The Amish Clockmaker (49 page)

Then again, I told myself how could I afford
not
to go there? Each day the expansion wasn't finished and open to customers was a day we lost money. If I took this trip and found Clayton, then that might just be the end of the matter, in which case the cost would be worth it. Surrendering to the wiser option, I called the company I used most often to hire a car and driver.

The next morning, as I headed northeastward toward my destination, I began to think about Clayton and how he had ended up where he did. Had he stepped off a bus in Mountain Gap by some random choice, or was that just where his travel money ran out? Had he been to other towns along the way where he had stayed briefly and then moved on after someone recognized
him? Was this the place he started his new life because he had truly run out of options? Or was this the place where people finally stopped whispering, “Isn't that the Amish man who pushed his wife off a barn loft to her death and got away with it?”

We hit the Northeast Extension at Allentown, and about twenty minutes later entered a tunnel that looked as if it went straight through a mountain. When we came out the other side, I couldn't help but gasp.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” the driver asked. “I love this view, the way it just pops out at you like that.”

I agreed, my eyes following the lush and green landscape as it slipped past the window. It
was
beautiful, but it was so much more. Peering around me, I began to understand why Clayton may have settled here. Because of that tunnel, it felt like a completely different world on this side, as if nothing back there could touch you once you came through. In the space of that single transition, the terrain changed from rolling green hills to downright mountainous, with craggy rocks on all sides, meandering creeks far below the road, and tiny towns nestled among the foothills. After all he'd been through, Clayton would have felt safe here, I thought, like he'd left the old behind and could start anew.

We took the first exit and wound our way around to the town of Mountain Gap. I had asked the driver to take me to the church Clayton mentioned in his letter to Joan, which was the only address I had to go on thus far. The 1940s-era tawny brick church and white steeple sat on a large lot with an expansive lawn, trimmed trees, and a sign out front with letters that could be moved around to say what you wanted. Today's message was:
His mercies are new every morning
.

Only two cars were in the parking lot, but at least someone was there. One of the cars was an older model Buick, well cared for but dated. I'd seen plenty of these drive through Ridgeview, and the passengers were nearly always gray haired. That was a good sign, as I needed to be able to talk to someone older who may have an idea of whom I was trying to find.

The driver dropped me off at the church's office entrance, handing me a slip of paper with his cell phone number on it before I got out and telling me to give him a call when I was ready to be picked up. I'd had to hire the man for the whole day, so while I was inside trying to track down Clayton Raber, this guy would be seeing the sights or eating or otherwise killing time while he waited to hear from me.

Amanda had packed up the clock carefully and put it in a canvas bag, so I lifted that from beside me now, climbed from the car, and headed inside. I opened the door, and a pleasant-looking woman seated behind a desk smiled up at me. The nameplate in front of her told me her name was Denise. She looked to be about thirty or so. Perhaps not the gray-haired owner of the Buick I was hoping for.

“Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully but with obvious curiosity as she took in my Amish garb. “Can I help you?

I smiled back at her. “I sure hope so. I'm trying to locate a man who may or may not be a member here now but definitely was at one time. I'm hoping he's on the church roster, and if not that someone in your congregation remembers him and will perhaps know where he might be living now, if he is indeed still alive.”

“Oh, well, it's possible,” she answered brightly. “How long ago was it? We have some older members who have lived here all their lives.”

“This would have been sixty years ago.”

“Wow! Sixty years!” she said, but then she seemed to have thought of something. Her smile grew bigger. “Wait a minute. Would this person happened to have been raised Amish, like you?”

“
Ya
.”

“Would it be Clay Raber you are looking for?”

My heart just about slammed into my stomach. “
Ya
! Do you know where he is?”

“Sure do. He lives about five miles outside of town. He comes to church here every Sunday. My in-laws bring him. And my next-door neighbor mows his lawn.”

I was stunned nearly beyond words. I'd hoped so desperately that Clayton might still be in the same place he ended up all those years ago, but just in case he'd moved since that last letter, I'd steeled myself for bad news.

Now I'd been given the very best news of all.

“He's still here,” I said with a huge grin.

Denise laughed, obviously happy to have so easily made my day. “Oh, yes. Clay has been here for ages. He's one of our oldest members, bless his heart. And one of the dearest. Are you family?”

“Well, not exactly. I live in the house he grew up in. I have a property matter I need his help on.” Glancing at the bag, I added, “And I have something that belongs to him.”

She tipped her head in wonderment. “He's never had anyone Amish ask about him that I can recall. I'm a little surprised you're here.”

I wasn't sure what she meant. “Surprised?”

“Well, we all know he was raised Amish, and he still lives Plain, but he's never made it seem as though, you know… ” Her voice trailed off without finishing her thought.

“Does he have family here? Did he ever remarry?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the notion that Clayton was living just five miles from where I stood.

“I don't believe so. I've only been here for the last fifteen years, but—” A figure appeared in the doorway to the rest of the offices. A woman with silvery-gray hair stood there, her gaze on me. Denise went on. “Oh, Bonnie can tell you. She's known Clay nearly her whole life, haven't you?”

The woman named Bonnie was still staring at me, and I could see that a dozen thoughts were running through her head.

“You know Clay Raber?” she asked.

“I live in his old house. I have something that belongs to him. And I need to talk with him about an important property matter.”

She regarded me for another moment, as though she were sizing me up. It was easy to see she was being protective of Clayton, and it took me a second to realize that must mean she cared about him and didn't want to see him get hurt. Bonnie looked old enough to know what had sent Clayton away from his home and family six decades ago.

“Perhaps you would like to come on back to the library with me so we can chat,” she said.

“Sure.” I nodded to Denise, whom Bonnie clearly wanted to exclude from this particular conversation. “Thanks for your help.”

She smiled but said nothing.

Bonnie led me down a short, carpeted hallway past a set of restrooms and a door labeled “Sanctuary,” finally coming to a stop at the last door on the right, marked “Library.” She stepped inside and motioned to a reading table with four wooden chairs pushed neatly around it.

We sat, and I placed the bag on the floor next to me. When I was settled, she extended her hand.

“I'm Bonnie Dryer, by the way.” Her tone was cordial, but there was only a faint smile on her lips.

I shook her hand. “Matthew Zook.”

“And you're from Ridgeview?”

“
Ya
.”

She paused a moment. “No one from Lancaster County has ever come to see Clay before,” she said, inviting me to explain myself.

“No one knew where he was,” I replied, as politely as I could. “He's been gone a long time. And it appears he and his sisters did not keep in touch.”

“How did you find him here, then?”

“His one surviving sister received a few letters from him over the years. One of them mentioned this church. That's pretty much all I had to go on. That and a Mountain Gap P.O. box number.”

“I see. And you've come to talk to him about a property matter?”

“That's right,” I said, and for about the tenth time in less than a week, I laid out the whole issue—only this time I threw in every detail I could think of, feeling that the better she understood the problem, the more likely she was to help me with the solution.

I even pulled out copies of the conflicting survey maps and the as-yet-to-be-completed quitclaim deed. Once I'd gone through everything, I left my visual aids out on the table and waited for her to respond.

“Sounds like you've had quite the search trying to hunt him down,” she said, studying the maps.

“My business depends on it, ma'am.”

She handed back the map and leaned forward in her seat, her posture telling me she'd made a decision.

“I know why Clay left Lancaster County. I know what happened to his wife. She died in a tragic accident that was not his fault, but everyone back home thought it was. I don't want that past coming back to haunt him now.”

I saw the protectiveness in her eyes, and it touched me. Indeed, when Clayton Raber lost one family, God had managed to give him another.

Taking a deep breath, I told Bonnie the rest of the story, the part about growing up in Clayton's room and feeling such a strange kinship and believing he was innocent even before my talk with Detective De Lucca confirmed it. Apparently I managed to convince her that I meant her dear friend no harm, because once I was finished, she rewarded me with a genuine smile.

“How did he end up here, if I may ask?” I said. “I mean, it's a beautiful area, but why this? Why here? Or maybe you were too young to remember back then.”

“Oh, I remember. I was fifteen when Clay first showed up.”

There was such a dreamy tone to her voice that I waited, hoping she might go on. A moment later she did.

“I'm the one who found him on the church's doorstep in the rain one early Monday morning. My father was the pastor here, and he and my mother and little brother and I lived in the parsonage that used to be next door. I had gotten up to let the dog out, and I saw a man huddled under the eaves of the church trying to stay out of the rain. Millie saw him too and started barking at him. Clay had been asleep, and he startled awake when he heard her. He saw me and Millie and told me I didn't need to worry, that he'd be on his way. But I could see that he had been there all night in the rain. And I could tell he was an Amish man. When I saw him start to limp away, I assumed he'd been hurt. I knew my papa wouldn't have wanted me to turn my back on someone who needed help when it was in my power to give it. That's not how I was raised.

“I asked him if he needed a doctor and he just shook his head. Well, I thought, maybe he didn't need a doctor but he sure needed to get in out of the rain. So I asked him if he needed a warm place to dry off, and he just kept trying to hobble away, saying he'd be on his way. Millie was barking the whole time, and I didn't realize that my papa had stepped out onto the porch and had seen what I had seen.

“ ‘Come now, friend,' Papa said. ‘Wherever you're headed will be nicer to get to once you've dried off and had some breakfast.'

“Well, Clay stopped and turned toward us. I don't know if it was the way my papa said ‘friend' or the thought of breakfast that made him stop, but stop he did. And I saw the longing in his eyes even from fifty feet away. Then Papa asked him where he was headed. Clay took his time answering. ‘Nowhere,' he finally said. And Papa said something like, ‘Well, nowhere's a place that can always wait.' And so he came inside.”

Bonnie paused a moment, breathed in deeply, and I could see that she remembered the day Clayton arrived as if it were yesterday.

“Papa gave Clay dry clothes to change into as everything he had on and in his duffel bag was wet. Mama laid out all of his clothes on the drying rack in the kitchen. He didn't say much as he ate, and the more Papa asked him questions, the faster Clay chewed so he could be finished, get his own clothes back on, and leave. At some point Papa realized who Clay was. I saw a look pass over my papa's face, and I knew he had suddenly figured something out. It had been in all the daily newspapers, the story of the Amish wife who had died under suspicious conditions and that there was insufficient evidence to
charge her husband in her death. Clay saw that look pass across Papa's face too. He stood up and started to thank my mama for the fine breakfast and could he please have his own clothes back so he could be on his way and trouble them no longer.

“Now, my papa always had a way of seeing into peoples' hearts. Some said he had the gift of discernment. I don't know if he did, but I do know he was the smartest man I ever knew. And the kindest. He told Clay to please sit back down. His clothes weren't dry, his food wasn't eaten, and his coffee cup was only half drunk. It seemed to take a long time for Clay to take his chair, and when he did, he didn't pick up his fork. He put his head in his hands, and he suddenly looked like he had just crawled twenty miles through a desert wilderness. I had never seen anyone look so tired so quickly.