After Thomas snapped his phone shut, he turned to find himself face-to-face with Meghan Yost.

“Did you get enough to eat, Thomas?” she asked, her dimples deepening with her grin. “My
bruders
said you worked very hard.”

“I amazed even myself. I believe you witnessed how I loaded my plate, and I especially enjoyed your apple pie. Thank your sister for including me, and thank your parents too. But right now I need to get to Wooster.”

“You spotted a suspect at the frolic?” Her pretty eyes rounded with alarm.

“No, no. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary, but evidence left at the quilt shop has turned up a lead.”

“That’s nice.” Meghan clasped her hands and smiled politely, not understanding but not particularly interested in clarification either.

“I’ll see you back home, Miss Yost.” He doffed his Indians hat and sprinted to his car.

Deciding not to waste time changing clothes, he drove to the Justice Center in his jeans and work boots. Sheriff Strickland handed him a cup of coffee the moment Thomas sat down in front of his desk.

“What have you got?” he asked, taking an appreciative sip.

“You’re gonna love this. The DNA they pulled from the sweatband matched that of our charming Justin King. How’s that for a solid lead?”

Thomas leaned forward in the swivel chair. “Best news I’ve had all day.”

“Better than that slice of apple pie I
know
you ate?”

“Well, it wasn’t à la mode, so I’d have to say yes. How soon can we get that search warrant?” Thomas scrambled to his feet as his energy level ratcheted up.

“Easy, Agent. We’re working on that right now. My detective is trying to track down a judge, but we might not have one willing to sign a warrant until tomorrow or Monday.”

Thomas nodded. “I’ll be at my desk updating files if you hear anything.” He walked to his assigned cubicle to work on everything and anything he could find. With his blood pumping at the thought of moving forward with the case, he couldn’t relax and didn’t want to go back to the Yost farm until ready to fall into bed. He’d had enough of the tight-knit family stuff for one day. The up-close-and-personal look only reminded him of what he didn’t have and probably never would.

T
homas worked at his desk until eight o’clock that night. The sheriff had already gone home as well as his detectives. Finally, when he concluded nothing else would happen today regarding the search warrant, he went to a sports bar in Wooster for a pizza and Coke. Few other dining options remained open at this hour in a small city. In a town the size of Shreve, his choices would have been even slimmer.

Eating his dinner, he watched CNN and caught up on international events. The troubles in the world continued unabated while he searched for a vandal with a particular mean streak. Yet for some reason, Thomas felt as committed to solving this case as any he’d investigated before. Hates crimes in a country of multiple religions and diverse ethnic backgrounds couldn’t be tolerated. The Amish would always hold a soft spot in his heart, even though he felt his parents had made the right decision. His grandparents lived somewhere in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and he wouldn’t want to see them traumatized as those two widows had been.

He boxed up the remaining pizza to take home and stepped out into a cool evening. The streets were nearly empty at nine thirty at night.
Home.
Driving back to his austerely furnished
dawdi haus
behind the big farmhouse, he contemplated how easily he’d adjusted to living off the grid. His leftovers would be kept cool in a propane fridge. He would read the sports section of the paper by the light of a kerosene lamp. His shower would be as soothingly warm as the one in his condo, while his sheets and towels, dried on a clothesline outdoors, would smell like fresh sunshine. A hot breakfast awaited him each morning in the Yost kitchen, and because he preferred a cool bedroom, he didn’t even bother with the woodstove anymore. He shaved with a triple-blade razor and gel, used a normal toothbrush, wouldn’t even know what to do with a hair dryer, and didn’t miss electric blankets, toasters, CD players, or even his microwave oven. Because he could charge his cell phone and laptop in the car, his job performance hadn’t suffered at all. And, surprisingly, he hadn’t missed television or his DVD player yet. Would he like to live without the Indians, Browns, or Cavalier games on Sunday afternoons forever? No. But he had kept busy enough to not miss them so far.

The next day, however, offered more free time than he would have liked. The detective found a judge to review the evidence over the weekend, but because the case might be bumped up to federal court, the judge wasn’t willing to make a hasty decision. Thomas spent Sunday wandering the Yost farm and the surrounding hills and meadows. Everywhere he explored—barn loft, woodlot, riverbank, or rolling pastures—he found another scenic photo op for a wall calendar. It took him half the day before he spotted a hulking pile of rusty farm equipment. But even that had become overgrown with vines of wild morning glories.

On Monday morning Thomas wolfed down his breakfast of bacon and eggs and then arrived at the sheriff’s office by seven thirty. He was pacing the floor with his third cup of coffee when the detective sauntered in with a signed search warrant to accompany his arrest warrant for Justin King. The sight made Thomas’ heart beat a little faster…or maybe it was from all the caffeine.

Thomas and Bob drove out to Misty Meadows Campground in the county’s SUV. Although neither anticipated off-road chases through bogs and scrubland, they wanted to be ready for anything. Thomas had his bureau-issued semiautomatic, while Bob carried a pump-action shotgun in addition to his sidearm. Six deputies with a variety of weaponry followed behind to provide backup. The firepower seemed over-the-top, considering the charges were property destruction and breaking and entering, but everyone in law enforcement knew of officers who had been shot while issuing routine speeding tickets. Those living on the fringe of society often acted rashly to avoid going to jail, even for minor crimes. And hate crimes happened to be felonies.

They pulled into the campground, noticing a distinct change in the landscape since their previous visit. What had been desolate, frozen tundra now showed signs of life. Although tree limbs remained bare, daffodils and crocuses bloomed in neat rows next to parking spots and public buildings. But Thomas kept his mind focused on the three silver trailers near the pond. The same cars and trucks were parked haphazardly around the campsites, including the four-wheel-drive truck with huge knobby tires. Unfortunately, today no young men milled outdoors with their heads under car hoods.

Once the deputies blocked off any possible escape route, positioning themselves unseen until needed, Mast and Strickland pounded on the door to the largest trailer. “Justin King, this is Special Agent Mast of the FBI and Sheriff Strickland from the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please step outside.”

Water dripped from a clogged overhead gutter.

A stray yellow cat eyed them warily from the bushes.

The soft drone of talk radio emanated from behind the closed mini blinds, but no human sounds could be heard.

Mast raised his voice, shouting at the dirt-streaked windowpane. “We also have a warrant to search these premises. If you don’t open the door, we’ll be forced to knock it down.”

After a moment they heard the distinctive click of a dead bolt drawn back. With his fingers inches from his weapon, Thomas held his breath as the metal reinforced door swung open.

“What’s this about? What do you want with my boy?” A thin, middle-aged man stood in the half-open doorway, squinting from the sun glare in his eyes. He wore dirty blue jeans, a ripped undershirt beneath a plaid flannel shirt, and badly scuffed work boots.

“Step aside, sir,” ordered Mast as he climbed the concrete block steps.