Whiskers of the Lion (6 page)

Wednesday, August 17

11:55
P.M.

MISSY WAS nearly asleep when Bruce rolled over in bed to face her. “He thought I was going to tear into him, Missy.”

She opened her eyes and resettled her head against her pillow. “Who?”

“Stan Armbruster. He thought I was going to rip into him for tracking through my crime scene.”

Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, Missy asked, “How do you know?”

“I could see it, Missy. He expected it.”

Missy propped herself up on an elbow to face her husband. “Maybe you should have, Bruce.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe he needed you to berate him.”

Robertson rolled onto his back and stared in the dark toward the ceiling. “He was looking for it.”

“So why didn't you?” Missy asked, lying back on her pillow.

“I don't know. Things are different now.”

Missy sorted through her thoughts and then said, “You've been yapping too much about resigning.”

“Yapping?”

“Yapping. Barking. It's all nonsense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They all feed off your strength, Bruce. They're each stronger because they know you demand it from them.”

“Privately, Missy? I don't feel like I've got the right to demand anything these days.”

“That's the problem.”

“It just doesn't seem right.”

“Why in the world not?”

“Because I haven't been able to find Fannie. Because I can't protect her from Teresa Molina. Because another Amish girl is going to be murdered on my watch, and right now there isn't anything I can do to stop it. I can't protect her.”

“Maybe Fannie doesn't want you to protect her.”

“Well, she ought to!” the sheriff shouted out. He pushed angrily off the bed and paced in front of the dresser.

Missy watched him wordlessly. Eventually he stopped pacing and said, “I'm sorry.”

“You shouldn't apologize.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're
Sheriff Bruce Robertson
.”

“So?”

Missy propped her pillow against the headboard, sat up, and said, “You're Bruce Robertson, and everybody needs you to stay that way. Now, especially. You've pushed everybody to the limit hunting for Fannie this whole summer, and now is not the time they can afford to see you showing doubt.”

The sheriff sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Missy and held his gaze on the carpet. “You're not making any sense,” he complained.

“What do you value most, Bruce?” Missy asked. “Don't think about it, just say it.”

“Loyalty, steadfastness, duty, honor. Competence. Determination.”

“That's who they need you to be, Bruce. That's why Armbruster needs you to hold him accountable.”

“He was disappointed, Missy.”

“I know, Sheriff. I know.”

 • • • 

After Missy had fallen asleep, the sheriff eased out of bed, carried his robe and slippers into the hall, and quietly closed the door. He pulled his robe on and tied it, then he got into his slippers.

In Missy's front-room study on the first floor of their old Victorian home, with yellow porch lights illuminating the curtains behind the chair, he started the desktop computer and waited impatiently for it to come to life, wondering how Howie Dent had made it home to Millersburg. From wherever he had been. Without a car.

That's the puzzle that had kept him awake. He didn't know where Howie Dent had been staying for the last four months, and it caused him to understand that he also didn't know how Howie Dent had gotten himself home.

Once the computer had paced through its initializations, he used it to pull up Rachel's electronic map. When it was loaded on his screen, he saw a total of six red pins. There were the original three, plus a pin for Memphis, the origin. The two new pins marked Horse Cave, Kentucky, on May 9 and Grabill, Indiana, on May 30.

With the map still on the screen, Robertson wandered into the parlor and stood to gaze out the front window at the dark street below the long slope of their front lawn. He stood there for a while, watching for the occasional car passing by, and he wondered about the things Missy had told him. He wondered how all the qualities he cared most about would survive a crisis of confidence. How they would survive the loss of Fannie Helmuth.

He knew Missy had been right to challenge him about the qualities of character that mattered most to him. The qualities of character that had always underpinned him. The qualities that had always underpinned his entire department. Not because any one person was so strong. But because he simply had demanded it from everyone. But since Howie Dent had been murdered, he had been wondering privately if he had the right to demand so much of anyone.

Missy had also been right to challenge him on the matter of his threatening to resign. He had said it, he knew that. He had threatened it. But standing at the dark window, looking out at the silent street in front of his house, Robertson had no idea where that kind of talk had come from. He only knew that since Fannie had fled his protection, he had felt increasingly like an old circus lion, reduced to pacing the cage. A caged lion whose tone in full roar no longer broadcast anything fearsome. A lion made impotent by a loss of self-assurance.

Still he knew that, regarding duty and honor, a man was reliable only insofar as he was relentless. And relentless was something he still was willing to be. Relentless in his dedication to duty. Relentless, regardless of how he felt, in his dedication to finding and preserving Fannie Helmuth. The trouble was—and he was learning this for perhaps the first time in his life—it all required self-assurance. Confidence.

Without that, relentless devotion to duty was just bravado made laughable by incompetence. And incompetence was the last thing Bruce Robertson was willing to tolerate in himself. He'd rather be dead than be found pacing the cage. He'd rather resign.

Robertson stirred, stretched, and turned back toward the study. At the desk computer, he minimized Rachel's map and ran a Bing search for Greyhound bus routes. On a site that gave a nationwide map of bus routes, it seemed at first to the sheriff that Howie Dent could have traveled home from just about any location in the States. On a bus, he could have gotten back to Ohio from just about anywhere. But when Robertson drew in closer to Ohio, he also found that none of the bus routes would have brought Dent closer to Holmes County than Akron to the north or Mansfield to the west. Giving no thought to the time, the sheriff phoned Bobby Newell, and giving Newell no time to say anything more than a sleepy “Hello?” Robertson asked his captain, “Bobby, how'd Dent get back to Holmes County?”

“What?”

“It's Bruce. The bus routes would get him no closer than Akron or Mansfield. So how did he get the rest of the way home?”

“Dunno, Sheriff. What time is it?”

Robertson looked at his watch and said, “Sorry. I'm up. Checking bus routes into Ohio. And nothing by Greyhound comes closer to Holmes County than Akron or Mansfield.”

“OK.”

“Question is, Bobby, how did he get the rest of the way home?”

Still sleepy, Newell answered, “Maybe he didn't come by Greyhound. Maybe he had a ride.”

Robertson paused on an answer and then said, “He used Greyhound before, Bobby. If he did that again, he'd still have to get a ride into Holmes County.”

“Maybe he called a friend?”

“Or took a cab.”

“We can check that,” Newell said. “Cabs and maybe limo services.”

“OK, are you coming in early?”

“I am now.”

“Sorry. I wasn't sleeping. But I got this idea, so I checked on Greyhound routes.”

“Give me an hour, Sheriff. I'll start checking cabs and limo services once I get into the jail.”

 • • • 

The sheriff pushed his chair away from the desk, wandered into the kitchen, and poured milk into a bowl of cereal. He carried it into the parlor and sat to eat it in an upholstered chair in the corner by the front window.

When he woke up, he was lying on the divan, and he had dreamed of an angry lion pacing its cage. He was a boy. There was a strangely familiar lion tamer inviting him to draw closer to the cage. Taunting him to put his face close to the bars. Taunting him to let the whiskers of the lion brush against his cheek when the animal lunged at the bars to bite. Above the cage was a large red scroll, written in bold, old-world script:

Fear the Roar
Trust the Bite

The sheriff knuckled his eyes and stood beside the divan. Most of his dream had fled from him, but he clearly remembered the lion and the sign. It was a nightmare he had suffered often as a child. He got himself moving toward the window, and there on the end table beside the corner chair was his half-eaten bowl of cereal. He checked his watch. Two hours had passed.

Stiff in the neck and rubbing at a vague pain in his lower back, Robertson bent side to side tentatively to stretch, and then he walked slowly to the study. He eased himself carefully into the desk chair, and he refreshed the map that Rachel had been assembling in the night. As the map was redrawing on his screen, he rubbed at his back and swiveled around to look out the window behind him.

The yellow security lights on the porch had switched off, and gray morning light was starting to announce the dawn. He checked his watch again because he couldn't remember the time—five thirty. He wheeled his chair around and parted the curtains. There was more traffic on the street out front. Cars, light trucks—the morning routine was under way.

Turning back to his computer, the sheriff saw new pins on Rachel's map. There was Montgomery, Michigan, on June 15. Bronson, Michigan, on June 27. Montgomery, Michigan again, on July 4. And another Bronson, Michigan, on July 18.

Robertson reached for the desk phone and called Rachel's cell. When she answered, he said directly, “Bronson and Montgomery are repeats, Rachel. They've stopped moving.”

“I know, Sheriff,” Rachel said in stride, as if he were still standing in the squad room, looking in over her partitions.

“That's dangerous,” he added.

“I know. The letter from Bronson said they were thinking about Middlefield.”

“That's too close to home,” Robertson complained. “They weren't being smart about this.”

“Really, Sheriff, they could have been anywhere. All we have are these newspaper snapshots—locations on certain dates.”

“Have you finished with all of the
Budget
s?”

“Yes,” Rachel said. “The last pin is Middlefield. I was posting that one when you called.”

“Have you gotten any sleep?” Robertson asked.

“Not really. I'm not sure I can.”

“Me neither. But you should.”

Rachel chortled. “Right, Sheriff.”

“Really.”

“Maybe when Fannie Helmuth is safe.”

The sheriff stood at the desk and held a long pause. He sighed, turned to face the gray light at the window, and thought.

Rachel asked, “You still there?”

Robertson stirred and asked, “OK, when is that last one, Rachel? What date?”

“Thought you'd fallen asleep on me, Sheriff. It was in last week's
Budget
. It's our last pin. It comes from a rather vague reference, but I think it's Fannie and Howie. It was written and mailed before Howie Dent was murdered.”

“You say it's a vague reference?”

“Yes. If I hadn't done the earlier dates first, I wouldn't have caught it. It just mentions ‘a couple from Charm by way of Michigan,' and says that they might stay at the scribe's house for a while.”

“OK, then I need to read the letters, Rachel. Can you send a file? Something I can print?”

“Sure, right away.”

“Where are Stan and Pat?”

“They've both gone home to sleep.”

“You, too, I hope.”

“As soon as I send you this file. Then what?”

“It's barely daylight,” Robertson said. “But someone needs to go to Middlefield.”

“Armbruster and Lance are exhausted.”

“Then I'm going up to the college heights,” Robertson said. “Gonna see what time a professor still on sabbatical gets himself out of bed.”

Thursday, August 18

6:45
A.M.

FROM COURTHOUSE Square, Sheriff Robertson drove his Crown Vic up the village's steep hill on East Jackson Street and circled through the sculptured stone archway onto the campus of Millersburg College. After skirting the first quadrangle of historic academic buildings, he turned off campus onto the Brandens' street, which terminated near the eastern cliffs of town in a cul-de-sac only one block from campus. He rounded three-fourths of the circle and parked the Crown Vic at the curb in front of the Brandens' brick colonial.

When he climbed out of his air-conditioned sedan, August heat and humidity embraced him like the vapor from a steam room. Overhead, the morning sun had begun to burn through the dense cover of gray that had lingered since yesterday's storms. Beside the car, Robertson pulled his tie loose and struggled out of his sport coat. He folded the coat on the driver's seat, closed the door, and locked up. As he lumbered up the short walkway to the Brandens' front stoop, he was already starting to perspire. After he had rung the bell, the sheriff took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow, and he stepped back from the pad to study the front windows for light inside.

When Professor Branden opened the front door, he smiled a wordless greeting to the sheriff, waved Robertson inside, and retreated down the center hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Robertson stepped inside, closed the front door, and followed the professor.

Professor Branden was dressed in brown leather slippers, soft blue cotton pajama bottoms, and a well-worn green and white Millersburg College T-shirt. He hadn't yet brushed his hair, and the sheriff considered some flippant remark about absent-minded academic bed hair. But in the kitchen, Caroline Branden was seated at the table, and in her presence Robertson found his instinct to tease the disheveled professor quickly assigned to a vague memory.

Caroline's long auburn hair was pinned in a loose bun. Her recent Florida tan looked elegant against the rich jade color of her robe. She smiled a greeting as the sheriff came in, and she asked if he would like coffee. Robertson answered happily that he would, and Caroline rose and inquired, “Breakfast, too?”

Robertson smiled wanly, took a mug of coffee from her, and said, “I guess I could eat.”

Caroline pointed him to a chair at the kitchen table and remarked, “Bruce, you look pale. Like something's kept you up all night.”

As Robertson sat, he traced the elaborate wood grain in the curly maple top of the table. Seeming distracted, he remarked, “Jonah Miller made this table, the way I remember it.”

Mike Branden sat beside the sheriff with his own mug of coffee, and he said, “His father the bishop gave it to us after we brought his grandson home.” He threw a look over to Caroline, and she shrugged her shoulders, with concern about the sheriff mixing into her expression.

“Old Bishop Eli Miller,” Robertson mumbled, not noticing their exchange.

Caroline carried three plates to the table and nudged her husband. “You're cooking eggs?”

Branden rose at the suggestion, took a skillet down from the ceiling rack, and asked, “How many pieces of toast?”

Caroline shook her head. “Just orange juice for me.”

Robertson said, “I could eat a couple,” and he took his first sip of coffee. Then he groaned, set his mug down, pushed up from the table, and said, “I forgot the letters.”

The sheriff disappeared down the hallway, went out to his car, and came back inside holding pages he had printed from Rachel's search. When he sat back down at the table opposite Caroline, he handed the pages across to her and said, “We think we know how to find Fannie Helmuth.”

Caroline held up the pages with a silent query, and Robertson said, “They're excerpts from the
Budget
. They were published in the last four months, after Fannie Helmuth and Howie Dent disappeared. After they took that Greyhound bus to Memphis. So Memphis is the first place in their sequence.”

As he was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl at the stove, the professor asked Robertson, “Are those from Stan and Rachel's work?” Again he caught a glance from Caroline.

“And Pat Lance,” Robertson said, and he explained how the letters had been identified.

Branden finished cracking eggs, came back to the table, and sat next to his wife. Together they read Rachel's excerpts.

1. Memphis—assumed to be the origination.

2. Whiteville, TN, published April 27

Guests from Ohio by way of Memphis surprised us yesterday at services and may stay only a while.

3. Paris, TN, published May 4

Our Ohio travelers stayed only two nights at the John Troyers and want their families in Charm to know that they are well.

4. Cub Run, KY, published May 11

Two friends from Ohio traveled through here after services yesterday at Daniel Brock's and report to Holmes County that they are well but weary.

5. Horse Cave, KY, published May 18

Our guests say to their families that they are fine though weary of traveling and may stay a while.

6. Grabill, IN, published June 1

Our Ohio guests stayed three nights. No new news for their families near Charm.

7. Montgomery, MI, published June 15

Guests from Ohio seemed exhausted by travel but insist they are fine. They may be able to stay with us for a while.

8. Bronson, MI, published June 29

Our friends from Ohio stayed four days to rest. They are considering the location.

9. Montgomery, MI, published July 6

Our guests from down south of Wooster returned here to look at a trailer rental. Stayed four nights.

10. Bronson, MI, published July 20

Our friends returned unsure about the Montgomery location. Will try the Middlefield area next.

11. Middlefield, OH, published August 10

Travelers here are exhausted and have been shown hospitality closer to home by this scribe.

When they had finished reading the Middlefield entry, Caroline placed the pages on the table and said, “Whatever you're paying your people, Bruce, it's not enough.”

Robertson reached across the table, tapped the pages, and said, “Look at the last page.”

Rachel's last page was a map of the center states, with red digital pins marking each letter's location. Rachel had given the head of each marker its proper number in sequence, identifying the route Fannie and Howie had apparently taken in their travels.

Caroline handed the first pages back to Robertson, and she placed the map page on the table between them. She pointed to the Middlefield marker and said, “That was published over a week ago, Bruce.”

“I know,” Robertson acknowledged. “It's a long shot.”

Branden asked, “Do you think she's still there?”

“Not if she knows that Howie Dent is dead,” the sheriff answered sourly.

The professor returned to the stove and started cooking the eggs. Turning briefly from the stove, he asked, “What do you want, Bruce? Why are you here?”

After a deep breath and sigh, with his palms raised as if asking a question, Robertson said, “Mike, I was hoping you could go up there today. To Middlefield, I mean. I want you to find Fannie Helmuth for me.”

Branden gave his eggs a last scramble and carried the skillet to the table. He divided the eggs onto the three plates and walked back to the stove saying, “What makes you think she'll talk to me?”

Robertson answered, “It's a long shot, Mike, but it's the only shot I've got.”

Branden put two pieces of toast down and pulled a pitcher of orange juice out of the refrigerator. Caroline reached around to the counter behind her to get three juice glasses, and after she set them on the table, the professor filled them. Then he set the pitcher on the table and sat next to his wife, across from the sheriff.

Caroline started on her eggs and said, “Bruce, I think Michael would only alarm her. She doesn't know him at all.”

“That's why I figured Mike for this,” Robertson said. “He can clean up almost Amish in five minutes. Just wear that suit of Amish clothes from the old Jonah Miller case. It'll put her at ease.”

Branden laughed. “That was almost fifteen years ago.”

“What about your detective bureau?” Caroline asked.

“All of my people are pulling doubles. They're looking for Fannie here, on the off chance that she came home with Dent. So I really need someone to try to find her up in Middlefield.”

“Bruce,” Caroline said, “it shouldn't be just Michael who goes to find her.”

Robertson put hopefulness into his tone. “Perhaps you could go with him, Caroline?”

“I don't know,” Caroline said. “I've been spending days with Ellie. I'm worried about her pregnancy. Twins, and there's some trouble.”

Robertson cranked a smile into a question. “Isn't Ricky home with her most of the time?”

“Yes, but sometimes he needs to go out.”

“We can cover it, Caroline.”

“She's at risk for a miscarriage,” Caroline said. She glanced with an old sorrow at her husband. In a near whisper, with her sight turned to the tabletop, she added, “I know too much about miscarriages, Bruce.”

“It's not too far to Middlefield,” the professor remarked softly. He pulled Caroline's hand into his lap. “An Amish or Mennonite couple would be less alarming to Fannie than a single strange man. And talking to a woman would be less threatening to her.”

Caroline sighed and considered her memories as she stared at her plate. She took her hand back from her husband. She glanced to Robertson, then to her husband, and back to Robertson. “OK, Bruce, is this just to talk with her? Just to find out where she is?”

“Yes,” Robertson said, “but also to convince her to come into protective custody. To make certain that she can't be harmed, while Teresa Molina is still at large.”

“One day?” Caroline asked. “Are we talking about just one day?”

“Yes,” Robertson said. “First to find out if she really is in Middlefield. And then to put me in touch with her.”

“You think she'll run?” Caroline asked.

“She did once before,” the sheriff replied. “I need another chance with her. And I think she should hear about Howie Dent from someone like you. If she doesn't already know.”

“One day, Bruce,” Caroline said. “One day, and then I need to be back here to take care of Ellie. I couldn't live with myself if she were to miscarry while I was chasing around northern Ohio, trying to find someone who may not even be there.”

 • • • 

As Robertson was leaving through the front door, Caroline hooked her husband's elbow and whispered, “Find out what's wrong with him.”

Branden hesitated, but she pushed him gently out the door behind the sheriff. Standing on the front stoop in his pajamas, Branden waited until Caroline had closed the front door. “Why does Caroline think you're worried about something?”

The sheriff turned back on the front walkway and said, “I didn't sleep last night, Mike. That's probably all it is.”

“What else, Bruce? Normally you'd just have called me about something like this. Or maybe had me come down to the jail.”

“We're spread thin, Mike. If I could, I'd go up there myself. But my detectives are exhausted from last night's work. All my deputies are working the local angles. I can't use Ricky, because he's taking paternity leave. And if Fannie Helmuth really is still in Middlefield, then she hasn't got a clue about how much danger she's in.”

“We can go, Bruce,” Branden assured him. “We'll be there by early afternoon.”

Robertson tipped an appreciative nod and held to his place on the walkway.

The professor stepped off the stoop and said, “Caroline's right. What is it?”

“Apart from torture and murder?” Robertson asked, laughing unconvincingly.

“Something more,” Branden pressed.

Embarrassed, Robertson said only, “Like I said, Mike, I didn't sleep much last night.”

“So, tell me why.”

Robertson shrugged. “I had my lion dream again.”

“That old dream from the circus? We were just kids.”

Robertson shifted nervously. “I can't believe you don't remember that lion.”

“Sorry,” Branden said. “It was always just a circus to me.”

“There was a lion tamer,” Robertson remembered. “Or maybe he was one of the animal handlers. I realize in the dream that I'm supposed to know him, but he's always at the periphery.”

“Always the same man?”

“Yes, and there's always that looped whip in his hand. He raps the whip handle across the bars, and that makes the lion roar. But I can't make out who the man is. The trainer.”

“Is there always the same sign on the cage?” Branden asked. “Fear the roar, or something?”

Robertson nodded. “He gets me to come close to the bars, Mike. I can't remember how he did that. But he raps his whip handle on the bars, right next to my face, and the lion jumps at me. Its whiskers brush my cheek through the bars.”

“You've been having this dream for years,” Branden said.

“I know.”

“Do you really think it happened? We were what, about eight or nine?”

“I don't know,” Robertson said, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders to pull himself loose from frustration. “I can't see the man. I always wake up wanting to know who the man is.”

“It's just a dream,” Branden said, wondering what hesitation he was seeing in his friend. Wondering if Robertson was troubled by something more than a bad dream. “It's just a childhood nightmare,” he said to the sheriff.

“You ever feel a lion's whiskers on your cheek, Mike?”

“No, Sheriff.” Branden smiled. “I think that's your special torment.”

Robertson drew a deep breath and turned for his car. Over his shoulder, he said, “Stop at the jail before you go, Mike. Del Markely will have a folder for you at the front counter. Photos, descriptions, that sort of thing.”