Amish Country Amnesia Page 10

  Sarah accepted the money and handed it to John, who had appeared at her elbow. “Let me do that.” She turned just enough to see that John sported a dazzling smile aimed directly at Mrs. Granger. Had he heard her earlier comment about her gentleman friend? Sarah fisted her skirt, a vain attempt to dry the perspiration that now slicked her palms.

  He handed her a paper sack from a pile next to the money box and then turned his attention away.

  “He’s handsome.” Mrs. Granger seemed to be trying to keep her voice low, but it surely wasn’t low enough for Sarah’s liking. “Will I be seeing him again?”

  Sarah gently placed the jars into the bag. All she could manage was a shrug of the shoulders and a glance at the nearest door, longing for a quick exit. The money box creaked open behind her, but where was John with the change?

  A touch on the shoulder turned her attention away from Mrs. Granger. “Can you finish this? I’ll be back in a minute. Will you be all right here with Mrs. Miller?” John’s voice sounded near her ear.

  She turned to find John holding the two twenties out to her. His skin had a green tinge, not unlike the color of the money, and he looked rather woozy. “I will be all right. Are you not well?”

  He did not answer, just walked toward a nearby vendor.

  “John?”

  “The flu is going around, Sarah. Maybe he’s coming down with it?” Mrs. Granger’s comment forced Sarah’s attention away from John as he retreated from the booth. “Chicken noodle soup, that’s what my mother always prescribed. But you would know that, wouldn’t you?” She took up her bag of jar goods. “Harold’s waiting in the car for me. Can you believe he prefers to be out there and not in here shopping? Goodbye, dear. See you next week.”

  As the customer turned toward another booth, all Sarah wanted was to find John and see what was wrong. She turned in the direction he had gone and found him two vendors over, staring blankly at a quilt, still a little green. But with the money box right there and customers still pressing into Mammi Mary’s booth, she couldn’t chase after him.

  Mammi Mary needed her, so she helped another customer, keeping John within view. But as the customer finished and turned to go, Sarah found Sheriff Jaspar approaching, another man with him.

  Her throat seized her, a lump forming immediately over which she could not swallow. The sheriff? The man with him was a bit taller and looked to be solid strength, with a swagger in his walk that communicated to Sarah that no one should challenge him.

  She cleared her throat, as if she could cough up the lump. Perhaps she should just treat him like a customer? She would give Mrs. Granger her jar goods for free if she could just have her back at the booth, rather than these two.

  But as the sheriff stopped directly in front of the table, she found her mouth completely dry and unable to form any words. Why did this man strike such fear into her? Or was it the presence of both of them? Whatever it was, the sooner they stated their business and could be on their way, the better.

  “Good afternoon, Sarah.” A half smile snaked across his fleshy lips.

  A shiver slithered up her spine. All she could manage was a nod.

  “This is Simon Carlyle. He’s a fellow law-enforcement officer. We’re looking for someone who’s gone missing.”

  “Well, Jaspar, don’t scare the girl.” Carlyle’s grin portended maliciousness, and his evil tone felt like a hand closing on Sarah’s throat. “We’re just looking for someone we haven’t heard from in a while.” His left eye twitched as he spoke.

  Well, this was a whole new level of being ferhoodled. For sure and for certain, they were looking for John. Otherwise, why ask her? Her hands took on life and fiddled with the jars on the display shelves while her heart threatened to pound out from underneath her apron.

  “The man who was at your house. Did you say he was your brother?” The sheriff rested his hand on the weapon in his holster.

  She glanced toward Mammi Mary, but she seemed to be deeply involved in helping a customer. It took all her energy, but as much as she wanted to, Sarah did not look around for John. Wherever he was, she prayed he was out of sight. He was not her brother, but if she didn’t answer the question, was that lying? “He is no longer there, but I thank you for your concern.” She held her breath.

  The sheriff didn’t speak, just stared, his dark eyes boring into her, as though if he waited long enough she would spill out all the information he sought.

  The blackness of his stare threatened to crumple her, even as a muscle around her eye began to spasm. She was desperate for John’s return to help her, and yet she didn’t want to put him or Mammi Mary in harm’s way.

  What should she do?

  * * *

  The scent of it overwhelmed him, a mixture of ink and paper and a metallic odor that John could nearly taste. A hint of throbbing began at his temple, but this time it was coupled with a wave of nausea.

  It was the money. The two twenty-dollar bills that Sarah had handed him. Even after he had given it back and walked away, as far away as he dared with their pursuers possibly lurking nearby, the odor tickled his nose, clinging to him. But why was it affecting him so?

  A memory lurked. Its elusiveness irritated him like a scratchy tag on a new shirt. He couldn’t quite reach it, and he knew that if he could just get ahold of it, he could rip it out.

  He had stumbled two booths over, far enough away he wouldn’t have to answer questions from customers but close enough that he could keep an eye on Sarah. He held his fingers to his nose. The scent lingered on his skin. A tsunami of lightheadedness passed over him, but he powered through it, looking up at the ceiling to steady himself.

  The customer with the bright red blouse had left not long after John, and so John had studied the booth around him. He picked up a small wooden sign, stained a deep brown, that had been painted with the phrase Plain & Simple. The wood had been sanded but it was still rough enough to scratch at his hand and pull him away from the agony of a lost memory. A basketful of dolls in Amish dress but without faces rested nearby. Snowmen made with socks and colorful buttons filled another basket.

  John surveyed the booth and the area beyond it as the booth’s operator helped a customer with an armful of purchases. The operator accepted the bills from the customer, and John felt fixated on the stack of ten-dollar bills in her cash box. That memory, whatever it was, hovered near the edge of his mind, tantalizing in its closeness yet completely out of his reach.

  If he closed his eyes, would that help? If he blocked out all distractions and tried to summon one single image connected with the odor of the ink and paper of the money, could he remember? Would his mind be able to connect the dots as to why the aromas brought such strong sensations?

  He lowered his eyelids, letting the darkness consume him. The noise of the market around him still filtered through, but with effort he could ignore it. The vivid green of a twenty-dollar bill floated in the blackness, but nothing else. Maybe it had nothing to do with the men who were after him and Sarah. Maybe he was a rich man with the love of money. Or perhaps he was a poor man, constantly in need. Either of those were valid reasons for the effect the bills had on him.

  There was no point in pursuing that memory any further. He opened his eyes and turned back to Mrs. Miller’s booth, rolling his shoulders as if that could shrug off the disappointment that he couldn’t remember anything exact.

  But the two men with Sarah weren’t customers. When had they arrived? John immediately recognized the sheriff and pushed him to the periphery of his concentration. The other man, though...

  A jolt like a stroke of lightning coursed through John, and he nearly staggered from the weight of it. He knew that man.

  On instinct, he sidestepped to a position behind a rack of handmade signs. He picked one up and fingered it, hoping he looked like he was admiring the merchandise. At eye level there was a break in between the
racks of signs, and John peeked through at the two men. The man with the sheriff was definitely familiar. John knew him from somewhere, that much was certain. But no name or place or relationship came to mind. The clothing was nondescript, dark pants with a black jacket, and his haircut and features, from what John could see, were also unremarkable.

  Given that he was with the sheriff and that the sheriff had already proven to be less than helpful, John doubted there was any virtue in his visit to Sarah’s booth. But as he stared, the all-too-familiar haze invaded his synapses. Just like with the money, though, no memory would come forth.

  He jerked his attention to Sarah. The two men pressed against the table, as close as they could get to her. She stood still, seeming to hold her own against the presence of the men. But the way her hands pressed flat against her apron and skirt, the stretch of the skin around her eyes, the tautness of her shoulders... He needed to get back to her and get her away from the men.

  Mrs. Miller was helping a customer at the far end of her stall and didn’t seem to have seen the sheriff. Still, though, he needed to protect the elderly woman and draw the men away from her. There was one predictable thing about bad men—they were unpredictably bad.

  He returned the wooden sign to the rack and pulled his hat farther down on his head. His short buzz cut was nothing like the Amish bowl style of haircut, and the more the hat hid that fact, the better. One step out of the booth made him feel exposed, but the beautiful Amish woman and her surrogate grandmother needed him. He would not fail them.

  As he stepped closer, he could hear their voices and see the man’s left eye twitching as he talked. A memory pressed on his temples. The man was lying to Sarah. That was his tell, when his eye twitched. John still couldn’t place him or remember his name, but perhaps that would come in time.

  For now, his mission was clear. Save Sarah. Draw the men away from Mammi Mary.

  He continued back toward the booth slowly, acting like he was looking at the goods for sale on the way. She glanced at him but managed to keep recognition out of her gaze.

  With another pull on his hat, he picked up a jar of apple butter and pretended to examine it. Now that he was close enough to hear, he knew that the two men were pressing her for information about the man who was at her house the other day. About him. One leaned in close with a veiled threat, his hand holding tight her forearm.

  With what must be muscle memory, his chest tightened, his arms tensed. Was he ready for a fight? Had he been a brawling man? He pushed those questions from his mind and focused on Sarah, who had edged in his direction.

  He replaced the apple butter on the shelf and picked up the chowchow. His disguise as an Amish man was only good as long as it lasted. With his best attempt at a Pennsylvania German accent, he asked Sarah about the goods. “Please, what do you put in the chowchow?”

  Relief wobbled onto her face as she looked at him. She looked back at the sheriff with a glance and jerked her arm out of his grasp. “Excuse me, Sheriff Jaspar. I need to help this customer.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, she turned to John. “Each batch is different, jah?” She pointed to the jar label, and he prayed that the two men didn’t notice the slight wobble in her hand. “This has green tomatoes, some red and yellow bell peppers, cucumbers and onion. Also some carrots and green beans from the garden.”

  “Sounds gut.” John scruffed a hand over his chin. He didn’t have the beard of a married Amish man, so perhaps he could pass himself off as unmarried? But he did have a few days of stubble, and he had no idea if an Amish man ever had stubble.

  As he slowly placed the jar on the edge of the table, he snuck a glance at the man with Sheriff Jaspar. The man was staring at him, fine wrinkles on his forehead creased in recognition. For a moment, their eyes met, and John struggled not to step back from the cold deadness in the man’s eyes.

  “Jedediah,” the man hissed. He snaked a hand out to grasp John’s arm.

  Forcing himself away from the man’s stare, John glanced at Sarah with a small nod. “Jah, I will take this.” But instead of picking up the jar of chowchow again, he let his free hand knock it off the table along with a couple of jars of canned tomatoes. As the containers fell, he jerked his arm out of the other man’s grasp.

  The jars shattered as they hit the floor. The many ingredients of the chowchow mingled with the tomatoes to form a sticky, red-and-yellow mess that spread quickly across the cement. The two men jumped back to protect themselves from the bits of glass and goo as a large splotch hit John’s leg. The man who had just grabbed John slipped on the edge of the mess, flailing his arms out to steady himself.

  “Ach, I am sorry,” John called loudly as he stepped back. “What a mess!” At his exclamation, a couple of other Amish and a few nearby customers and vendors noticed the spill and rushed to help clean it up. One vendor grabbed a roll of paper towels nearby and inserted himself in between John and the men, ready to drop to his knees and wipe it up.

  It was just the muddle he had hoped to create. Well-intentioned folks muscled in to help with the cleanup, brooms appearing to sweep up the glass that had scattered even to other booths. John hated to cause the mess for others to clean up and waste Mrs. Miller’s jar goods, but it provided a way out. He dashed around the table and grabbed Sarah’s hand, heading for a door marked Exit. At the door, he glanced back at Mammi Mary. She nodded at him, an acknowledgment of gratitude for what he had done to draw the men away, and held her hands together as if praying.

  Inside the door, though, a hallway appeared before them, but it was better than back to the booth. “Come on,” he urged her, and then maneuvered them down the hallway toward a corner. Crates and boxes and folding chairs littered the area.

  Halfway down the hallway, Sarah’s hand slipped out of his as he rushed on. “Wait!” Her cry of help turned him back to find her skirt hem snagged on a stack of crates. “I am caught.” She sought the spot of fabric that had stuck on the wooden edge and tugged, but it remained fast.

  “Do I bring the crate?”

  “No. It’ll slow us down. Let me help.” He bent over the offending stack of crates, alternating between frantically trying to loose the material of her skirt that was caught and looking back the way they had come. No matter which way he worked it or how Sarah twisted it, the fabric would not come free.

  “Look.” Sarah’s whisper was laced with panic.

  The sheriff and the other man stood at the end of the hallway, the direction from which John and Sarah had come.

  They were cut off. Whatever lay around that corner, that was their lot.

  With a loud rip, John tore the skirt loose.

  Free again, Sarah dashed down the hallway. John followed close behind, spurred on faster as the sound of the men’s shoes clumping on the floor seemed to catch up with them.

  Around the corner, a door loomed up. John nearly bumped into Sarah as she grabbed for the handle. “Out?”

  “Yes. Go!” He reached around her to grab the door and laid a hand on her back to propel her outside. The blast of cold on the perspiration that dotted his face made him gasp, but he gulped in a large breath of fresh air and pushed on.

  He quickly assessed that they had come out the side of the building. Pointing the way, he followed Sarah around the closest corner and to the back of the brick building. Just ahead of them, a row of tall arborvitae trees formed a hedge around a Dumpster.

  “There.” He kept his voice low, but a glance back showed the men had not caught up. “Behind the evergreens.”

  The stench hit him as soon as he found secure positions for both Sarah and himself. His stomach roiled at the stink of rotting food and whatever else had been placed in the large garbage bin. He prayed they would not have to hide there for long.

  A small break in between the trees afforded a protected view of a portion of the parking lot. John leaned forward, the scratch of the eve
rgreen limbs scraping on his face. The sheriff’s vehicle pulled into view, and John jerked back, pulling a branch across him. Through the needles, he watched the car cruise by, the sheriff at the wheel and the other man in the passenger seat. They were scanning both sides of the parking lot, but as far as John could tell, they didn’t have any idea where he and Sarah had gone.

  John slowly pulled the hat farther down over his head and forced himself to return slowly to his spot deep in the arborvitaes. Sarah was watching him with wide eyes, and he put his finger to his lips to signal her to remain quiet.

  She was trembling, and he took her hand to steady her as he motioned for her to get down behind the Dumpster. One side of their hiding space was completely open to allow access to the garbage bin.

  As he lowered himself to his knees, the sheriff’s vehicle stopped, directly in front of their hideout.

  ELEVEN

  John steadied himself against the bin, his heart twisting within his chest at the sight of Sarah. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her hands trembled from fright.

  The sheriff and the other man were still there, hovering on the opposite side of the trash bin. The hum of the car’s engine buzzed in his ears and pulsed through his arteries.

  Running wasn’t an option. Even if they could sneak through the evergreens, surely the movement of the branches as they pushed through would alert the men to their presence.

  Staying wasn’t an option. Even in top physical condition, there was only so long a person could stay squatting on his haunches. Add in the bitter winter cold, and their time was limited.

  And now he had to sneeze. The tickle quickly became overwhelming, and he wiggled his nose even though that did nothing to alleviate the irritation.

  The vehicle’s droning sound began to move away. He hadn’t heard a car door, so it seemed safe to assume that both remained in the vehicle that was now leaving. Sarah continued to stare at him, her eyes shadowed with fear, and he cut his view toward the other side of the Dumpster, hoping to communicate with her that he was going to check on the other side. After a gentle reassuring squeeze of her hand, he withdrew from her grasp. On the balls of his feet, he spun toward the edge of the large bin and peered around the edge.