Forbidden (29 page)

Akiva set the pace, and Brydon matched it as they wove through the swarming tourists. They circled the building that paid tribute to the greatest of the greats in rock ‘n' roll history, Akiva's gaze searching beyond teen groups and families on vacation, beyond the tourist buses. He searched out the individual, set apart, not belonging to a group or crowd or partnered with anyone.

Then he spotted a young man leaning against a concrete-slab building, his shoulders slumped indolently as he puffed on a cigarette, and his trousers hovered a centimeter from the tipping point where they would fall to his ankles. Akiva said to Brydon, “‘Opposition is true friendship.'”

“Yeah?” Brydon's response sounded more like a grunt. “So what? Why'd you say that?”

“I didn't, actually. William Blake did.” Akiva skirted a group waiting at a street light and jogged across the busy intersection, Brydon at his heels. Gray clouds bumped against one another overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance. “But I was contemplating your dilemma.”

Brydon shifted his dark gaze toward him. “What's that?”

“You and this Girouard.”

Brydon grunted again.

“You were friends, right?”

This time, Brydon remained silent and brooding.

“Weren't you?”

“What of it?”

“Well, he killed you.” Akiva hooked a corner. “Or tried to. That don't bother you?”

Again, silence pulsed between them, and Akiva gave him space. He coughed into his hands. “Guess you're a better…well you know…than me.”

Brydon's brow folded downward. “How's that?”

Akiva circled around the building again, slowing his pace as they approached the young man whose thin T-shirt was covered with skulls. “Mamm always said I had a bit of a vengeful streak. And if someone, especially a friend, done me the way Girouard slit through your throat—”

Brydon touched the neckline of his button-down shirt.

Akiva hid a smile. “Girouard didn't pause or have any regrets. Well, if it'd been me, I'd have already done away with him. But maybe you're the ‘turn the other cheek' type.”

“Don't know what I've done to give you that impression.”

“Pardon me, then.” Akiva moved past the young man, who paid no attention to them. He wore earbuds in his ears, and his head bobbed to a hip-hop beat, which would keep him from ever hearing Akiva's approach later on.

“You think I should—?” Brydon stopped himself. “Roc was a good friend. At one time, anyway.” His brow furrowed with what Akiva figured were conflicting thoughts.

“Girouard didn't let friendship get in the way of what he believed he had to do.”

“That's what makes a good cop.” Brydon defended his friend.

“He isn't a cop anymore, is he?”

With flat lips, Brydon kept his thoughts inward. “So you think I should go after him, then, just because you say?”

“‘The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him.'”

“That your stance?”

“Actually, it's biblical.”

Brydon laughed. “You quoting the Bible now?”

“There is wisdom to be found in the good book, wouldn't you say?”

“I don't know.” Brydon shrugged. “Never had much need of it.”

Akiva nodded. “Of course, that is why you are ignorant.”

Brydon shot him a look. A flash of lightning pulsed out of the clouds. Akiva changed the subject. “You hungry now? Or would you rather wait till dark?”

The tack room held the bridles and reins, and Rachel pointed out what was needed to hitch the horse to the buggy. Roc carried the equipment, noticing in the corner two rifles. Twenty-twos. He remembered Samuel saying he hunted deer and quail during season. But these might be handy for something else.

“Do you need help?” Rachel asked, backtracking to see what had delayed him.

“What are you in such a hurry for?”

“I'm not in a hurry.”

But clearly she was. Roc followed her instructions and hitched the horse. He then helped Rachel into the open buggy.

He eyed her belly and wondered if it was a good idea for her to jounce all the way to town. “You sure you're okay to do this?”

She smiled. “Why wouldn't I be?”

He could think of a few reasons, but then he had a few reasons why he wasn't up for the task either.

She took the reins in what appeared to be very capable hands.

“Whoa, now.” Roc put a hand on hers. “I'll take those.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever done this?”

“No, but—”

“Well, I have.” She held tight to the leather straps.

“You have?”

She made a face like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Any Amish woman can do this simple task.”

“Really? Any Amish woman, huh?”

“Ja.”

“Then I should be able to handle one old nag.” He winked at her.

Rachel batted his hand away from the reins and clicked her tongue. The horse trotted forward. Yellow and pink flowers led the way to the gate.

Roc frowned at the steep road ahead, which was shaded by birch trees. This hamlet was fairly secluded because of the hills, dales, ancient trees, and deep ravines. There might not be anyone to see now, but in a few minutes they'd be on a busier roadway, maybe even a highway, depending on how far Rachel wanted to go, and folks would stare at them as they passed. He wasn't the type to let a woman or anyone else drive as long as he was conscious, but he had no choice now.

“Won't it look odd if folks see you driving and me just sitting here?”
Like
a
doofus
, he thought but didn't say it. “Besides, this isn't what I would call safe.”

“Who's looking? And besides”—she emphasized the word—“life is full of uncertainty and dangers.”

“Like vampires,” he mumbled.

Roc slumped in his seat. They were going fairly slow, and he began to relax. Until they came to the covered bridge.

“You might want to slow down.”

“Why?”

“Someone might be coming on the other side. Only one car…or buggy can go through at a time.”

“I'm watching.”

His frown deepened. Roc's nerves began to jump and jangle. He wasn't a good backseat driver or even a passenger-seat driver, so to speak. A rumbling noise startled him, and he glanced behind them—a car was practically sitting on their bumper. “Whoa, now, you better pull over and let that car pass.”

She shot him a disgruntled look. “There's not enough space to pull over. We're fine.”

He clutched the side of the buggy with one hand. “This is not safe.”

She reached over and patted his arm in a patronizing way that set his teeth on edge. “Don't worry,” she said, “I can handle this.”

The buggy crossed the rickety covered bridge, the sound rumbling and echoing around them as they traveled over the wooden boards. Roc held onto the buggy and braced himself in case the bridge gave way. But it managed to hold together.

Rachel pulled to the side and allowed the zippy little Z-4 to pass. The car sped up, taking the hill and disappearing around the bend. “They're in a hurry, no doubt.”

Rachel kept her gaze on the road, her back straight, and her chin firm. The buggy's wheels rolled along, and the horses' hooves clopped on the asphalt. It would have been a soothing sound if they hadn't been on a roadway surrounded by trees, and basically alone. A great place for Akiva to attack.

His hands fisted, knuckles white until they turned one more time, pulled next to an unassuming building, and stopped at the hitching post. Rachel set the brake and smiled at him, which didn't do his nerves any better.

Three steps led up to the door, and he followed her inside. It looked like a store straight out of the 1800s. One side of the store held cards, stationery, pens and pencils, as well as slates and chalk. On the other side of the oversized room were shelves of books, magazines, and newspapers. A couple of Amish men stood next to the newspaper rack, with papers Roc had never heard of before but seemed to carry farming and Amish news. He avoided those men, not wanting to strike up a conversation, but their gazes followed him. Rachel made her way to the stationery and picked out a box of plain off-white paper with envelopes.

She walked back to him. “This will do nicely.”

Roc stepped up to the check-out, which was an old table with an even older register. A young girl, maybe seventeen, nodded to Rachel and rang up their purchase.

“Do you carry stamps?” Rachel asked.

“
Ja
. How many? A sheet, book, or roll?”

“Just a sheet,
danke
.”

Then Roc was hanging on for his life as they turned back onto the roadway and made their way back to the Fishers'.

Soon they were back on a quiet road with shading oaks and hickories surrounding them, and the fields burgeoned with crops of corn and wheat. How little he saw of the land and scenery when he drove his Mustang. A sudden longing pained him. He doubted he would ever see his Mustang again. Because how could he ever go back to New Orleans? Except to be arrested. He'd have no need of his Mustang if he sat in jail.

He tapped the box of stationery on his thigh. “So what was the hurry for this?”

Rachel glanced sideways at him then back at the road. She was a confident buggy driver, which should have eased his concerns more. “No hurry, I guess.”

“Who are you going to write?”

Her mouth stretched thin. “Hannah.”

Her answer surprised him. “How come?”

“She wrote me.” She released a soft breath. “She apologized for not telling me the truth about Josef.” She glanced at Roc, gauging his reaction, but he said nothing. “She believes I know what happened to my husband the night he died.”

Still, he gave no response.

Her hands tightened on the reins, the skin stretching over her knuckles. “Do you know what happened to Josef?”

“Would it matter?”

“I'd ask you to tell me.”

“Would knowing the details make you feel better or worse?”

“I don't know. But at least I'd know.”

He placed a hand on hers then pulled back. “Rachel, I've had to tell wives their husbands died in a car crash. Or mothers that their daughters weren't coming home. Trust me when I say this: dead is dead. Knowing the details won't help.”

Rachel swallowed hard and kept her gaze on the road. After a few minutes of listening to the clop, clop, clop of horse's hooves, she said, “Hannah wants to come here.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I know. Which is why I thought I should write her back.”

“Good.” He nodded.

Her mouth twisted. Roc wasn't sure if it was because she agreed or not. Maybe she was torn, wanting a connection with home and yet knowing how dangerous it could be for Hannah.

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Roc?” Rachel asked quietly.

“I have a sister.” One thing Roc had learned about the Amish: family came first, right after God. He'd learned that's why they didn't adhere to cars, not because they were afraid of them or gasoline or anything else, but because they simply feared families would be separated by too many miles. For that argument, he could be a witness. “Deb…my sister,” he continued, “married a while back and moved off. Went to Oklahoma.”

“She doesn't come visit or write?”

He shook his head. “Nah. It was…no, she doesn't.”

“And your folks?” She looked at him again, her eyes the blue of the sky and full of innocence; she could never understand what his life had been like as a child.

“What about them?”

“They're dead.”

“Both?”

“My mother died when I was fourteen. And my dad…he's gone.” He didn't actually know if Remy was dead or alive—there had never been word, never a funeral or grave. Remy had gone drinking and never come home. He'd taken to living on the streets. Roc had last heard about him before Katrina. He figured either the hurricane had killed him or the bottle had. He wasn't sure if he'd seen his father's ghost in Pennsylvania or if it had been a hallucination, but most probably, Remy was as he said—gone.

She eyed him again, her eyes softening. “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well…” He looked out over the green fields, the corn stalks and thick, green leaves ruffling in the wind. Insects chirped and buzzed around them, and the clip-clop of hooves carried through the gulch, which led back to the covered bridge.

“Roc…” Her voice sounded hesitant. “What you're doing—protecting me and my baby—it's noble but dangerous.”

He shrugged, keeping his gaze diverted toward the narrow roadway ahead.

“Well, what if something were to happen to you?”

“You mean if I die?”

She dragged her bottom lip between her straight white teeth. “Or get hurt again.”

His shoulder muscle flexed in response, and he wondered if she really cared what happened to him or if she worried she'd feel guilty if he died. She already carried a hefty dose of guilt over her husband's death. “It's the risk I'm willing to take.”

“But—” She clamped her lips closed, and a muscle in her jaw flexed before she spoke again. “Who will take care of you? Who will…?”

“Weep? No one. And that's okay.”

The clop of the horse's hooves ticked off the seconds of silence. “It's not okay. So if you don't mind, I want that someone to be me.”

He met her solemn gaze.
What
was
she
saying? Did she care? The way he was beginning to care for her?
The horse trotted on, but the fields faded into a haze. He was aware only of Rachel, the vulnerability in her eyes, the stillness of her hands, the rigidity of her spine. “You don't know what you're saying.”

Her chin was firm with resolve. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, then”—he stared at the horse's rump—“you're a fool.”