Читать книгу: «Trusting The Sheriff», страница 3

Chapter Three

Three days later, Caleb thought of an errand that would provide him with an adequate excuse to be in Eli Kemp’s neighborhood so that he could reasonably stop by again. He felt certain Abigail Baker—Abby, her aunt had called her—would not be thrilled to see him again. Because she had secrets? Or suspected his motives?

One thing he knew: she wasn’t fine. As he’d tugged her to her feet the other day and then when she walked to the house slowly, pain had tightened a face that was already drawn and too pale—except when she’d blushed. Caleb doubted the bruised circles beneath her eyes were usual for her, either. Was she having difficulty sleeping? Guilt could do that—but so could trauma. Even if she’d truly lost all memory of what happened, she had seen her partner go down. The subconscious was powerful. He’d bet money she was having nightmares when she did sleep. If he could get her to talk about the nightmares...

And what were the odds of that? She hadn’t exactly been grateful he’d come by, or seen the possibility of a new friend in him. He grimaced. Apparently, he’d have to be more charming. Maybe steer away from asking about the shooting for now, unless she raised the subject.

He turned into the driveway, which was really two dirt ruts with a hillock of grass between them. At the sight of the big white farmhouse ahead, his stomach growled. It occurred to him that there’d be a substantial culinary benefit to courting Abby Baker’s trust.

Once again, he parked close to the house. Eli stuck his head out of the barn, but Caleb waved him off and went to the front door. Nancy let him in with a big smile, expressing in her strongly accented English her delight at seeing him again.

Then she lowered her voice. “Good for Abby, seeing you will be.” A hint of worry crossed her face. “Do you understand Deitsch?”

“Ja,” he said, switching languages. “I had many Amish friends as a boy.”

“Gut, gut!” Her smile didn’t return, however, and she was almost whispering. “Abby is feeling low, I think. I tell her she must trust in God, and try, she does, but...” She shook her head sadly.

“She’s depressed,” he said in English, not sure of the word in Deitsch.

Nancy sounded out the word, looking uncertain.

“Where is she?”

She straightened and assumed the smile that he imagined was her usual expression. “The kitchen. Today, we bake.”

Caleb hoped Abby wasn’t helping too much. Even aside from the consequences of her concussion, she’d been seriously wounded less than two weeks ago.

He followed Nancy inside.

“Who’s here?” Abby asked, then saw him when he stepped into the kitchen. Some emotion flared in her blue eyes before she shut the door on whatever she’d been thinking.

Caleb was reminded that she was a cop, not a sweet-natured Amish maidal who’d never learned to veil her thoughts.

“Abigail,” he said with a nod. “Or do you prefer Abby?”

Her hesitation was brief. “Abby. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Sheriff.”

“Caleb.”

Despite clear reluctance, she nodded acceptance. “Caleb.”

At Nancy’s urging, he sat across from Abby, who had been shaping dough into balls she set on cookie sheets and then gently flattened with the bottom of a canning jar. For a fleeting instant, he imagined her hand competently holding a nine-millimeter gun. Cookies and guns didn’t go together.

Despite the photos of Abigail he’d seen online, here and now she looked Amish. An Amishwoman brandishing a handgun? Never.

Her aunt brought him a cup of coffee and an enormous wedge of marionberry pie topped with ice cream. He thanked her and dug in. For the first time, Caleb saw a spark of amusement on Abby’s face.

“Now I know why you’re here.”

He grinned. “When I pulled in, I was thinking I’d better put in some extra time on the treadmill if I plan to stop. No way I’m turning down one of Nancy’s desserts.”

“Denke,” her aunt said over her shoulder. “Abby helped with the pie, ain’t so?”

Abby chuckled. “I rolled out the crust. I’ll take credit for that much.”

She continued with the cookies, her hands quick and sure. Every so often, she glanced at him, her expression one of perplexity, if he was reading her right. Finally, she asked, “Did you report to Sergeant Donahue that you’d done your duty?”

He took a long swallow of coffee. “I did. I assured him you seemed to be on the road to recovery but haven’t remembered anything, just as you told me.” He frowned. “A concussion that can cause partial amnesia is a bad one. Are you still having headaches?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Headaches plural isn’t quite the right word. My headache doesn’t come and go,” she said wryly. “It just stays.”

“Seriously?” He pushed his empty plate aside.

“Seriously. I have pills, but they make me sleepy and foggy. I don’t like the feeling.”

“You like having a chronic headache?”

She wrinkled her nose, for a second looking like a teenager. “You know the saying, ‘Between the devil and the deep blue sea.’”

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb saw her aunt watching them, crinkled lines of perturbation between her eyebrows.

“I understand,” he said gently. “I was in a bad car accident a few years back.” He’d been part of a vehicle pursuit, unaware the driver they were chasing had circled back until he burst from a side street and smashed into the driver’s side of Caleb’s patrol car at full speed. “Recovery and rehab took almost three months.” His hip still hurt fiercely when he overdid it.

“Really?” Those astonishing blue eyes searched his, as if she needed to know he was sincere, that he truly understood what she was going through.

“Really.”

“I’m lucky I only have the one cracked bone,” she said thoughtfully, likely not aware that she’d laid a hand over her chest. “They’re slower to heal than soft tissue.”

“I can speak to that.” He rubbed his hip without thinking. “The trouble is, with broken bones you lose a lot of muscle tone before you can start physical therapy.” Caleb frowned again. “Shouldn’t you be having therapy?”

“I started in the hospital, and came with a long list of exercises. The therapist would like me to check in weekly with him, but I’d need to hire a car and driver or take the bus. He said I could find someone local instead.”

“I’d drive you to Kansas City,” Caleb heard himself say.

Nancy smiled at him. “What a kind suggestion!”

Abby was slower to respond, instead studying him again, as if trying to see a lot deeper than he’d like. “Why would you do that?” she said finally, but without the underlying hostility he’d heard at his last visit.

“This has been rough on you.” And it would give him lots of time to earn her trust, encourage confidence. “I spent twelve years with KCPD, which means we ought to be able to rely on each other.” That, he decided, was actually honest.

She nodded after a minute. She had a habit of taking her time before committing to anything, Caleb realized.

“If you can drive me this week, that would be good. Gerald, my physical therapist, can tell best if I’m progressing. If he thinks I’m doing well, it would make sense for me to find someone here after that.”

“Make an appointment and let me know when. Ah...can you? Did you bring your phone or computer?”

“No,” she said softly. “But I have the number and can call from the phone shanty.”

“Or do you want to use my phone and do it now?”

“I’d rather finish this.” She lifted flour-covered hands.

“You’ll call me, too?”

“Ja, you, too.” This sounded impish.

“Then let me give you my number.” He pulled card and pen from his vest pocket and jotted down his mobile phone number, then slid it across the table to Abby. “I don’t have any set appointments this week—” actually, he did, but would change them for this “—so any time is good.”

“Thank you.” She looked at him with an openness and warmth that hit him like a blow. “Aenti Nancy is right. Your offer is kind.”

Leaving, he told himself he’d been smacked with guilt, that’s all...but he knew better than to lie to himself. Abby Baker might not have the finely carved face of a model, but in his eyes she was beautiful. Especially at that moment.

After getting in his department SUV, he sat for a minute, unmoving, gazing toward the house.

He couldn’t let himself get sucked in. Donahue wouldn’t have asked him to do this if he hadn’t had good reason for his suspicion. Caleb knew the man. Caleb didn’t know Detective Abigail Baker, and wasn’t fool enough to let a pretty face and bright blue eyes divert him from keeping his promise.

Besides, if he could confirm her innocence, he’d be doing her a favor.

He started the engine, lifted a hand toward a young man who was peering out from between open barn doors, and swung in a U-turn to go back to town, and the pile of work awaiting him.

* * *

A GUN BLASTED. Once, twice.

She managed to fumble a hand toward her unsnapped holster. Why was it empty? She was peering at the dark bulk of someone crouching over—puzzlement. She ought to know who lay there, not so far from her.

She hovered on the edge of darkness. When the footsteps approached, it took everything she had to open her eyes a slit. The toe of the boots came to a stop inches from her. He must be looking down at her.

A voice calling from a distance.

Crack. She jerked, and pain exploded in her chest.

I’m dead, she realized.

But she couldn’t be, because hands were shaking her.

“Abby!” the woman exclaimed. “Abby? Was is letz?” What is wrong?

The nightmare faded out of sight, leaving only dread and shock. Abby forced her eyes open and pushed herself to a sitting position, her wounds protesting. “Aenti Nancy?”

“Ja. Oh, child.” Warm, comforting arms came around her. “You cried out, as if—”

“It was a nightmare.” She sagged. “Just a nightmare.” Even if she’d been able to remember it, the mind twisted real events in a dreamscape. She couldn’t rely on whatever she saw in a nightmare.

Aenti Nancy insisted on bringing her a cupful of warm milk to help her sleep. Weirdly, the idea was comforting. Grossmammi had warmed milk for her when she was a child with insomnia or after a nightmare. Abby didn’t love the taste, but she would drink it anyway, and gratefully.

Once she had, and had persuaded her aunt that she could go back to sleep now, Abby lay gazing toward the uncovered window, where she could see a crescent moon.

This would be a big day. The sheriff was to pick her up at nine in the morning to drive her to her appointment in Kansas City. She had to squelch any sense of anticipation. He might have offered only so as to look good in her aunt’s and uncle’s eyes, and thereby the view of all the Amish in their church district. Abby imagined Aenti nodding firmly to her friends and saying, “The sheriff is Englisch, but a gut man.” The others would take that in and decide that if they had to have dealings with authorities, he at least might be trustworthy.

Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that he intended to worm his way into her confidence so that she’d tell him everything that happened in that alley. If Sergeant Donahue hadn’t believed in her memory loss, why would the sheriff? Testing her, that’s what he was doing, she decided.

He might actually be a good man, but not one she could trust. Not yet. Not until she did remember.

Once in a while, she thought she did. Only shreds. Footsteps. The press of dirty asphalt on her cheek. She might think she smelled something rancid, but then it was gone. Abby had no intention of telling anyone that even such meaningless pieces seemed to float to the surface occasionally. The doctor had told her not to try to force memories, that it wouldn’t do any good, that her mind needed to heal.

Onkel Eli had checked messages at the shanty this afternoon, too, and found three for her. Two were from other detectives, wanting to know how she was. The third had been left by Sergeant Donahue, who asked that she call.

She wished he hadn’t given out her number to the others. They might be able to find where she was, with the phone number as a starting point.

No, wait. Sam Kirk had the address, too, so it wasn’t exactly a secret. Anyway, she was here to recover, not to hide.

Except... Abby couldn’t forget that somebody had tried to kill her, and she didn’t believe for a minute that it had been Neal. Someone else had to have been there.

She concentrated, but not so much as a flicker of memory materialized out of the night.

She remained restless enough to be glad when the window framed the pearly gray of dawn. Abby watched as the sky slowly brightened, waiting until she heard footsteps in the hall, first soft ones, then firmer, booted steps. As tired as she was, her lips curved; Joshua would have a hard time dragging himself out of bed this morning. She’d heard him come in late last night, trying to be quiet, but he’d bumped the wall twice. He’d likely been drinking, which wouldn’t make his parents happy, even if it was common with kids during rumspringa. One of Abby’s cousins had done worse than that. Ruth had gotten pregnant. Of course her come-calling friend had married her, after both had gone through counseling with the bishop and sworn repentance before the congregation. Ruth and Aaron had four children now and were expecting another, according to Aenti Nancy. They had moved farther south for affordable land, but visited once or twice a year.

Abby got dressed, the motions practiced. With each passing day, she walked better, but still had to take the stairs with extra care. Isaac reached the kitchen only moments after she did, his relief obvious when he saw that the coffee was ready. Abby took over making the scrambled eggs while Aenti cut up and fried potatoes and toasted bread in the oven. Refrigerator and stove were powered by gas. Many of the smaller appliances, like Aenti’s prized food processor, were hand cranked and did the job splendidly.

Onkel Eli sent Isaac back upstairs to wake his brother, who trailed down ten minutes later, eyelids heavy, hair poking every which way. His father scrutinized him, but said nothing. Breakfast was usually a quiet meal, the men eager to eat and get out to work. Abby felt a little queasy again, and had only eggs and a single piece of toast. She had to be losing weight, which wasn’t a bad thing, whatever Aenti said to the contrary. Out in the world, slender figures were admired, not too-tall women with too-generous curves.

Despite her tiredness, she cleared the table and washed the dishes, too, while Aenti dried. Her indefatigable aunt planned to do some canning, but Abby admitted to needing to sit down. Shooed out onto the front porch, she settled on a rocker and set it into gentle motion.

* * *

CALEB GLANCED SIDELONG at Abby, who still looked befuddled. Or, as the Amish would say, ferhoodled. When he’d arrived, he had spotted her immediately, sound asleep in a rocking chair on the porch. Her head had hung at an awkward angle, and now she occasionally rubbed her neck, as if it was stiff. He knew she’d been embarrassed to be caught unawares.

Cop, he thought again. Of course she was disturbed to discover anyone at all could have walked right up to her while she dozed. For Abby, the bone-deep dislike of being vulnerable must be cranked up tenfold, given that she’d lost her partner and been shot herself so recently, with no idea who her enemy was.

Unless she knew exactly what had happened.

He cleared his throat. “Did you have trouble sleeping last night?”

She studied his profile in her serious way. “Yes,” she said at last. “I had a nightmare and then couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“About the shooting?”

“I...don’t know.”

Hearing reservation in her voice, he gave her a sideways look. “It probably was. I deal with things I’ve seen and done on the job pretty well during the day, but corralling my sleeping mind is another story.”

“That’s true. As I wake up, I think I’ll remember, but then it’s just gone. It’s really frustrating.” She frowned, looking ahead through the windshield at the rolling, forested country they were passing through. “Although I can’t trust that a nightmare was truthful.”

“Probably not,” Caleb agreed, “but there might be a nugget in there that would start a cascade of memories. In fact, if you are dreaming about the shooting, I’d guess it’s probably because your memory is starting to break through. Did you have nightmares at first?”

The creases on her forehead deepened. “No. They had me pretty doped up, though.”

“That doesn’t do much for clarity of thinking, does it?”

She smiled wryly. “No.”

Which was why she had a headache bad enough he could see it, like a dark aura.

“I wonder if massage would help your headaches. Headache,” he amended.

“Don’t know. My neck, now...” Abby kneaded it again with her right hand.

He itched to take over the task, suspecting her skin would feel like pure silk beneath his fingertips.

“Why aren’t you tanned?” he asked, probably too abruptly.

Obviously startled, she said after a pause, “I just don’t. I use a lot of sunscreen, because otherwise I burn. I should probably move to the Pacific Northwest, where the skies are gray a good percent of the time.”

He laughed. “Your nose is a little pink.”

Abby sighed. “And I’ve been trying to stay in the shade.”

Conversation wandered, with Caleb forgetting for stretches what his real purpose was here. Eventually, Abby asked about his decision to leave the Kansas City PD to become the sheriff of a rural county.

“Each promotion meant more time spent doing admin. As a lieutenant, I traded off getting out in the field with having more control over decisions that impacted the officers beneath me.” He grimaced. “Or so I thought. After a while, I realized I felt as if I was being ground between two big rocks.”

“The mano and the metate,” Abby murmured.

“What?”

“That’s what the Mayans and Aztecs and a lot of the Southwest Native Americans used to grind corn. When I was a kid, my parents took me to New Mexico, and I saw a Navajo woman using a mano and the metate.” She mimed the action, then shrugged. “It was interesting.”

Intrigued, he looked at her a little too long and had to jerk his attention back to the road.

“That was me. A kernel of corn. I heard the sheriff here in Hearn County had to step down because of health problems, and I liked the idea of complete control.” His mouth curved. “Goes without saying that was a fantasy. I let myself forget the county commissioners, outraged citizens, news reporters...” He exaggerated his disgruntlement. “Somebody is always mad about something.”

Her chuckle was a happy sound that had him stealing another too-long glance. “Not a lot of exciting investigations, either, I bet.”

“In the sense of a puzzle, no.” Until she’d come along. “I’m finding I like the challenges, though. Dealing with the Amish, not to mention the tourists, being a politician, improving training for my deputies, juggling to fill shifts and have people where they need to be.” His shoulders moved. “And I’m home.”

She asked about that, too, and he told a few stories about growing up in a rambling old house on acreage just outside Ruston with his brother and sister, being free to roam the woods up behind the house, ride his bike to friends’, fish in the pond and creek. “I like the pace here,” he finished.

“I do, too,” she admitted, sounding subdued. Or was that sad?

“If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you end up with Amish relatives?”

“My mother left the faith to marry my father.” That much she said matter-of-factly. “She hadn’t been baptized yet, so she was able to visit. I loved spending time on the farm, which belonged to my grandparents then. Onkel Eli took over after Grossdaadi died.”

Since the Amish were a sect of the Anabaptists, they didn’t believe in infant baptism. In their view, each individual was baptized upon accepting the faith—which was usually in the late teens or early twenties. Caleb nodded his understanding and asked, “Your grandmother?”

“She only lived two years after he was gone. I wasn’t around much, which I regret, but when I saw her, I had the feeling she was tired. She missed him.”

Caleb could see that happening to his parents, who had a spark and a friendship that he didn’t often see in couples married as long as they’d been. Maybe he couldn’t solely blame his job for the failure of his two or three more serious relationships. He had wanted what his parents had, and not found it.

“What about your parents?” he asked.

“My mother died when I was a child,” she said calmly. “I spent a lot of time here after that. Oh,” she said, in what he had no trouble recognizing as a diversion, “I didn’t tell you what exit to take, did I?”

Interesting. Caleb felt sure a story lay behind her few words, but it wasn’t one she was ready to tell him. He wondered if she ever talked about her childhood. Some instinct said no. Yeah, and while he was wondering, he was struck anew by her decision to become a cop despite what had to have been a serious dose of Amish values.

The Amish had been persecuted and even burned alive in the old country, and had determined in North America to stay apart, to avoid being influenced by the wider culture—and to submit as little as possible to government authority. They believed in forgiveness rather than vengeance. Among themselves, if a man repented, he was accepted wholeheartedly back into the fold. Conviction at trial and prison terms were measures they occasionally upheld only in the belief that a man who had stumbled from the path of goodness might be given time to regret his sins and do penance.

Amish did not become law-enforcement officers. So what had motivated Abby Baker?

One more answer he wouldn’t get today.

They’d wandered into discussing the health-care system by the time he parked in the lot outside the medical building that housed her physical therapist. When she quit talking midsentence, Caleb followed her gaze to see an unmarked police car two slots away. Sergeant Michael Donahue climbed out, his eyes on Abby.

Irked, Caleb wondered why he was here, and without issuing a warning.