Fall from Pride (20 page)

Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Us being just
friends is for sissies, Sheriff, and I didn't think you were that. If I'm not under arrest for wanting more, I'm going back inside where I'm needed for something, at least.”

She stomped away without looking around and slammed her own back door.

 

To Sarah's surprise, Nate was the last to leave the farmhouse after the others pulled away in their buggies. Perhaps he'd been speaking with her mother again. They seemed to get along pretty well.

He walked out slowly toward where she was stirring a can of marine-blue to paint the dark triangles she'd laid out on her chalk grid. Even before Sarah returned from the restaurant this morning, Cindee Kramer had been kind enough to drop off the last two cans of the lighter paint she'd need. Called Wedgwood blue, they were still in a sack just around the corner of the barn in the shade.

She turned to face Nate, hoping she didn't look as giddy to see him as she felt.

“So you've got the pattern all laid out,” he said, looking at her instead of above. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits. He looked like he was hugging himself.

“Did you get your plans settled, about how to trap the arsonist?” she asked, still holding her paint can between them. “Three fires, one in broad daylight, but then he picked a good time when everyone was busy, and probably just never figured Noah would be in there.”

“Sarah, I don't want this to become public knowledge—or get in the paper for obvious reasons—but Noah intentionally set that fire.”

She stopped stirring. “In his own barn? To draw attention to how much it needed to be rebuilt?”

“More or less. Also, he figured if a barn went up while Jacob was in jail…”

“In other words, Jacob could still be guilty of the other two arsons. I was so sure he'd never do something like that. I'm still positive about Hannah, though. Is Noah's guilt going to stay private information, or are you going to arrest him?”

“I'll have to eventually explain things to my boss, and it sure would go a long way if we can catch the serial arsonist. But I'm going to let the church leaders handle Noah—if we can keep Peter Clawson from discovering and printing it, like he does everything else. Just before our meeting broke up, Reuben Schrock showed us a copy of today's paper.”

“I saw it, too. But as for your handling of Noah,” she said, blinking back tears, “Nathan MacKenzie, we're rubbing off on you.”

“Someone is,” he said with such an intense look she was glad she held the paint can between them—or maybe not. “So did the church leaders say you could try to trap the real arsonist?”

“I think we've come to an agreement. Stan Comstock, the state fire marshal supervisor for this region of Ohio, is back from his daughter's wedding. I'm going to bring him up to speed on everything and have him stationed in the Hostetler house with night goggles to watch their barn, while I camp out here with the same gear.”

“But the first two fires happened when no one was home.”

“Here's the way I explained it to the elders. I think the arsonist is feeling invincible, wanting to up his game. He's had two successful fires, and it hasn't been announced that
the Miller fire wasn't set by the same person. He probably wants to reestablish himself. About now, serial arsonists get not only bold but careless. And how better to prove what they think is their brilliance and power than by a barn fire when the people are at home? It's the ultimate challenge, even if word may have gotten out that someone might be inside the barn or house on guard. Besides, I don't think this particular arsonist would fall for it if we put out the word your family or the Hostetlers were leaving their houses and would be back late. From my experience interviewing other serial arsonists and studying this one, I think we've got a good chance at this.”

“But you and Mr. Comstock will stand out among us.”

“We're going to dress Amish, try to blend in, and our vehicles won't be anywhere in sight. Your father has given me permission to use both your farmhouse and
grossdaadi haus,
since views from those windows will cover your entire barn.”

“The
grossdaadi haus,
too? It will upset my grandmother to have you around.”

“I think your mother's going to move her to a bedroom in the farmhouse—you and Martha, too. Your part in this will be to keep painting that square. I would hate to have it be a target, but my goal is to save it, the barns—and get whoever tries to harm it or the Hostetlers' quilt square.”

“I want to help. You can't be two places at once here. I could be in whichever place you're not at night. You'll need to sleep sometimes.”

“We'll see. By the way, I guess they're going to get my Amish clothes from Lizzie's husband, Sam. I haven't met him yet.”

“He's sinewy like you, but you're taller. I bet his trousers come above your ankles.”

“Sinewy, huh? So anyway, what I actually came over here to ask is, do you still want your sketchbook back?”

“I can't stand to look at it. But yes, I do.”

“The blood is type AB. Do you know what your grandmother's is?”

“No, but I can probably have my mother find out the next time
Grossmamm
sees her doctor.”

“How about you get me the doctor's name and number, and I'll check it out?”

He walked to VERA and came back with the sketchbook. As if it were evidence, he had it in a clear plastic envelope. “Did you dust it for prints?” she asked.

He grinned. “No, but I tried to remove the blood from the last page in the book, and it smeared your lines, so I quit trying. I just wanted you to know that was me and not someone else tampering with it. And about my putting my hands all over you last night…”

“Yes?”

“I'm apologizing for doing that during your weak and emotional time. That's what I feel around you, too, weak and emotional. But an apology in this case doesn't mean I'm sorry.”

He handed her the sketchbook; their fingers touched. She would have sworn a lightning strike crackled along her arm and ended up in the pit of her stomach. Despite his heartfelt admission just now, she wondered, with this other investigator coming in and with all the group activities and planning, would they ever really have the chance to touch again? She sensed that Nate was taking a huge risk, even needed courage, to admit deep feelings for her. Weak and
emotional—not what a strong, take-charge man like him would easily admit.

In the moment of awkward silence, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans, then said, “By the way, I also got per mission to help with the Esh barn raising on Saturday. I hope we'll be celebrating the arrest of the arsonist by then. Word's going out about the raising. I can't believe how quickly everything came together for it, but the timber was all ordered already and partly donated. They say workers will show up in droves.”

“But as soon as you catch the arsonist, you'll be leaving. If there's ever any need for a fire marshal here again, it will be Stan Comstock.”

She felt her lower lip quiver. Surely, she wasn't going to cry.

“I'm planning to bring my foster mother to see Amish country,” he told her. “I'll stop in here, show her this quilt square and the one on Hostetlers' barn. She'd love to meet you and your family.”

“Sure. That will be real nice.”

“Sarah, I want to grab you again, press you up against that wall or carry you into that barn and make love to you. But what would that get us except more pain—and trouble? We need the goodwill of your family and your people. I just can't see any way—”

“Neither can I,” she said, turning away from him and climbing the ladder with her paint can. “Better take your VERA back to the pond and go swimming with her!”

The second it was out of her mouth, she was ashamed of such nonsense. It sounded like she was jealous of that truck.
She was acting like a spoiled child, not a mature and proper Amish
maidal
. But this man did strange things to her.

Muttering under his breath, Nate walked away and drove off toward his usual parking spot.

Once Sarah had the marine-blue paint on one triangle, she knew she didn't like it, didn't like anything right now. Why did Nate have to come and ruin things for her here in the first place? It was bad enough she was tempted to take Ray-Lynn's offer to consider painting entire pictures. Truth was, she wanted to paint people's faces, too, and that was one step more
verboten
than painting just for pretty. And why did that Stan Comstock's daughter have to get married right now so it wasn't him who came to solve the arsons? Once Nate left, even if Sarah eventually wed, she knew she'd never quite be content anymore, not with memories of him, not here in Amish country, however much she loved the place and her people. It was a big, fat lie that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all!

Deciding to mix this dark paint with a bit of the lighter shade Cindee had dropped off, she hustled back down the ladder. It would take more time, but it would please her more—if anything could right now.

She set her can of paint down and went around the side of the barn and lifted the sack with the two cans of Wedgwood blue. She saw there was a receipt for it inside or maybe a note from Cindee. Putting the sack down, she reached in and pulled out the letter-size piece of paper and gasped. In big, bold, familiar print, it read: “He performs great signs, so that he even makes fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men. What a revelation! Unlucky 13:13.”

Unlucky 13:13? Nate was right. The arsonist was getting
bolder, even adding things to the note that weren't from the Bible. She read it again, then, lifting the cans from the sack, dropped the paper back in it and ran down the back lane to show Nate.

SARAH SAW NATE WAS SWIMMING IN THE POND. She could tell from the waves that he had just dived in. Out of breath, she ran closer. He saw her coming and waved.

“You're going to take me up on the swim?” he shouted.

“A third note! Someone left a third note in the sack with the paint Cindee Kramer dropped off for me early this morning. It was sitting out by the barn! I just looked inside it.”

He swam over to the edge where he'd left his shoes, shirt and jeans. Bare-chested, he got out, wearing nothing but his underwear, dark green-and-blue plaid, which clung to him. She knew she should turn away but she moved closer, extending the sack.

“Except for the second note,” he said, “they seem to be coming to you, and I don't like that. But the fact this one was in that sack doesn't mean Cindee or Mike left the note, not if it was sitting outside for a while.”

“I agree. Mike and Cindee wouldn't be this obvious,” she told him. “Maybe someone wants us to think it's them or
else just dropped it in a place I'd find it without knowing Cindee left the sack.”

“Can you read it to me without touching it again?” He used the T-shirt he'd dropped on the bank to dry his face and upper body. Black, curly chest hair tapered down over his stomach and pointed below his navel. His hair was plastered tight to his head.

Grateful to have a chance to look away, she tipped the sack so that the printing on the note was visible without pulling the paper out. “It's in that same printing again,” she told him. “It's a quote from the Bible, the Book of the Revelation. I'm pretty sure this section is about the beast, the evil one who serves the Antichrist. So here it is— ‘He performs great signs, so that he even makes fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men. What a revelation! Unlucky 13:13.'”

“‘What a revelation' and ‘Unlucky 13:13' is not in the Bible, is it?”

“No. So our beast is adding things, making a joke about his own revelation. Do you think the fact it says
he
makes fire means the arsonist is a man?”

“Not if he or she is just picking Bible quotes about fire. Let's check it out online—on the laptop.”

“The Bible is in there, too?”

He nodded as he sat on the grass, struggling into his jeans, which stuck to his wet legs. “This means the writer of the Bible notes,” he said, “who is probably the arsonist, is starting to get cute, sarcastic, maybe frustrated. That's what I was hoping for. He's itching to burn another barn and he's going to get careless. I hope he or she resents that we're holding the other notes without publishing them. You know thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number, right?”

“Superstition, yes, but I'll bet that's the chapter and verse of the quote, too.”

“Let's look it up,” he said, pulling on his bright blue shirt without putting his wadded, wet T-shirt back on.

In VERA, he slid the paper out of the sack onto the narrow table, then, with a quick glance at the sack, set it carefully aside. He leaned stiff-armed over the writing, studying it from every angle, then turned on what he called his laptop. It sat on the countertop in a little frame, probably so it didn't slide around when he drove. She watched, wide-eyed, as he hit keys to bring up different screens, and there it was, the Holy Bible, then the Book of the Revelation, then the exact verse, 13:13.

“So tell me more of what you know about this section of Revelation,” he said as he intently scanned the surrounding words.

“This part is prophecy about the coming of the Antichrist, the ultimate evil, Satan's tool. And, in turn, there are two so-called beasts who serve the Antichrist.” She leaned close to him to skim the section from the note.

“It says this second beast who uses fire rises up, and people worship him. In this case, the arsonist probably means people are in awe of the fires. Most arsonists are egomaniacs—extremely prideful—one way or the other,” Nate said.

“See where he makes war with the saints?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

“In the arsonist's perverted mind that could mean his battle with the Amish. It also says that he persecutes God's people during a time of tribulation. Sarah, this is someone who knows the Bible and hates the Amish—but that doesn't mean he or she is not Amish.”

“But you just proved anyone can look it up,” she
challenged. “Is there a way to somehow search to find a word like
fire,
or would the person who wrote the note have to have read and know the entire book?”

“You're right—as usual. It's easy to do such a search. I guess I'm remembering only the comforting parts in the Bible, not scary stuff like this.”

“At least Jacob's not the one who sent it, since he's in jail.”

“He isn't,” Nate said, straightening. But just as she was starting to feel relieved that at last he believed her, at least about Jacob if not Hannah, he added, “I mean he isn't in jail. His parents somehow raised bail money for him. But the sheriff called me to say an
Englische
friend picked him up in a car about an hour ago. Legally, Sheriff Freeman couldn't hold him if we didn't formally charge him with the arsons, and we don't have enough evidence for that. I'm hoping, if we give him some rope, he may hang—or at least snag—himself.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling deflated.

“You still care for him?”

“Not that way. I told you, I just don't want it to be someone Amish.”

He took her hand and they both stared down at the paper on the table, then at each other. “These notes I've tried to keep secret,” he said, “are like a ticking bomb. Since Peter Clawson knows about only one of the three, I've made a deal with him that, if he doesn't print it, I'll give him some early, exclusive information when we catch the arsonist. I've told my boss about the notes. But now, not releasing the information—I'm not sure. I don't want to cause more panic than there already is, however your people accept the Lord's hand in what is happening. It's touchy when pacifist civilians
start guarding their barns with hunting rifles. This has to end soon.”

“I think you're right that releasing these notes would only foster fear.”

“Speaking of which, I'm also starting to worry it could be someone random, someone we don't know. It's happened with serial murderers—serial arsonists, too. Peter Clawson may be right that it could be a hate crime against the Amish. Someone who resents Amish ways or beliefs—I don't know. But I do know you've been invaluable to me in all this, whatever happens. Wait—did you hear that?” he said, cocking his head. He dropped her hand and moved toward the open back doors.

“Sounds like Gabe's voice,” she said. “I just ran off, so maybe they're worried.”

“Good. I hope they keep an eye on you if I can't. Don't you laugh at me tomorrow when I turn Amish for a couple of days. Yeah, it's Gabe,” he said, and stepped out and waved to him.

“She's here, going over evidence with me!” Nate called to him. “Sarah,” he added, speaking quickly as he climbed back inside, “when you drop off the half-moon pies at the restaurant tomorrow morning, I'd like to ride back to your house in your buggy—hidden. I'm going to put the word out I've gone back to Columbus for something, then try to look Amish with your dad's help and live undercover that way at your house for a couple of days. Your father's going to explain everything to your family tonight.”

She stood, amazed at all Nate, her father and the church leaders had agreed on.
“Ya,”
she said, “I can bring you back from town. I think
Grossmamm
will like you much more
dressed Amish, but I kind of like you in green-and-blue plaid.”

Just before Gabe popped around and peered up into VERA at them, Nate whispered, “Sarah Kauffman, you are a tease.”

 

The next morning, Nate drove VERA to the sheriff's house—a nice brick ranch two miles east of town—and parked in his double garage, which the sheriff closed and locked. Hoping he didn't need more than the communication equipment he'd put in a pack with some personal items, Nate got on the floor in the back of the sheriff's car and rode into town with him. When the sheriff gave him the okay, Nate got out behind the office. After hiding his backpack behind the Dutch Farm Table under a bush, he walked around to the front door of the restaurant and went in to sit at the counter.

“What will it be?” Ray-Lynn greeted him. “Breakfast or more cleverly worded accusations?”

“Not much time for either today,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “I'm heading back to Columbus for a couple of days—lab work, debriefing, but I'll be back in time for the barn raising.”

“I'm sure someone around here will miss you,” she said, her tone tart.

It was interesting, he thought, that she'd turned so cold to him when he thought they'd parted amiably after he'd questioned her. He'd figured that, no matter how upset she was, she'd be charming at the restaurant. The flip tone of “What a revelation!” in the note danced through his mind. Sarah had said that Ray-Lynn was raised a Southern Baptist. If anyone knew the Bible, they did.

“I had to tell our mutual friend, if that's what you're upset about,” he told Ray-Lynn when she glared at him.

“If either of you really think I could be behind something like that, you can just eat elsewhere, both of you,” she muttered, and flounced away.

One of the Amish waitresses came up, poured him coffee and took his order. Peter Clawson ambled in, looking rumpled and sleepless, like some absentminded professor, but Nate knew he was hardly that. Those comments on the last note—“What a revelation!” and “Unlucky 13:13”—sounded like something Peter would say. Of everyone he knew around here, Peter fit the egomaniac description best, but what would be the motive? Increased paper sales? That Pulitzer Prize? But then, why would Peter have cooperated with and even agreed not to publish evidence at the request of an arson investigator? Naw, this guy was pompous but he only had time to cover the arsons, not start them.

“Nate, my man,” Peter said, and plopped down on the next stool. “How's Noah Miller?”

“Good news for you to print for once. Despite facing a long, hard haul, he's going to make it.”

“I called the Cleveland Clinic, but they read me the patient privacy act. How in the world did the arsonist start that fire with the boy in the barn?”

“Noah was trying to repair the hole in the loft, which he then fell through and was trapped. I haven't had time—nor have the charred remains cooled-off enough yet—to confirm evidence. Meanwhile, I'm heading to Columbus until Saturday morning, but I'll be back for the Esh barn raising.”

“While the cat's away, the mice will play.”

“Isn't that a cliché?” he tweaked him.

“One that's apropos. Doesn't it worry you to be leaving right now?”

“Sheriff Freeman's on alert, and the Amish are much more aware now. Speaking of the Amish, I wish you'd quit featuring Sarah Kauffman in the paper. You know they don't like their faces photographed—or to have a public focus on them.”

“She's a huge part of this story. Besides, Ray-Lynn is really impressed by her art, thinks she could have a good career in the big, bad world. I'm just giving that a boost. Besides, I think she's covering for a close contact, and I want to shake them both up.”

Nate's head jerked up. “Jacob Yoder?”

“You're the investigator here. Let me just say I'm sure I saw Hannah Esh standing a ways back in the newly planted field between the Esh and Kauffman farms, watching that first fire—her family's barn.”

Nate's stomach knotted. He stopped pouring maple syrup and looked at Peter. The man didn't blink but added, “Here comes another cliché, but they were thick as thieves, Sarah, Hannah and Ella Lantz. It's obvious Sarah is willing to buck the Amish establishment to a certain point with her art. I know, the bishop et al finally approved it, but only those copy-the-quilt-design paintings, when Ray-Lynn says she can do so much more. But I think Sarah would defend Hannah at any cost. Again, not to turn a cliché on its head, but I hope you're not so enamored with one particular tree that you're missing the entire forest. And one more thing. I'm going to have to print what was in that note dropped off at the paper. I can't sit on that anymore. The public has a right to know.”

Though he was still trying to process Peter's information
about seeing Hannah at the fire—why didn't he share that before?—Nate said, “I thought we had a deal on your holding that.”

“It's too important to let slide. Besides, it might give you a lead if someone comes forward with info on it. It's a unique note with the threat, the Bible language. I intend to print it in full in the issue that covers the barn raising unless there's a reason to do another special edition first. If you're going to Columbus in the midst of all this mess, check out the paper's website to keep up with things.”

Did Peter smell a rat with his leaving at a time like this? “If you print that note,” Nate said, intentionally filling his mouth with a three-tiered bite of pancakes and chewing slowly before he went on, “and it triggers another arson, I'll hold you accountable. And be sure to print that the state arson investigator mentioned another Bible quote, Exodus 22:6 — ‘He who makes fire shall surely make restitution.'”

Peter looked impressed, so Nate hoped he'd recalled that right. After Sarah had left with Gabe yesterday, he'd done the obvious, searching the entire Bible online for quotes about fire.

He and Peter ate side by side, not saying much more, while Ray-Lynn went past, glaring darts at both of them, though Nate had no idea why she was ticked off at Peter. He saw Sarah come in and tried to ignore her. She sat in the rear booth where Ray-Lynn flitted back to talk to her now and then. He had to make his move now.