A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel (12 page)

Information about the King family was sparse; however, she’d found a site sponsored by the town of Halfway. The site included a map that detailed the town’s retail establishments, including quaint tourist stops that might prove to be good sources of information, so she’d copied the basic map into her journal.

She rubbed her eyes, feeling tired but afraid to stop working. If she wasn’t prepared, this might all blow up in her face. A phone call to the King family stand at Reading Terminal Market had steered her toward Halfway, as the woman who answered the phone, Adam’s cousin, had told her she didn’t expect to see him in Philadelphia for a few more weeks. “They’ll stay local for the winter months,” the woman had assured her. So tomorrow morning,
Remy was off to Halfway to get her interview, despite the trepidation rumbling in the pit of her stomach.

She was afraid of failing. Afraid she wouldn’t be able to find Adam King or his family. Afraid they would refuse to talk with her. Afraid she wouldn’t even make it to the town of Halfway, as she was not a confident driver for long-distance travel. And then what would she tell Arlene? After the buildup, she wouldn’t be able to show her face in the office without some sort of article. If she failed, Herb would use her misstep as leverage to pull her into his new venture with Stu and Max Menkowitz. Just the thought of them made her palms sweat. The memory of dinner with the men was still fresh in her mind; it had been a boring event, full of jokes that weren’t funny and tales of gambling in Vegas. She rubbed her hands on her pajamas, realizing Herb’s big plans added to the pressure to make this story work.

But when she considered all the things that might go wrong, Remy was most worried about offending Adam. She considered him a friend. Well, she liked to think of him as a friend, and didn’t want to wrong him. After the phone calls she had made this week, it appeared that Adam would be a key source for the story, unless she could gain information from the community. When she had called the sheriff’s office in Halfway, she was told, in a kind but firm way, to take a hike.

“The investigation has not turned up any new information that wasn’t reported last March,” Sheriff Hank Hallinan had told her. “It would be much appreciated if you media people would just leave this family alone. Haven’t they been through enough?”

When she reported the sheriff’s statement to Arlene, her boss had glared at her over her bejeweled reading glasses. “Are you telling me there’s no story here?”

“There’s definitely a story,” Remy had insisted. “It’s just a matter of talking with the family.”

“But they’re insulated. They’re Amish. It’s a different culture. They’re not starstruck like the rest of America. They don’t want to make headlines.”

“I’ll get the interview with Adam King,” Remy had said over the nervous thrumming of her pulse. “I know him. He’s … he’s a friend of mine.”

In retrospect, she realized that “know” may have been a bit presumptuous, but they had met more than once, chatted, and he’d remembered her. In this age of technology, she figured there was something special about a personal connection. Especially when it came to the Amish.

When Arlene had questioned her further, Remy had tossed out some details she’d learned from her research on the Amish. “When I met Adam King, he was coming back from his rumspringa, the ‘running around’ period when teens are given freedom from the confines of their culture.”

“A custom that’s garnered a lot of interest lately. People seem to think it’s like college frat boys at spring break.” Arlene rested her chin in the V of her thumb and pointing finger, as if settling in to hear more.

“That’s a misconception, but we can clear that up in the article. Of course, we won’t be able to run any family photographs with the piece,” Remy had warned the big boss. “The Amish avoid being photographed. They believe it’s wrong to get caught up in ‘graven images.’ ”

“Right.” Arlene had seemed impressed. “As I remember, we ran last year’s reports with photos of a Lancaster County farm, and shots of a horse and buggy. Anonymous Amish people were photographed from behind or from a distance.”

“I suppose that would work,” Remy had said, amazed that she was suddenly discussing photo layout with the editor in chief.

Now, leafing through the pages of her journal, she reviewed
the names of the King children—all eleven of them—and tried to picture them in her mind. Adam, Jonah, and Mary were closest to her in age, though Gabe and Sadie weren’t far behind. She wondered if the teenaged twin girls were identical, and how they get along with Ruthie. The little baby, Katie, would have to be walking by now, and Sam was almost old enough for kindergarten. And the little boy who had been with his parents that deadly night—Simon. How had he coped with grief and trauma?

Glancing over the driving directions to Halfway, she hoped to find these answers tomorrow. She would drive out to Lancaster County in the morning and chat up the locals. The trip wouldn’t take but an hour or two, especially with Saturday’s lighter traffic. From the town’s website, she thought that Molly’s Roadside Restaurant might be a good place to start. There was also the Sweet ’N’ Simple Bakery, Kraybill’s Fish and Game, and Ye Olde Tea Shop. Behind the town hall was an area designated for a farmers market, but Remy couldn’t tell if it was open year-round.

She plunked a painted stone paperweight on her open journal, then moved into the kitchen area, her stomach growling at the thought of food. Dinner had been popcorn and a diet Coke. Inside the fridge, there was only ketchup, a wax container of moo shu pork, pickle relish, and two diet sodas. She closed the fridge, resolving to get some sleep and grab a good breakfast in the morning.

With the lights out, moonlight shone from the wide window. She hitched up her flannel pajamas and nestled on the wide sill, soaking up the night for a moment.

Although her studio apartment was small, its location in the Museum District was excellent, and she never tired of the illumination and color and activity that transpired ten stories down. The orderly line of car lights gliding along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway made her feel as if life were moving on in an orderly fashion,
and the pillared façade of the Rodin Museum, awash with light, seemed to connect wandering souls like her to the earth.

But tonight it was the moon that drew her eye. Like a wedge of cheese, it sat in the upper corner of the window, as if it were swinging from a hook.

A cheese moon.
Tell me that’s not your subconscious reminding you of Adam King’s dairy farm
.

That same moon was shining over Halfway right now, shining over Adam King and his family. What was Adam doing right now?

Yawning, she pressed one palm to the cool glass. Adam was probably sleeping, unless he was already up milking cows. But tomorrow she would close the distance between them. She tried to tamp down her nervous excitement about seeing him again.

Of course, she would maintain a professional distance. She was a journalist, researching a story. Her interest in Adam was purely altruistic.

“Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it,” she muttered as she hopped down from the windowsill and shuffled off to bed.

he weight of darkness echoed with footsteps, the sound of bare feet brushing wood.

Adam pushed at the thick walls of sleep, trying to open his eyes. Focusing in the blackness, he could tell it wasn’t near dawn yet; the air was still heavy and thick. But the small feet pacing beside his bed pedaled with energy.

“I’m worried. Just so worried about the bear …”

Adam sat up, sliding from the warmth of the blankets as he recognized the young voice. “Simon?” He scrambled, feeling along the bedside table to light a lantern.

In the flare of the match, Simon’s eyes glimmered, glassy and hollow. “What if it comes again? Bears have a very good sense of smell. He might be smelling us right now!”

The floor was like ice under Adam’s feet, but he barely noticed as he fell into step behind Simon, who was pacing the room, ranting.

“It’s okay, Simon. Shh!” Adam’s voice was soft but firm as he stood by the door, blocking his brother’s exit from the bedroom.
He had seen this panic in his little brother before. He’d even talked to a doctor, who had explained it as night terrors. But having a name for the behavior didn’t make it any less horrifying. Especially when Simon lifted his chin and gazed straight into Adam’s eyes as if he were wide awake and rational.

“He could find us. What if he finds out that we are here?” Simon seemed to notice the window. “What if he sees me?” Gasping in panic, he dropped down beside the bed and curled into a ball, shivering. “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

The creak of floorboards in the hall made Adam look up. Mary appeared in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in one long braid, the hem of her nightgown balled in her fists so that she could run without tripping. Adam did not remember the last time he’d seen his sister without a prayer kapp. She must have heard their voices from her room next door.

“Oh,
liewe
Simon, is it happening again?” She stepped forward, then paused as Simon cast an eerie stare in her direction.

“He will find the farm. The bear will come. He’ll come with his gun!” The boy clapped his hands to his bare head.

Mary shot a look at Adam. “He’s afraid of this bear again?”

Adam nodded, edging closer to his brother. “It’s okay, Simon. You’re safe here. There are no bears.”

“Oh, no! He has a gun! Did you see that?” Simon pointed across the room, his face awash with panic. “He has a gun!”

Mary pressed her hands to the bodice of her nightgown. “Oh, dear God, please help this child.”

“It’s my fault!” Simon panted. “Why did I ever like guns? I told Dat I wanted to shoot, that I would shoot real gut. And he listened to me and then it happened.”

“He’s talking about Mamm and Dat.” Mary’s hands were pressed to the collar of her nightgown as if she were having trouble breathing. “Do you think there’s any truth to what he’s saying?”

“It’s like a dream,” Adam explained. “Part story telling, part reality.”

Huddled beside the bed, Simon rocked back and forth, knocking his head into the bedpost. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault he killed them.…”

Immediately Adam was on his knees, holding his brother’s shoulders so that he wouldn’t hit the bed. “Can’t have you hurting yourself, buddy. Can you wake up and calm down?”

“It’s so cold.” The boy shivered as a pathetic sob slipped out.

“I’ll build a fire.” As Adam scooped the boy into his arms and headed down the stairs, he felt slightly reassured, as this was the way Simon’s previous spell of terror had ended a few weeks ago. If they could warm his small body by the potbellied stove, he would probably relax enough to go back to sleep.

As he worked he thanked the Lord that Simon always seemed to come to his room whenever he had such a spell. It wouldn’t do to have Simon wandering in his panic. So far none of the other sleepyheads in the house had witnessed the night terrors except for Jonah and Mary, who used the small room next to the nursery and seemed to sleep with one eye open for the children.

Mary held a whimpering Simon in the big hickory rocking chair while Adam got a fire going. Wrapped in a quilt, the boy looked small and helpless. That such innocence had been marred by the violent hand of another man … it tore at Adam’s heart.

Soon, Adam had a fire blazing. He sank into a chair beside them, relieved that the worst of Simon’s episode seemed to be over. For a few minutes they sat in the growing warmth of the fire’s glow; the only sound was the ebb and flow of the boy’s steady breathing. He seemed to be finding sleep once again, his head resting in the crook of Mary’s arm.

“Are your arms getting tired?” Adam asked.

“It’s fine.” She touched the back of one hand to Simon’s pale cheek. “Such a sweet boy. But he scares me so.”

“It’s a difficult thing to watch.” Adam always felt a tug of panic over these night terrors.

“I know the doctor said it’s normal, considering the trauma he suffered. But Adam, it gives me such a fright. I look in his eyes and …” She pressed a fist to her mouth. “It’s like the devil is staring back!”

“It’s not Satan, Mary. And please, don’t let anyone hear you say that. Our boy has been through enough trauma. The last thing he needs is folks saying he’s possessed by the devil.”

“Of course, I would never tell it to anyone else,” she said defensively.

“Then don’t say it now. He needs rest, and our support.” Adam poked at a log in the stove, his own patience as volatile as the hot coals. At times like this, it seemed that Simon was getting worse instead of better, and Adam felt responsible for that. The doctor had said the bouts of terror were usually touched off on nights when the child was overly exhausted or had suffered a recent reminder of a trauma.

“It must have been seeing the sheriff that caused this,” Adam said. “After he left, I found Simon crying in the barn. He was definitely spooked.”

“We were all frightened by the flashing lights of the sheriff’s car.” She lovingly tucked the quilt under Simon’s chin. “Will it always remind us of that awful night when we learned what had happened to Mamm and Dat? I don’t know. Maybe.”