A Prayer for the Night (18 page)

Branden said, “Whatever chance she has, we gave it to her today.”

Robertson said, “Tell that to her family, Mike,” and walked off toward the trailer.

Branden let him go.

Bobby Newell came up as Robertson left and said to Branden, “I’ve never seen a place burn so fast as this one did.”

Branden nodded. “I can’t believe they left Sara in there to burn.”

“It’s not the average man who runs into a burning building,” Newell commented.

Branden shrugged. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t make too big a deal out of that.”

Newell nodded, and said, “I hear on the radio that she’s not doing so well.”

“Possible stroke.”

“She choked on her own vomit?”

“She was gagged. Threw up on the gag, and by the time I got to her, she was unconscious.”

“Rough,” Newell said. “We just got a radio call from Dan Wilsher. We’ve been able to arrest most of the Holmes County crew that was selling drugs. Arnetto ought to be plenty satisfied.”

“The sheriff thinks Arnetto will probably not get his hands on Samuel White,” Branden said, and explained about the flip phone.

Newell glanced down the lane and said, “By the looks of things, I’d say the sheriff was right.”

Branden turned and saw Tony Arnetto stalking down the lane toward the ruins of the barn. He was slapping a radio handset forcefully against his leg and scowling an unrestrained threat. He marched up to Branden, threw his radio on the ground, and paced a tight circle in front of the professor.

Branden held his place. Robertson came heavily down the trailer steps, and Arnetto exploded into a fuming tirade of obscenities that would have made the Red Dog blush.

Robertson crowded as close to Arnetto as the man’s gestures permitted, and said, “Stop this! Right now!”

Arnetto spun on Robertson and prepared to throw a punch. He didn’t. Instead, he froze and hissed, “I hope you think this was worth it.”

Robertson let heat rise and fall in Arnetto, glaring back at him.

Branden said, “If the sheriff hadn’t had us out here when he did, ready to go like we were, Sara Yoder would be dead, and you still wouldn’t have Samuel White or his lab. As it is, Robertson saved a girl’s life and shut down the lab to boot.”

Arnetto slowly turned to face Branden and glared at him as if he hadn’t had the right to speak. Branden stared back and said, “Settle down, Agent Arnetto.”

Bobby Newell said, “We’re rounding up most of the Holmes County dealers this morning, Arnetto. Papers in the trailer told us where they are.”

Arnetto stared at Newell wordlessly, as if he had only just comprehended what the captain had said, but didn’t yet trust himself to speak.

Branden said, “The whole lab is gone. White won’t be cooking X anywhere soon.”

Newell said, “We have it from the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department that you got most of White’s people this morning.”

Unable to calm himself, Arnetto shouted, “We did! But only because we were nearly ready to go in to make arrests ourselves. And we haven’t got White. You blew it for us, Robertson!”

Robertson, still heated, backed away from Arnetto. When he had put a sensible pace or two between them, and when he could be reasonably sure that he could not strike the man, Robertson hissed, “Shut up, Arnetto!” and louder, “Shut UP! You’re wrong! You’ve been wrong all along. Because you only care about arrests. You’re a disgrace to law enforcement, and I’m going to say as much in my report to your superiors. If you say ONE MORE WORD, I’m gonna lay you out cold. YOU GOT THAT?”

Heated beyond his ability to control it, Robertson nosed up to Arnetto. His face was as red as blood, and his jowls shook as anger and frustration took up residence in his muscles.

Arnetto started to say something, and Robertson seized him one-handed by the front of his suit coat, and lifted the small man to his toes. Arnetto faced the sheriff squarely, eyeball to eyeball, and didn’t flinch.

Robertson felt pressure on his forearm shirtsleeve, and saw Ricky Niell pulling down on the fabric. He saw Niell’s lips moving, but could not hear what the sergeant was saying. Robertson let the DEA agent down.

In a slightly milder tone, Robertson said, “Sara Yoder has had a stroke, you miserable rat. We’re not sure, really, how bad off she is. But I wouldn’t have waited another second, and I don’t regret the decision. We did good here.”

Arnetto fixed his eyes on Robertson and held them there a long time. When he had spent most of his intensity, he walked away without a further utterance.

Sunday, July 25
11:30 A.M.

 

 

PROFESSOR Branden found Sara Yoder’s room in Joel Pomerene Memorial Hospital in Millersburg, on the second floor, and knocked on the half-open door as he entered. He had showered the smoke out of his hair at home and had changed into fresh clothes. A nurse was hanging a new IV bag on the stand beside Sara’s bed. Albert O. Yoder and Martha Yoder were seated on chairs in the corner by the head of Sara’s bed. Martha had reached her arm through the bars at the side of the bed and lovingly stroked Sara’s long black hair. Cal Troyer stood at the foot of the bed and, as Branden entered the room, put his finger to his lips for silence.

Branden acknowledged the Yoders and whispered in Cal’s ear, “How’s she doing?”

Cal led the professor out into the hall and said, “She’s not good. If she can’t quickly recover most of her motor skills in the next several weeks, the damage could be permanent.”

“Can she talk at all?” Branden asked.

“Not well. Some words come out OK, and others stall on her lips. The left side of her face is mostly immobile, and she struggles to say what little she can manage.”

“Is that what the doctors said? That she could have permanent damage?”

“They said they’ll know in a few days. What doesn’t come back then will be an indication of how bad it is. The rest will take long months of therapy, and she might not ever get it all back.”

Martha Yoder, Sara’s mother, came out into the hall, her long wine-red dress rustling as she moved. To Branden, she said, “Thank you for saving her, Professor Branden. Truly God has provided you as a miracle.”

Branden said, “I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Yoder.”

“We know miracles when we see them, Professor. We also understand tragedy. God works in our lives in all ways, and we accept His wisdom. In this case, we are grateful for His mercy, even if His instrument doesn’t comprehend what he has done. We thank you, Professor, for being God’s instrument.”

Blushing, Branden managed to say, “You are welcome.”

Sara’s father came out of the room and said, “She wants to see you, Professor.”

Branden eyed Cal with a self-conscious modesty, and Cal tipped his head toward Sara’s room. Branden slipped into the room alone and stood beside the head of Sara’s bed. He leaned over with his elbows on the railing, putting his face close to hers.

Sara lifted her head off the pillow, straining at the shoulders, and struggled for words. She formed her lips several times before she managed the one word, “Prayed.” Then, “They all prayed.”

Branden took her hand and said, “Yes. A great many people, Sara. Prayed through the night. For your safety. For your rescue.”

Sara said with difficulty, “You . . . came . . . saved . . . ”

“We all did, Sara. The sheriff and his deputies. The firefighters and ambulance squad. The night dispatcher. It wasn’t just me.”

“Thank ... all . . . ” she uttered, exhausted, and sank back onto her pillow.

Outside her room, in the hall, Branden found that Bishop Raber had joined Cal and the Yoders. Raber was in the middle of saying, “Your horse has been standing there a long time. I gave it water. You should go home, rest. Put your horse up properly.”

Martha said earnestly, “Oh, I can’t leave, Bischoff.”

“I’ll sit with her,” Raber said. “Albert, the two of you go home and get some rest. You’ve been up all night.”

Albert O. Yoder agreed reluctantly, and Martha followed Albert’s lead. They slipped into Sara’s room and came out shortly, Martha carrying an overnight bag of a flowered corduroy fabric, and Albert carrying a brown paper sack of groceries. To Raber, Albert said, “Do you want to keep the food?”

Raber took Albert’s arm at the elbow and led him down the hall. “My wife will bring supper,” he said, and ushered the two Yoders to the stairwell. There Albert stalled, handed the grocery bag to Raber, and returned to Branden and Troyer. With tears in his eyes, he said, “We take life as it comes to us. Handicaps are just part of life,” and seemed, then, to freeze in place, paralyzed by sorrow and loss.

Bishop Raber came up to him and led him back to the stairwell, down the steps, and out to the hitching rail where their horse was tied. When the bishop regained the second-floor hallway outside Sara’s room, he said to Branden and Cal, “They lost a child in a riding accident three years ago. Now they’re worried they’ll lose Sara, too.” He went into Sara’s room and sat at the head of her bed.

Outside, Cal said to Branden, “Missy told me that Bruce says Agent Arnetto and the Columbus police have not been able to arrest this Samuel White.”

“They haven’t, so far as I know.”

“Then I think that compromises the safety of at least three kids: Abe, Jeremiah, and Sara.”

“They’re all at risk. The sooner we get him, the better for all of them.”

“Missy also told me that Bruce doesn’t plan on holding Jeremiah on charges.”

“I don’t know about that,” Branden said.

“You don’t know, or you don’t concur?”

“I don’t know what Bruce has in mind for Jeremiah. He hasn’t been charged with a crime. He hasn’t committed one, so far as I know. What are you getting at, Cal?”

“Mike, I think you and I should go down to Columbus to talk with Abe Yoder in the hospital. It’s time we found out once and for all what has really been going on with these kids.”

Sunday, July 25
3:20 P.M.

 

 

THE Franklin County sheriff’s deputy on duty outside Abe Yoder’s hospital room took Cal Troyer’s clergy identification and Professor Branden’s reserve sheriff deputy’s credentials, and then told them to take seats against the wall. He made a call on a cell phone, read the credentials out loud, switched off, and made an entry in a log-book he kept in his uniform shirt pocket. He waved Branden and Troyer over, opened Abe Yoder’s door, and closed it again when they were inside.

Abe Yoder’s bed was raised so that he lay level with Branden’s chest. An IV bag fed a line into Abe’s left wrist. Abe, naked above the waist, was propped with pillows onto his right side, and a large bandage was taped to his left side. He was sleeping lightly, his left hand clasping the aluminum safety rail. When Branden went up to him, he opened his eyes and closed them again. He pulled his pillow down a bit, repositioned his head, and opened his eyes. He saw Cal Troyer at Branden’s side, and said, “Hello, Pastor,” in a hoarse whisper.

Cal moved closer and said, “We need to talk to you, Abe. Can you wake up for a while?”

Abe nodded and pulled on the safety rail to bring himself closer to the edge of the bed. To Branden, he said, “We met once before, but I can’t remember. The bar?”

“Yes,” Branden said, “and I found you at the cabin where you were hiding.”

Yoder nodded with effort and said, “Is there any ice?”

Cal poured out some ice water from a pink plastic pitcher and drained most of the water into a sink in the corner of the room. Back at Abe’s side, he spooned a chip of ice into Yoder’s mouth, and Yoder mumbled something approximating “Thank you” around the ice.

When he had finished chewing, Yoder asked, “Has anyone found Sara?”

Branden said, “We found her last night, Abe.”

Yoder asked, “She OK?”

“She’s safe,” Branden said, “but there are complications. She’s in Pomerene Hospital.”

Abe closed his eyes, worked his jaw muscles, said, “Jeremiah?” and opened his eyes. His hand began to tremble on the safety rail.

“He’s with the sheriff,” Cal said.

A nurse came into the room and put a thermometer in Yoder’s ear. Then she checked his pulse against her wristwatch.

“How is he?” Branden asked.

“His temperature is coming down,” she said. “Pulse is too high still.”

“What do the doctors say about his infection?” Cal asked.

“As long as his temperature keeps coming down, they’re not too worried,” she said. At the door, she turned and said, “He knows to push his button if he needs more pain medication.”

Abe said, “I can’t find the button.”

Branden fished a gray wire out from between the safety rail and the bed frame. He looped it over the railing so that the red button was within easy reach. To Yoder, he said, “Can you wait on that medication, Abe? We need to ask you some questions.”

Yoder said, “A little while, I guess. It really hurts. You need to keep Jeremiah out of trouble. He’s better off in jail now than running loose.”

Branden asked, “Why is that, Abe?”

“He might try to go after that guy White. Because of Sara.”

“Does he know how to contact White?” Cal asked.

“I gave him a number to call. And then White called on Johnny’s prepaid phone.”

Branden said, “We know about that, Abe. Sara is safe. There’s no reason for Jeremiah to do anything to White, now. What you need to do is to tell us everything that has happened. The drugs. Samuel White. John Schlabaugh.”

At the name Schlabaugh, Yoder clenched his eyes shut and pushed on the railing to move back from the professor. Branden leaned in closer, and said, “Who shot John Schlabaugh?”

In obvious torment, Abe said, “White.”

“Why?” Branden asked.

“Over the drugs.”

“You have to tell us the whole story, Abe,” Branden insisted.