Forbidden (31 page)

A few days later, Jonas came in late for supper. His face was as dark as the clouds and lined with worry. Rachel knew something was very wrong.

“What is it?” Sally asked, pausing as she carried the rolls to the table.

He grunted and sat at the kitchen table. He spoke not a word through dinner and hardly ate any of the ham and mashed potatoes.

Rachel didn't feel like eating, either. She picked at her food and tried to gain Roc's attention, but he didn't seem to notice. He focused on his own plate, putting away enough for both him and Jonas combined.

Samuel gulped down his food but pushed away from the table earlier than the others. “I'll see you all later.”

“No, Samuel,” Jonas finally said, his voice solid.

The teenager tossed his head like a horse bucking the bridle and looked at his father, who never interfered with his son's running around. Sally sat very still, her gaze flickering between husband and son. The tension showed in her hand, where her forefinger and thumb pinched together.

“You'll stay home tonight,” Jonas added.

Samuel hooked a hand on his suspender. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Pop, I can't. I made a promise—”

“It doesn't matter who or what you promised. You'll stay home. That's the end of it.” Jonas hunched over his plate and cut into the ham.

The sound of an approaching car engine and tires on the gravel drive silenced any other protest Samuel might have made. Sally and Jonas turned toward the kitchen window.

“Probably a customer.” Jonas tossed his napkin on the table and headed toward the back door.

“No, Jonas.” Sally's eyes had gone wide with worry. “It's the
Englisch
police.”

Jonas's gaze shifted toward Roc.

Was
that
an
accusation?
It jabbed a cold finger straight through her heart. Something had happened.

***

From the bedroom window, Roc kept an eye on the cop down below. It wasn't the local police but a sheriff's deputy. He stood beside the cruiser, talking to Jonas, with his hand on his gunbelt.

Roc's nerves cinched tight. If the New Orleans police had put out an APB, the cop might be here looking for him.

But
what
would
Jonas
Fisher
do? Lie?
The old man had lied to protect himself and his family. But would he lie to help Roc? A stranger? Not likely.

How would anyone know he was here? From a warrant? Maybe a picture had been posted in the post office when Jonas went to mail Rachel's letter to her sister. Or it could be worse. Isolated on this Amish homestead, Roc hadn't seen the news in the weeks since they'd left New Orleans. His picture and story could have been featured on
The Today
Show
, CNN, or
America's Most Wanted
, or even some new reality TV show like
Cops
Gone
Bad
or
Hunting
the
Hunted
.

A plan formulated in his head. If Jonas gave him up, he'd have to run, taking Rachel with him in order to protect her. If he had to, he could take out this deputy. He'd shoot the cop, not fatally, just in a place to slow him down. Then he'd grab Rachel, and they'd take Samuel's motorcycle. They could be at a bus station in half an hour or at a train station in an hour. They'd change their clothes, cut Rachel's and his hair, shave his beard, and they'd—

A car door slammed. Roc snapped his attention back to the deputy outside.

Jonas stepped back from the deputy's cruiser and waited as the deputy backed slowly down the drive and left. Samuel walked up to his father and stood beside him, looking as if they were of one mind, and then the two men turned toward the woodshop.

Roc burst out of the bedroom and tore down the stairs. He barely saw Rachel or Sally standing in the kitchen as he ran past. “I'll go see what that was about.”

Without waiting for a reply, he left the house and caught up with Jonas and Samuel. Jonas eyed Roc with a weary expression. “Go on back to the house, Samuel.”

“Don't I have a right to know what's going on?”

“Do as I say. Now git on with you.”

Samuel glared at his father, drew several heaving breaths, and stalked off.

Roc waited, watching the older man, who looked pale and shaken, the skin tight around his eyes and mouth. Finally, Jonas met Roc's questioning gaze. “It's happening again.”

The gas-powered light buzzed in the family room, pushing back the darkness creeping around the house. Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain slapped the windows. Rachel paced while Sally worked on a rag rug, her hands moving smoothly, not betraying the undercurrent of tension as she braided the threads. But Rachel twisted her fingers together, knotting them the way her stomach had.

What
if
Jonas
had
received
word
from
her
family? From Hannah or Levi?
It had been more than a week since she had asked Samuel to mail Hannah's letter.
Why
hadn't Mamm written to her?
A letter from Mamm would have eased her worries. Or made her loneliness worse, made her miss home more, made her fears loom larger. How she wished Mamm could be here with her now, to help her with the upcoming birth and to hold her hand through it. But she couldn't risk Mamm's life any more than she would put Hannah's in danger.

Finally, she could take no more of the waiting and worrying. “I need some fresh air.”

Sally glanced up from her rug but did not say a word, her hands still moving.

Rachel stepped out on the back porch. The wood glistened from the rain, which had finally stopped. The shower had brought out the scents of soil, grass, and cedar. She glanced at the empty swing then at the barn, looking for Roc. Lantern light flickered in the double-wide doorway. Roc would ease her worries.

She found him bent over in the barn. At the sound of her footsteps, he straightened and turned. He held his gun in his hand and looked to be cleaning it. “What's happened?” she asked. “Why were the
Englisch
police here? Is everything all right?”

His look told her it was not, and her heart hammered.

“Where's Jonas?”

“He went to the woodshop.”

“What did he say?”

“His neighbor, Jedidiah Zimmerman, lost a cow this week. Adam Kauffman lost a hog. And the police have been investigating a murder.” At her startled look, he shook his head. “Not from New Orleans, a local murder. So Jonas had a bad feeling of déjà vu.”

“Déjà—?”

He shoved a part of his gun, and it made a clicking sound. “Just means it sounded like something that had happened before, as in Promise, as with Jacob.”

“He's here.” Her heart stumbled, and her blood chilled. “Akiva.”

“Sounds like it.”

“But…what will we do?” Her hand touched her belly as her heart ramped up the pace. “Leave? Yes. We must leave. We're just putting the Fishers…and their neighbors…everyone in danger.” Tears blurred her eyes. “But where can we go? Wherever we go…more folks will be in danger. Oh, Roc—”

“We'll be ready for them.”

She blinked away the tears and stared at him. “We can't just sit here…and wait.”

“We're not running. Not anymore, Rachel. This ends. Maybe tonight.”

Her throat closed on the scream begging to escape.

He hooked a hand around her elbow and steered her back toward the barn opening. “Don't worry. I'm here.” He flicked his gaze over the dark clouds. The rain had stopped, but the eaves of the barn still dripped. “And,” he said, “I don't think anything will happen tonight. I think he's waiting.”

“On what?”

His gaze settled on her belly.

The barn swayed in her vision, and she sagged. Roc held her against his side, tucked beneath the security of his arm, then sat her on a couple of stacked hay bales. “You okay? What do you need? Water?”

She shook her head. “Roc”—she sounded hoarse, and she clung to his arm—“we can't wait for that. We're risking everyone's lives.”

“Don't you think I know that? But we have no choice. We're not running. Not anymore. Because no matter where we go, he will find us. Or we'll live the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. That's no way to live.”

“Can't we do something?” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “Maybe we could pretend the baby is coming, bring Akiva here. But how would he know? If we could lure him in, then we might be more prepared.”

“You mean set a trap?”

“Yes, I guess.” She squeezed his hand. “Is that possible?”

“I won't endanger you, Rachel.”

“Roc, I'm already in danger. Let's do this now while we have some ability to swing things in our favor.”

Through his eyes, she could see the wheels of his brain clicking and churning, setting things in motion. “Yes, okay. It might work.”

***

It was time to break the silence. He had imposed it on himself as a way to protect Rachel, but now continued silence put her in more danger. He needed help if he was to kill Akiva, and it was time to ask for it.

But Roc's cell phone didn't get service out here in the sticks. So the next morning, through the gathering fog that hovered over the damp ground, he walked the half mile to the Mennonite neighbor, Matt Larson.

Roc dialed the number from memory and waited impatiently while it rang. It was an old-fashioned phone, still attached to the wall by a spiraling yellow cord, so it tethered Roc to the kitchen. Larson's wife, Berta, an older woman with graying hair and a disapproving brow, bustled about, pretending to be busy in the spotless kitchen, but her ears seemed to be turning like giant satellite disks toward him.

After an interminable amount of time, the line clicked, and Roc heard a tentative “Hello?”

“Roberto?”

“Roc? Roc!” Surprise and relief brightened the priest's voice. “Where are you?”

Roc sidestepped the question. “Is everything okay?”

“As good as it can be. Where did you—?”

“I don't have long, but—” He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Larson, who had her back partially turned. He tried to word things innocuously. “Do you remember where Ferris ended?”

Silence was his answer before Roberto finally asked, “What's this about, Roc?”

Roc couldn't answer. Instead, he gave Roberto the name of a bus depot in Kentucky. “Someone will meet you.”

Roc glanced over his shoulder again at Mrs. Larson, who was wiping an already clean counter, well aware that anything he said would be hitched to the Grapevine Express. “Can you do that?”

“When do you need me?”

“Yesterday.”

“I'm leaving now.” Roberto's voice held the same suppressed excitement Roc had heard many times when they'd been on the hunt.

Roc thanked the Larsons, insisted they take a twenty-dollar bill for their trouble and the long-distance call. He didn't want to be gone too long, but he was relieved he was finally doing something.

***

The sun rose steadily, a bright orb on the horizon, and made the light through the fog silvery as Roc took a brisk pace back to the Fishers'. The lonely stretch of fields and road magnified the sounds of the wind stirring corn stalks, insects chirping, and the crunch of his footsteps, playing on Roc's imagination and impatience to be back.

Then the growling of a motorcycle roared ahead of him. Roc stepped into the deep grass growing alongside the roadway. The rumble grew louder. Instead of zooming past, the motorcycle slowed until Samuel stopped in the middle of the road and stared at Roc.

“Samuel,” Roc started, “I thought—”

“Are you ready to level with me, Roc?”

“About what?”

“About all that is going on. Why Pop allowed you and Rachel to come stay with us, when you're obviously not Amish? Why the police are asking questions about dead animals and a missing
Englisher
?”

The motor thrummed between them as Roc weighed his options. Finally, he met the younger man's gaze squarely. This was a man of legal age, a man who had a right to know what was happening and what was coming.

“Let's get back to your folks.” Roc didn't want to be gone any longer than necessary. “Then I'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

While Samuel stowed the motorcycle in the barn, Roc checked inside the house and made sure Rachel was safe. Restless and wide-eyed but otherwise fine, she was helping Sally with the wash.

He then took a loop around the house and made his way to the workshop. As he entered, he was surprised to see not Samuel, but Jonas.

“Where have you been?” Jonas asked, pausing in his sanding on an unfinished rocker.

“Checking around.”

“You and Rachel need to go.”

Roc stopped and faced the older man. Jonas had every right to ask Roc to leave. But it wouldn't save any of them. And it just might cost them their lives. “Go where?”

“That's your business. It would be better that way.”

“Better for you, maybe. But…” He paused to give weight to his next words. “But maybe not. You've managed to outrun what happened to Jacob. But how far can you run? And for how long?”

“Forever if I have to.”

“You gonna move your family again?”

“I'll do what it takes to keep them safe.”

“And tell them what?”

“I don't have to tell them anything. I just have to say we're moving, and they will.”

“Will they?” Roc asked. “Samuel isn't a boy anymore. He's—”

“I'm his father and—”

“He's a man, Jonas.” Roc managed to keep his voice calm, even though Jonas's had grown louder with each exchange. “A man capable of thinking for himself and asking questions.”

Fisher's features shifted from blustery anger to suspicion. His eyes narrowed. “What have you told him?”

“Nothing. Not yet, anyway.”

The older man relaxed into defeated resignation. “I am only wanting to keep him good and safe.”

“Of course you are. I understand.” Even though Roc was dressed the same as Jonas the similarities ended there. “That's what I'm trying to do for Rachel. And you'd toss her out, just like that?”

Jonas leaned forward, the rocker creaking. Silvery sunlight slanted across his features, revealing deep angles and blanching his skin. “I'm not a bad man, but I'm not responsible for Rachel, either. Levi should not have talked me into letting you two come here. I am a simple man, trying to keep my family safe.”

“At what cost?” Roc asked as he walked away.

***

Roc angled past the buzzing of the hives toward the barn, looking for Samuel. The kid had a right to know what had happened and what was about to happen. Maybe then Samuel could keep himself safe. Because whether Roc left or stayed, Jonas, Sally, and Samuel Fisher were in danger.

Samuel was waiting for him. The young man sat on a hay bale, his forearms braced on his knees, his shoulders hunched. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, he glanced up at Roc as he entered the barn.

“So what is it you want to know?” Roc asked.

“I'll ask the questions.”

Samuel's irritation surprised Roc, but he nodded his agreement and waited for the young man to formulate his thoughts.

Clasping his large, rough-looking hands together, man's hands from working in his father's carpentry shop, Samuel spoke carefully as if measuring each word. “I've heard the rumors.”

Roc chose the cautious route, not giving away any information. “About?”

“Dead animals. A murder.”

“All right. So what?”

“So what do you have to do with all that? You an undercover cop or something?”

“Or something.”

“You after the person who's behind it?”

“Yes.”

Samuel's face crunched into a frown of frustration. “Look, you can tell me. I'm not twelve. I'm a man.”

“Yes, you are. So what do you think?”

Samuel blinked, as if taken back by Roc's question, which was a more polite way of saying “man up.” Samuel's jaw flexed. “This all happened before, didn't it? It's what happened to my brother.”

“Which brother?”

“Jacob. All right? Jacob!” Samuel lifted his voice to the rafters, and it came back to him, repeating his brother's name.

“Yes, it happened before. Back in Pennsylvania when your brother…and then six months ago again. That's when Rachel's husband died. And now here.”

Samuel stood and began pacing forward and back. Eventually he stopped and stared out the barn opening. “Okay, so what are we going to do about it?”

It wasn't what Roc expected. “You're going to do what your father tells you. And tomorrow, when my friend gets here, you and your folks are going to pack up and leave. Until it's over.”

Samuel shook his head. “I can stay and fight.”

“With what? A pitchfork? No. You have to—”

“I'm strong. And I know how to shoot.”

Roc couldn't help but smile. “You do?”

“Sure. Used to go deer hunting, remember?”

Roc had to admit it was tempting to have another pair of eyes, another weapon. But this wasn't deer hunting. Deer didn't shoot back. And they didn't bite. Roc wouldn't risk Samuel's life. The best place for Samuel and his folks was as far from here as possible.

“So why here?” Samuel asked. “Why our family? Does it have something to do with my father…Jacob?”

Roc wasn't ready to cross that line yet. He'd given Samuel enough of a warning. Trouble was on the way. But he wouldn't completely ignore Jonas Fisher's wishes either. Not yet. Not unless it had to be done.

***

Two days of phone calls and cryptic messages let Roc know Roberto was getting closer. Roc could use someone to spell him for sleep. He'd hardly slept the last two nights, propped in a chair beside the window. He'd kept watch while Rachel slept, her hand always against her belly, as if she was reassuring herself or her baby.

One night he'd dozed, his chin crashing forward, and he'd jerked awake, his hand going for the Glock.

“Roc,” Rachel had whispered.

He'd given himself a shake. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Come to bed.”

He sat up straighter, fought the urge to close his eyes. His muscles felt stiff and kinked with knots. “I'm fine.”

“You'll be too tired to fight if there is ever a fight.”

“There will be a fight, Rachel, and I promise I'll be ready.”

She got out of bed and came to him, tugged on his arm. “You need rest. Let God and his angels protect us for the rest of the night.”

He'd frowned, unable to put his faith in something unseen the way she could.

But now tonight, as he sat in the swing on the back porch while the women cleaned the kitchen, with the moon full and the sun not quite settled in its bed, the wind grew still. All was silent except for the occasional cricket chirping or bullfrog croaking. A firefly glowed nearby then extinguished. A bird flew from the barn toward the neighbor's silo. It seemed too calm.

With his stomach full from Sally Fisher's potato rolls, along with a juicy pot roast and all the trimmings, he felt his eyelids drooping. When he heard the creak of the back door, his eyes jolted open. Rachel stood in the doorway, frozen, as if caught.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Am I a prisoner?”

He frowned and pushed to his feet.

“I need to stretch my legs a bit.” Her hand fluttered at the edge of her belly, as if she were indicating the baby was at fault.

“You feeling okay?”

“Just restless.”

This waiting was killing him too. But tomorrow Roberto would be here, and they could put his plan into action. Then a sinking suspicion warned him of a different kind of trouble.

“Is it the baby?”

“We're both fine. Will you come with me or wait here until I return?”

He pushed up from the outdoor swing, another creation of Jonas's deft hands. The strain of waiting and watching was beginning to show in her eyes and the pinched corners of her mouth, but amazingly, she remained calm and steadfast.

“Where are you wanting to go?”

“Just down the road a bit.”

“Rachel—”

“It's perfectly safe.” She showed him a flashlight. “For when it gets dark.”

“How do you know it's safe?”

“I don't. I just…it's as safe as we are here.”

“We'd be out in the open.” His gaze scanned the tops of the trees as well as the dips and rises in the land, which kept him from seeing too far in any direction. It created a haven and a hazard.

“Do you think that matters much to Akiva?” she asked.

A cough inside the house alerted them that they were not alone in their conversation. It might be nice to walk and be able to talk just between them. And maybe a few minutes' walk would help wake him up. Roc held out his arm to her, and she slipped her hand through the crook at the elbow. Together, they walked down the back steps and toward the narrow road adjacent to the Fishers' front yard.

For a few minutes, their footsteps were in sync, their strides matching, the crunch of Rachel's tennis shoes and Roc's work boots in rhythm. The sun slipped behind a hill, and shadows crept across the road. Roc flicked on the flashlight, placing the rounded light ahead of Rachel's footsteps.

How far they'd come in understanding, reading, and finding comfort in each other. He would lay down his life to protect this woman. Was it simply his honor and duty, or was it something more? He suspected his determination to see her safe was more than duty.

Of course, when he killed Akiva, he would have to take Rachel home. And then what?

And
then
nothing!

Ultimately, they were on different paths. When all was finished here, he'd take her home to Pennsylvania and leave her with her family. There was more he had to do…more vampires to hunt and kill. This job would never be over.
This
was his life now. And it was no life for a woman. Especially not for Rachel, who would have a baby.

He had come a long way in his grief to even consider opening his heart to someone other than Emma. And in its own way, it did please him. But even so, his journey from here on out would have to be a lonely one. And one day, it would end badly for him, the way Ferris's life had ended. A vampire would get the best of him. Death was his destiny. Not love.

Suddenly, Rachel's hand tightened on his arm, and her footsteps slowed.

“What is it?” He glanced around, but there wasn't much to see—shades of gray and black. The moon cast pale light over the fields and fencerows. A crop of corn rustled in the slight breeze, the leaves waving at them as they passed. There were no headlights or traffic lights out here, and so the dark was deep and absorbing

She looked at him, and he could see the moonlight reflected in her eyes, which glinted with excitement. “Do you hear it?”

He listened, his ears straining, and he could make out a deep, rhythmic droning.

She quickened her pace. “Come on. It's a barn singing.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed and tugged on his arm. “You'll see.”

He kept pace with her until they had a dark structure in sight. Outside the barn, several buggies stood idle, horses quietly grazing. Light flickered in the windows, gas lanterns he supposed. As they got closer, the droning became words, but words he couldn't understand. He supposed they were singing in German or Pennsylvania Dutch or whatever it was they spoke.

Rachel walked purposefully toward the barn, as if she had the intention of joining them, but he pulled her back.

“We can't go in there, Rachel.”

“Why not?”

It took her only a moment before understanding glinted in her eyes. They did not belong. Or at least he didn't. And it would be difficult to hide his English ways in such close proximity to so many Amish.

Still several yards away from the barn, they stood together, listening, and his hand sought hers. “We can stay here and listen, if you'd like.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked away from him, toward the light of the barn. He suspected she missed her home, her family. She missed the Amish ways, her district's activities, her friends, and most especially, her husband.

He understood, for he missed his own way of life. The New Orleans he'd grown up in. Being on the force. His friends. And most of all—

But everything had changed when Emma died. He'd never again fit into his group of friends. They were sympathetic, and yet they couldn't understand what he felt. Or he didn't believe they could. And now he was even more of an outcast. A wanted man. A killer.

There was no going home…no going back now.

For a long time, Rachel stood beside him, her eyes closed, her body swaying with the slow, rhythmic voices that ranged from bass to soprano. Her lips moved silently, as if she was singing along with them in her head.

“What are they saying?” he finally asked.

She blinked and kept her gaze on the barn. “It's an old hymn based on scripture from the book of Matthew. ‘For the Son of man has come to save that which was lost. How think ye? If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.'”

Her voice broke at the end, and tears once again filled her eyes. He covered her hand upon his arm, trying to comfort her. She looked downward, and he couldn't tell if she was crying more, fighting the tears, or simply looking at their joined hands. He felt helpless to console her. But finally, she placed her other hand over his, until their hands made a tower on his arm. Then she looked up at him, and a tear toppled over and slid down her smooth cheek.

He didn't know what to say, what to do. “I'm sorry, Rachel.”

“Don't you see? That song…that verse is about me. I am…was that lost sheep. And I came home. I thought I could make everything better, fix everything I had done wrong in New Orleans by living right. By doing the right thing. By marrying Josef.” Then she shook her head. “But it only made things worse.”