Shunning Sarah (24 page)

“Xiong, say something so I know I’m not dreaming.”

“You are not dreaming, Riley. Are you not well?”

How could I tell him my heart was breaking?

So this was the reason for Ike’s monthly trip to Ohio. Ike appeared to be buying quilts made by Hmong women and passing them off as Amish. Counterfeit Amish.

This was an insult to both cultures. Everything Amish, indeed. I felt duped, just like Ike’s customers would when this news got out. But it was worse for me—I’d been scammed in love as well as merchandise.

Just then, the truck began moving. I knew I needed to get a clearer look. Xiong and I had developed a plan to let the truck depart and leave a few minutes later. I had figured the alley shot would be enough, but now I couldn’t risk losing visual contact with the load.

I grabbed the keys. That’s when Xiong got cold feet.

“I will walk home,” he said. “The Hmong part of the story is finished.”

“Xiong, I might need your help.” Surveillance generally works best as a two-person activity. “The new Xiong would want to see some action.”

He shook his head and climbed out of the van. “I will run the license plate tomorrow at the station. That will give us verification.”

There was no time to argue. The truck had just turned the corner, sliding by a garbage Dumpster as the snow continued to fall. I needed pictures to prove Ike was behind the wheel.

Being wider than the rest of the traffic, the vehicle was easy to trail on the narrow St. Paul residential streets. I gave the driver space on University Avenue, expecting him to turn onto one of the streets leading to the freeway.

Instead, the vehicle pulled into a driveway behind an old warehouse. It was too risky to follow on wheels, so I parked a block away, sneaked into the lot and watched as they loaded a table and chairs. Presumably fake Amish furniture. I knew no real Amish had settled anywhere near this urban neighborhood, heavily populated by Hmong.

I rushed back to my van and waited until the headlights from the truck shone in my side mirror. Within minutes, we were headed south toward Minnesota’s Amish country.

T
railing the truck on the freeway was easy. It was dark and there was a lot of other traffic. Plus, I had a funny feeling I knew where we were headed.

The closer we got to Harmony, the snowier and icier the road. I beat the truck to Everything Amish, parked around the corner and killed my headlights.

I prayed that the truck would pass by me and the warehouse and drive far outside our Designated Market Area. Iowa. Indiana. Ohio. Any Amish country but Minnesota.

Instead, the vehicle turned into the lot and backed up against the Everything Amish loading ramp. My throat tightened and any chance for clearing Ike Hochstetler vanished.

There would be no happily ever after with him. This was not an Amish romance novel.

An outside light came on, so I did my job and watched through the viewfinder as Ike carried a chunky chair into the warehouse. I wanted answers that mitigated the wrong, but the obvious motivation playing out before my camera was greed.

Snow blew in my eyes and they started to water. The smart thing would have been to climb behind the wheel and drive far away from this story. Maybe even as far as Washington, DC. Into the arms of a man I could trust.

Instead, I walked over to the truck and asked Ike how the weather was in Ohio.

“Riley? How great you’re here. What brings you back to Harmony so soon? More news?”

“I guess you could say that.”

He handed me a box to carry inside and suggested we head to his house for a hot drink. “And maybe you’d like to handpick a quilt to bring along for later.” He gave a playful wink.

“Actually, there is a certain quilt that interests me greatly.” I set the box of counterfeit Amish goods down on the ramp, reached for my cell phone, and opened the photo of the sinkhole quilt. “Does this one look familiar?”

He seemed surprised. “Certainly. I just never expected to see it again. Someone shoplifted it from the store.”

Convenient, I thought. “Did you file a police report? That’s what I did when someone stole my camera.”

He shook his head. “I thought Sarah Yoder might have taken it, and I was hoping to resolve things privately.”

“You thought Sarah stole the quilt?”

“Yes, it disappeared the same night she did.”

“You’re right about that.”

I explained that the quilt had been found wrapped around her dead body. “That makes it evidence. Remember telling me how a handmade quilt can be as individual as a fingerprint? Think of this quilt as fabric forensics. And it’s pointing right at you.”

“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“You can tell that to the police.”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“Maybe not, but you’re definitely a swindler.”

I spelled out how I’d discovered the source of his stock. He was a fraud and probably a murderer.

He didn’t answer.

“I saw your private sweatshop and I followed you more than a hundred miles from that Frogtown alley tonight.” I explained
that Channel 3 was going to broadcast a story on consumer fraud with counterfeit Amish merchandise the next day. “If you have a comment to make, I suggest you do so now.”

Saying nothing, he just collapsed into a rocking chair sitting on the truck tailgate. Back and forth. Back and forth. He stopped the rocking long enough to give what those of us in the news biz call the mercy plea. “Riley, I’m just a small businessman looking for a break.”

“You’re a cheat, Ike. I think that’s one thing the Amish and English will both agree on.”

“But, what about us?”

He rose from the rocker and before I realized what was happening, he was kissing me. His arms felt good, but his lips felt dirty. I pushed him away and slapped him hard across his handsome once-Amish face.

“There is no us,” I said. “There never was.”

•   •   •

Turning the radio up loud to try to distract myself from my encounter with Ike, I pushed all thoughts of what might have been out of mind. I had been courted by a killer. And if he cheated tourists, no doubt he’d cheat me. And maybe even worse. I tried not thinking about Sarah.

I hated cheats. In love and business. Best that I found out before Ike met my parents. Regardless, I felt like a fool, falling for him. But soon, fidelity would be the least of my problems.

My phone was buzzing on the passenger side of the dashboard as I drove out of town. Ike’s number came up onscreen. I didn’t answer. Whatever he wanted to say wouldn’t change anything. And if I could take back my kisses, I would. His tongue, not mine, was that of the devil.

All this talk of simple life was beginning to feel like a scam. How could such a small town hold so many big secrets?

My car was approaching the turnoff where I needed to decide
whether to continue north to the Twin Cities or head east to the farm. Showing up unexpectedly at my childhood home would lead to questions. While my parents would be pleased to see me, they’d also be suspicious and wonder what was wrong. If I headed back to my own place, I could sulk in private, but I’d have to drive hours through snow.

As I slowed for an internal debate of which would be worse, something rammed the back of my vehicle, throwing me into a skid. I’d been rear-ended. My first thought was that another driver had crashed into me because of the slippery weather.

As I tried to recover, I recognized the other vehicle. It was a truck with no lights. And the rig seemed to be coming at me again.

T
he truck pulled alongside me in the outside lane. Ike stared right at me as he swerved over, trying to push me off the road and into a ditch.

Just as his truck scraped the side of my van, the road went up an incline, which slowed him down. I reached for my cell phone as I put distance between us. The phone was gone. The hurling action from the impact must have catapulted it to the back of the van.

Seeing Ike’s menacing face behind the wheel, I had no doubt now that he’d murdered Sarah. After all, he was trying to kill me.

My game plan was to outdrive him. Once on the highway, other traffic would keep me safe until I could find a gas station with people. There is safety in numbers. But I didn’t make it far enough to find witnesses.

Suddenly, my vehicle started losing power. The crash must have caused some internal damage. I needed to find a safe place to stop, but this stretch of road was mostly woods with no houses in sight.

The van was stalling, and my pursuer was less than a minute behind me. I decided I could run faster than this engine, so I pulled over and scrambled to get unbuckled. I headed for the back of the van, feeling along the floor for my phone. Nothing.

Then I realized I was not far from Walden’s den. Even at
night, thousands of viewers would be watching Walden via webcam and infrared light. Some might even have the audio channel open. A strange woman pleading for someone to call the police from inside his den would certainly attract attention. I’d even welcome trespassing charges.

Suddenly, I smelled danger. As the odor became more distinct I recognized it was gasoline.

During my career, I’d faced deadlines by the thousands. But this one was the most critical of my life because I didn’t know how much time I had left. All I knew was that I needed to get as far away from the van as possible. Fast.

I fumbled for the door handle and cold air rushed at my face. In my haste to escape, I slipped on the icy ground and twisted my ankle. The smell grew stronger and I realized the truck had hit my gas tank. Gas was now leaking onto the snow.

I stumbled to get upright, and ran limping through the snow. I didn’t stop until the blast knocked me off my feet. If I’d been facing the direction of the wreck, my eyebrows would have been gone.

There I lay, about a hundred yards from the explosion, watching the fire and thinking about how if I’d been any slower, I wouldn’t be a widow anymore. I’d be with my man in the hereafter.

Ike’s truck was parked along the road illuminated by fire. Best-case scenario: he’d think me dead and flee the scene.

I said a silent prayer to God even though God and I had been estranged as of late. I felt cheap turning to the Almighty only in emergencies and wished Father Mountain had agreed to anoint me. But instead of making the truck pull away, God showed me a shadowy shape emerging from the cab with a flashlight.

Flames kept the silhouette back, but then I recognized Ike. No doubt he was hoping for evidence of charred remains. Forensically, I wasn’t sure how much of a body was left after a car explosion.
But I knew we weren’t talking ashes and dust. And Ike could see that my driver’s seat was empty.

That’s when he started swinging his beam of light downward along the ground around the scene. I knew what he was looking for. Tracks. He was seconds from finding my trail in the snow, and less than a minute from finding me.

My head start wasn’t enough to keep me out of jeopardy. My footprints would be obvious in the moonlight. If I hid, Ike would find me. If I kept moving, he would overtake me.

I had no time to orientate myself. Turning what I hoped was east seemed the right direction toward the bear cave. It was another half mile by my guess. Pantyhose were poor insulation in frigid temperatures, and my feet were getting numb.

There was no hope of disarming my opponent with Xiong’s surprise kick. Keep moving, I told myself, wrapping my arms around my chest. Reaching Walden would be its own reward. A bear would certainly throw off some body heat even if its temperature dropped during hibernation. Hopefully my visit wouldn’t wake him.

That’s when I started fantasizing about fur.

H
ypothermia can lead to mental confusion. So when the surroundings started to look familiar, I wasn’t sure if it was because I was close or simply delusional.

But when I reached the landmark maple tree, I knew Walden was near. On my knees, trying to block my face from the wind, I found the opening to the bear den.

Crawling inside the tunnel felt like crawling toward salvation. In the far chamber, Walden lay curled and silent under the webcam. His radio collar and ribbons were quite noticeable. I snuggled against him, my ear against his chest, waving my hands in front of the camera to signal my presence.

“Help.” I hoped my whispers were loud enough for Internet viewers to hear, but not so loud as to wake a sleeping bear in its winter den. “Please call the sheriff.”

I realized my plan for rescue was ridiculous and dangerous. But the bear cam seemed like my only chance to reach 911.

Whether any of the viewers would even have their audio open to hear my panicked plea, I didn’t know. I wished I had a sign to hold up to the camera, but my purse was toast back in the van. Then I felt my pants pocket and found a pen. After all, my job as a reporter was to never be without a pen. I wrote HELP on my palm and held my arm straight toward the lens. CALL POLICE.

I was on the verge of the most important standup of my life.
Success wouldn’t land me a job, an award, or ratings. But it just might keep me alive.

“I’m being chased by a man—”

Suddenly I heard a beating heart echo within the den, and knew Walden was on the verge of stirring. I recalled Teresa telling me that black bears are most dangerous when they feel threatened. Within a couple minutes, his blood flow would reach his extremities, then Walden might be alert enough to protect himself from peril. And he would view me not as an observer, but as an interloper.

“I need help.” I hoped one of the bear’s cyberfans would report me as an intruder. Walden lifted his head. I knew he was waking, and that I needed to move.

I shuffled backward through the tunnel until outside the cave, then scrambled to my feet. My instincts told me to put some distance between us, but I had no idea where to head and I worried that if I left the scene, help wouldn’t find me. But if I stayed too close, Walden might find me. And I also worried that if I ventured too far from the den entrance, Ike would track me.