Rebecca's Return (15 page)

Mike might solve this case and find the one who had hit the buggy. Then again he might not. The fact that there was no one around to claim responsibility pointed quite distinctly to guilt. Why else would the person run? And was it done intentionally, or was it an accident?

Was it possible the buggy didn’t have lights, or perhaps they were malfunctioning? From Beatrice’s experience with the Amish, that was unlikely. She had always noted how careful the Amish were to keep their lights in working condition. Then there was the rectangular slow-moving vehicle sign posted on the back of each buggy as a backup.

Beatrice knew from driving up behind buggies at night in her squad car, that the signs lighted up well even without lights. There could then be no reason to hit this buggy in town, unless someone was impaired or careless.

“Any ideas?” she asked Mike.

“Some tracks in the ditch—so the guy didn’t stay on the road.”

“No skid marks either,” Beatrice said, having noted that earlier.

“Must not have slowed down much, or very little,” Mike agreed. “Swerved though. That’s what threw the boy against the house. Saved the horse too.”

“You want to ask the neighbors?” Beatrice was thinking of Mr. Urchin, now seated in front of his house, his porch light on. He usually knew everything that went on around the neighborhood, and she had seen him out on his porch minutes after the ambulance arrived.

“No—go ahead,” Mike told her, busy with his report.

Beatrice made her way to the Urchin yard. When she got within earshot, she called out “Good evening” to the neighbor who looked cold despite wearing a bathrobe over dark blue flannel night clothes.

“Evening,” he said. “Buggy got it good.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “you see anything?”

“Young Amish man.” Mr. Urchin ignored her question.

“Yes. John Miller. You know him?”

Mr. Urchin nodded, his brown bathrobe soaking up the beams from the porch light, deepening the sense of night. “Lives on top of the Ridge. Good people—his parents. Those are the ones to go young—the good ones.”

“He didn’t die,” Beatrice told him.

“Oh.” Mr. Urchin was nonplussed. “Just told the missus he was dead. Looked that way on the stretcher.”

“He was unconscious.” Beatrice wanted to get on with the conversation but knew better than to rush the man. If she wanted information, it would have to come out in Mr. Urchin’s own good time.

“Didn’t look so to me,” Mr. Urchin retorted. “He wasn’t moving when they took him away.”

“He was just unconscious,” Beatrice repeated. “You didn’t happen to see or hear what hit him?”

“Mighty strange. He looked dead.” Apparently Mr. Urchin was not about to be convinced just yet. “Who says he was unconscious?”

“Paramedics.”

“Young people—all of ’em.” Mr. Urchin snorted through his nose, his brown robe separating a little more at the collar. “They know nothing nowadays. Think they do, but they’re dumber than rocks. Don’t teach ’em nothing at school anymore. Drawing pictures and talking about their feelings. Ought to teach ’em read’n and write’n.”

“The paramedics are usually right,” Beatrice told him, hoping not to anger the old man too much. “They know what they’re doing.”

“Looked dead to me.” Mr. Urchin settled back into his chair.

“Did you see anything of the accident?” Beatrice probed again.

“Been out here on my chair the whole time.” Mr. Urchin snorted again, scorn in the sound, apparently directed at the implication that he would have missed anything this important.

“I mean before it happened?”

Mr. Urchin seemed to be thinking, so Beatrice waited. “It was that young boy from down the hill.” His head tilted toward the north of town. “Jeremy—wild one he is. Hate to see him in trouble like this, but he always is. Roars through here all the time.”

“You saw him?” Beatrice asked.

“Yep—right after that awful crash. I saw the red pickup truck when I looked out the window.”

“You were up then and saw it?”

“Got up.” Mr. Urchin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Night troubles—bathroom you know.”

“And you saw Jeremy’s truck?”

“Saw it with my own eyes. Right after the crash.” Mr. Urchin seemed to be getting more certain by the second. “Always knew that young fellow would end up to no good. Rough upbringing—that’s what he’s had. Running wild like he does. No discipline—that’s what’s wrong with kids nowadays. No one takes control or makes them own up to what they do. Sorry to see him come to this end. Really sorry.”

“You sure about this?” Beatrice eyed the old man skeptically.

“Now, lookie here,” Mr. Urchin replied, getting up from his chair. “Do I look like I’s lying. I told you what I saw and that’s just the way it is. That’s another trouble this world is in. No one believes the ones who really know. Takes the word of the smart alecks from the universities over the ones with sense. Common sense and decency’s being lost, that’s what I say. Of course I saw him. As plain as day.”

“I see.” Beatrice tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Well, you have a good night, Mr. Urchin.” There was really no sense in asking anymore questions. It would just get the old man’s dander up more.

“A good night to you.” Mr. Urchin settled back into his chair, apparently planning on staying there until this show was completely over.

“Know anything?” Mike asked Beatrice, when she got back to the street.

“Said it was the boy from the other end of town.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

“Worth checking out?”

“I suppose,” Beatrice told him, seeing her chance. “Ask and ask again.”

“That’s what I say,” Mike grinned, recognizing his own words. “You’ll take care of that?”

“I’ve got the time, yes.”

“Good—I just got a call. Another accident out on 32. You’ll get the county to clean up in the morning?”

“I’ll take care of it. It’s my mother’s house.”

Mike grinned again. “The report will be at the office, if you need it.”

“Thanks. I’ll get a copy.”

Beatrice felt her anger rise as she recalled the sight of the comatose young Amish boy, his unmoving form strapped to the stretcher. It would not go well for whoever did this. She was determined to see to that.

Walking quickly to the front door, she entered her mother’s house without knocking. Isabelle was in the kitchen, seated, a cup of freshly brewed tea in her hand, its steam still rising. “Want some?” Isabelle asked. “Just made it.”

“Mom, you should be in bed.” Beatrice couldn’t help from saying it.

“Old people don’t sleep anyway,” Isabelle said, without much emotion. “Sleep was all a long time ago.”

“That’s why you should have someone looking after you.” Beatrice went to the subject automatically, without thinking.

Her mother looked up, shrugging her shoulders, “You and Wallace can forget the nursing home for a while yet. I thought for a minute there I was hearing things, but it really was something serious. God will take care of the young man. Me too,” she added.

Beatrice decided to leave the subject alone for now. It would all come in its own good time, she hoped.

“Mom, did you see anything before the crash?” Beatrice asked.

“Nope—just heard it. I told you before. Didn’t see anything.”

“Mr. Urchin claims he saw Jeremy’s truck.”

Isabelle glared at the mention of that name. “Like
he
knows anything. Thinks he does. Meddlesome body, he can be.”

“Seems pretty certain.” Beatrice smiled at her mother’s reaction.

“Certain about a lot of things,” Isabelle said. “Take it with a grain of salt. That’s what I say.”

“I’ll need to check it out.”

“A nice young man fell against my house.” Isabelle returned to the other subject.

“You shouldn’t have been praying for him,” Beatrice told her, knowing what her mother had been doing. “He’s Amish.”

“So what?” Isabelle’s eyes flashed now. “They’re people too.”

“But—it just doesn’t seem right.”

“I’ll pray for whomever I want,” Isabelle told her, sipping on her tea. “Sure you don’t want some? Everyone can use the Lord’s help. Even you can, Beatrice, especially with that shiftless husband of yours.”

“Mother.” Beatrice’s voice had a warning in it.

“Well, he is. You married him, so now you live with him.”

“He’s got his good points.”

“So does a skunk,” Isabelle retorted.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “He’s good to me, Mom. You should be thankful. At least I don’t come home beaten.”

“A low standard to live by.”

“I’ll see you then, Mom.” Beatrice reached for the doorknob. “You get some sleep.”

“I’m
not
going to the nursing home,” Isabelle said quietly.

“I know, Mom, I know.” Beatrice stepped out into the night again.
Getting old must be hard. No sense in making it harder than it already is. But the thought of Mom living here alone is still unnerving.

Beatrice knew her mother would say she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord with her. But she didn’t quite have the faith her mother did. That had gone by the wayside years ago, eroded by living with the world’s trouble and evil.

She sighed as she turned her thoughts to checking out Jeremy. No doubt her mother would be praying for him too.

She got in her cruiser and drove the distance to Jeremy’s house. Pulling into the driveway, her headlights lit up the red truck in question, holding it like prey in two giant claws. Playing her flashlight along the sides of the truck as she got out of the cruiser, she looked for signs of damage or paint scratches. Fully expecting to find them readily there, she was a little surprised when she found none. Going around the truck a second time, she had to admit there simply was no damage. It was impossible for this vehicle to have hit a buggy an hour before. Apparently old man Urchin had been too certain.

Behind her a door opened and Jeremy’s father, Alex, whom she knew well, stood in the doorway. “Anything wrong, Beatrice?” he asked.

“Just checking. Jeremy home all evening?”

“Since nine or so. Got in early.” His voice was not too friendly. “Something wrong?”

“Just checking,” she repeated. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Quite all right,” he said sounding relieved.

She got back in the cruiser as he shut the front door. “Mr. Urchin, next time I’ll ask someone else too,” she said in frustration, backing out on the blacktop road.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

I
saac found the correct street once he was in town. The bright streetlights blinded his eyes until they adjusted. His horse looked like it had the same problem by the way it shook its head as they drove under the lights. A carful of young people, driving slowly around them from behind, gave the buggy a good looking over.

“Must think us strange,” Miriam said, watching the driver pull his sunglasses down for a better look.

“It’s just the late time of night. Buggies coming in during the day look more normal.”

“Why’s he wearing sunglasses in the dark then?” Miriam asked.

“Just the world’s way,” Isaac told her. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“Lots of things don’t make sense. Does
this
make sense to you?” she asked.

He thought about it for a moment. “You mean John?”

Miriam nodded as they drove under another streetlight.

“Don’t know. Haven’t thought much about it.”

“He’s our son. The child of our old age. Bethany was born soon after we were married. I thought we would never have another child.”

“Then we should consider ourselves blessed to have had him.”

“You know I do—always have.” Her tone seemed to rebuke him. “Why would God take away such a blessing?”

“He hasn’t.”

“No,” she allowed. “But what if God takes him—in another way.”

“What do you mean?”

Miriam was slow to speak. “What if…if…”

“What if he’s paralyzed?” Isaac finally said the dreaded words, feeling glad they were now out.

“That’s what I mean. What if God takes him—in that way.”

“Then we must bear the burden.
Da Hah gebt un Da Hah nemt.
”

“I know,” she said softly. “The Lord gives and the Lord takes. That’s what you say on Sunday. Do you still say it now?”

“I just did.” He pulled on the reins to make another turn.

“I know,” Miriam said patiently. “I know you well enough for that, Isaac. Do you feel that way—really?”

Isaac found himself lost in thought, looking out at the passing streets. “No—not really,” he allowed. “But that doesn’t change anything. I still believe it. Our feelings must follow our faith, Miriam. Not the other way around. You know that. That is how we live our lives. We couldn’t go on for very long if we doubted everything when the feelings weren’t right.”

“Do you think God actually means that?” she asked gently, as if she were treading on thin ice. “I know Job said it, but…”

“Yes, He does really mean it,” Isaac said without hesitation. “It’s the Word of God.”