Disappearances Page 5

  Reuben froze, then began slowly polishing buckles, his mind whirring like Mam’s egg beater when she made lemon meringue pie. He got up, stretched, and casually walked to the house, straight to Richard Caldwell’s office.

  “Gregory’s Cadillac. In town! Oliver Martinez bought a new car there. He’s a friend of Lothario Bean!”

  Reuben leaned over his desk, his hands reeking of silver polish, his eyes very big and blue, desperate with longing.

  “I’ll call the police immediately, Reuben.”

  The police came to interview the family and found Lothario Bean, who gave them all the information they needed. Then they went to Jim and Dorothy’s house, where they found Louis and Marcellus in their pajamas, having their evening bedtime ritual of graham crackers and milk.

  Still as mannerly and well-spoken as ever, they answered questions forthrightly with childish sincerity. They proudly produced their address label on the inside of their drawstring duffel bag, having discovered it only the week before and told Dorothy, who refused to look at it, saying no one knew whose address that was.

  The police were onto something, and they knew it immediately. They went back to the Miller home, found Mark still awake, pacing the kitchen floor, and delivered the good news. Mark bent his head, nodding, his mouth working as he fought to control his emotions. At last, a thread of genuine hope. With promises of keeping him posted, they left, but there was very little sleep for him the entire night.

  Sadie was finished cleaning. She felt as if her mind was slipping, slowly leaving her without the good foundation of genuine reality. Had this all happened? Was it a bad dream? This couldn’t have happened in real life. Amish girls driving around in horses and buggies were not accosted on rural roads. Another car or truck would have passed them, been aware of a suspicious-looking situation, stopped, and helped her out.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror. She still looked the same, only thinner, circles casting shadows beneath her dark eyes, and definitely like someone who was, yes, slowly losing her mind.

  If she only had something to write on or something to read. She had asked but was refused. Why? Why couldn’t they let her have something to read? She wrote poems in her mind. She thought of words, put them together in a sequence, sort of, until she memorized verse after verse.

  She considered kicking her way out of the door. Not the door. The drywall would break easier. Just kick and pound, bludgeon the wall with whatever she could find, and sneak out. Or, like a rat, chew slowly away at an opening, slip out during the night, and run. Run wildly, crazily, screaming for help.

  Another scenario that held more logic was knotting the bed sheets, the bedspread, the towels, and whatever else she could use, hanging them down the side of the great house, and slipping away during the night. But who could measure how many sheets it would take to reach the ground? What if she stayed dangling halfway, unable to climb back up, and the distance too great to drop down? The alarm system in a home this grand was another thing to be reckoned with. Probably not even a cat could roam these grounds without someone being aware of it.

  She stood at the window, watched the wind blow the brown tufts of grass, prayed to be allowed to feel the wonderful breezes caress her face. Sometime she felt as if she was riding Paris, Reuben beside her, laughing, the wind tearing at her dichly. She would smile, remember, and then tears would rain down her cheeks, missing Reuben.

  The fat man was becoming increasingly forgetful, leaving her without breakfast, and sometimes without anything to eat until evening. Once, she received only a stack of stale saltines and a warm bottle of Dr. Pepper without apology. He seemed to become more agitated as time went on, peering over his shoulder before he entered, his fingers drumming on the window pane as he stood, parted the wooden slats of the blinds, then turned sharply.

  “They’re not responding yet.”

  Sadie looked up sharply. “Who?”

  “The people we think have the palomino.”

  “Maybe they don’t even have her.”

  “Do you know more than you’re telling us?”

  “Absolutely not. I told you the truth.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Please. I don’t know where they took her or who the men were.”

  “Why wouldn’t they respond?”

  Suddenly Sadie became physically ill, her stomach churning with fear, the knowledge hitting her, slamming into her with the force of a hurricane: the kidnappers must not have alerted the police or government agents, or they would have responded a long time ago. It was becoming clear to Sadie that these men weren’t really interested in the horse. Paris had little, if anything, to do with her abduction.

  Sadie felt a cold sweat break out on her back and shoulders. Her hands shook of their own accord as she clenched them in her lap, desperately trying to still them before the fat man saw her fear. Play dumb. She would need to be an opossum, playing dead. It was the only way.

  “Perhaps they don’t have her.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  The fat man was pacing now, extremely agitated. “So, if we can’t get the horse, and we take you back, I’ll spend time in jail for having taken you in the first place. It’s not looking good.”

  Sadie nodded.

  “And … if you were to disappear … Just weighing my options here.”

  Another lurch of Sadie’s stomach was followed by her mouth drying up, her breath coming in shallow puffs, the color draining from her face. Play dumb. She heard the words this time. She forced herself to meet his eyes, found his sliding away, furtive, sensitive, unstable.

  “You mean you’ll let me go, right?” she asked, as normally as she could possibly manage.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d turn me in.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He gave her a look of disbelief.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “No.”

  Sadie squared her shoulders, sat up, took a deep breath, summoned her courage. “Don’t you have a wife, children, anyone you care about?”

  “Used to.”

  “Did you love her? Or your children?”

  “Yeah, at one time I did. But I got to messing with this … uh … operation, and they left.”

  “Who left?”

  “They did.”

  “You mean your wife and children?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you own this house?”

  “No! Who do you think I am?”

  “I have no idea who you are.”

  “No. I don’t own this place. I just work for the guy who does. Things are just so out of control right now. I mean, he always dealt in horses. Done real good for himself. Beautiful wife and kids, found out about the … I can’t say … and plumb lost his mind. Started thievin’ and doin’ illegal stuff just to get his hands on these horses. Offered me … I can’t say.”

  “So, if you just work for this man, why can’t you let me go? Does he know I’m here? Does anyone know why?”

  “Yeah. Well, in the beginning he did. But I’m not sure he didn’t … I can’t say.”

  “Well, if you don’t know how I can go home, why don’t you just put a stop to this whole deal and let me go?”

  He looked at her, and she saw the wavering in his eyes, the doubt, a certain dipping of his eyelids.

  “Because I’m getting a bunch of money if we get that horse. I mean, a lot. And … I thought if I have so much money, maybe Adele will come back to me. See, she needs money to keep her happy, and I just couldn’t make enough for her. I mean, to keep her with me, happy— you know?”

  He looked up. “Adele’s a terrific cook. She cooks the best sausage and eggs with salsa, fried tomatoes with chilies, it’s unreal. I loved her. Did anything I could to keep her. The kids though, that’s what really broke my heart.”

  Sadie nodded. “Must be hard, losing your wife.”

  “You could live with me.
Just disappear. Can you cook? We could go across the border. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Suddenly, he appeared to Sadie as his true self, undisguised. A fat, lonely man, afraid, who had only been trying to make enough money to keep his spoiled wife at his side. Perhaps he was as afraid as she was, only in a different way. Was he capable of harming her? She doubted it.

  Quickly, she weighed her options, measured them on the scale of pros and cons. To go with him, out of this room. To refuse, stay here, with no promise of escape. It was the confinement that was hardest. She would go. She would risk it. What did she have to lose?

  “You take me, I’ll go.”

  He looked at her, then shook his head. “Can’t do it. I have to wait. Surely I’ll get the money.”

  Sadie felt the desperation assail her, became fueled by it, burst out, “But if you don’t even know if your … your boss is trying to contact the men who have Paris … the horse, then how is this thing ever going to come to an end?”

  She was crying, then sniveling, pleading, groveling at his feet.

  “Just please take me home. Get me out of here. I’ve done nothing wrong except own a palomino horse. Supposing I was your daughter? Your son?”

  In the end, the fat man hardened his heart, became harsh, adamant, refusing to budge or listen to her cries. She knew without looking at him when she heard him heave himself from the chair, open the door, turn the key in the lock, and leave.

  It was the large sum of money. Her despair felt like a heavy backpack that wore down her resolve, her hope, her courage. There was truly nothing left. They would let her die in this room.

  Well, she wasn’t going to die. She had too much to live for. Mark. She pictured him. Tall, dark hair tumbling over his forehead, a new line of dark hair appearing along his jawbone, growing the beard in the Amish style of the married man, so handsome, so gentle. How she loved him! And she had Mam, Dat, Reuben, her sisters, Dorothy. No, she would not give up.

  Eyeing the bedspread, the towels, estimating a sheet’s length, she sat on the beige sofa and planned. As her thoughts were fueled by a shot of adrenaline, she formed a plan. It was absolutely doable. Yes, it was. The hardest part was determining how to secure the end of the rope of sheets firmly enough to hold her weight. The door? The bed? The doorknob? Would it hold? Oh, dear God, help me.

  As night fell, she knew it was this night or never. To pass time, she took a long hot bath, shampooed her hair, hung up the towels, rinsed the tub and bowl of the vanity. She straightened the cushions on the beige sofa, then found extra sheets, towels, whatever she could knot together to form a rope of sorts.

  With her teeth, she gnawed at the sheet’s end, beginning a small tear. Sometimes with fabric you could pull with all your strength and you’d be unable to tear it apart. But if you put just a tiny cut in it, you could rip it easily. Even if her teeth hurt, she kept chewing, until she had a delicate beginning.

  Would he be back? He never came to check on her after her evening meal was delivered, but you never know. To stay safe, she worked on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, so if anyone did appear, she could quickly stuff it all beneath the opulent bed skirt. What a wonderful sound! That ripping, tearing sound of a sheet being torn—the sound of freedom!

  She worked steadily, her ears tuned to the slightest sound from the hallway. When there was none, she continued tearing, then knotting. She knotted the sheets with the same knot she used to tie Paris or Truman to a hitching rail. The gaul’s gnipp. The horse’s knot. Over and under and around. If the knot was done properly, the harder it was pulled, the tighter it became. Sometimes, a horse could pull until it became dangerously tight, and still there was no way it would loosen.

  She planned her escape route, considered the distance to the road, the crisscross of fencing, and where the fence rows and the trees were. She wondered whether she might trigger alarms and lights as she scurried across the property. There was a row of square bales and a place she hoped was a ravine.

  She had never seen her coat or her bonnet after they had brought her to this room. Her only hope to keep from freezing was the white terrycloth robe that hung on the ornate hook on the oak bathroom door. It would work as a coat of sorts.

  The red numbers on the clock were 10:22.

  Chapter 5

  SADIE LAY IN BED, her eyes wide open, planning her getaway. How strong was she? Powerful enough to cling to a rope of sheets and lower herself to the ground? Reuben would be. So would Mark.

  She tied the end of the sheet around the leg of the bed, having determined that it was made of heavy steel. She secured it to the hinge on the door as well, just to be sure, sliding a length of sheet carefully into the crack of the door when it stood ajar. Surely, secured in two places, it would hold.

  Better to wait till close to the morning hours. Hadn’t she heard, somewhere, that people slept most securely at four o’clock in the morning? Four o’clock, then; that was her goal.

  She didn’t sleep a wink. Every shadow of the room imprinted on her mind. She pictured every knot, every length of sheet. At midnight, she got up, sat on the sofa shivering. She shivered with a case of nervous energy coupled with fear. She shook out the heavy bathrobe, put it on, secured it around her waist with the belt on top of her blue dress.

  She wore no covering since they had taken it with her black bonnet. She had been taught to pray with her head covered, so she laid a washcloth as a makeshift covering. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and looking so silly, she decided surely God would hear her prayer since these men had taken her covering away and she was in such dire need of help.

  What about that Magdalene, or whatever her name was, in the Bible? Hadn’t she wiped Jesus’ feet with her long hair? She didn’t wear a covering, and Jesus said she had done him a far greater service than anyone else. Or maybe she did wear a covering, one of those long biblical cloths they wore thousands of years ago. Who could tell?

  Sadie prayed reverently, tearfully, begging God to keep her safe. I’ll take pain, fear, whatever, but just give me strength to do this, she prayed.

  Her mind raced, her nerves jangled. She wished she had something to put in the deep pockets of her bathrobe. A package of crackers. Some pretzels. A bottle of water. It couldn’t be too far to a house. A car would pass.

  What about dogs? The great rangy creatures flew like agile wolves at the heels of the cattle scattered all over cattle country to protect the livestock from predators. She’d just have to deal with them. She surely did not want to die like Jezebel in the Old Testament either. That was such a tale of warning, the way Jezebel had held her own spiritual meaning far above her husband’s, and he was likely closer to God than she was. Women could be such misled creatures, being the weaker vessels the way they were.

  Boy, she got herself in trouble saying that to Dorothy. Sadie had finally conceded, saying all right, Dorothy, we Amish are sort of old-fashioned in our views about women knowing their place, being submissive to their husbands. Dorothy did not go along with that. Where would her Jim be if she didn’t keep him on his toes? Huh? Answer me that.

  One thirty-six. Soon now. Soon she would know. The wind moaned around the corner of the house. Hmm. It hadn’t been windy. She hoped there wasn’t a storm coming. There was no snow, only cold.

  Would a car come along before the dogs, or the fat man, or the hired hands, or whoever else was in the wealthy man’s employ? She must have dozed off. Not really slept, just entered the gray zone, the way she had done while they traveled to this house.

  Three forty. She jerked, her whole body froze. Twenty more minutes. Oh, dear God. What difference will these 20 minutes make? I must go. She felt a numbness, a maddening listlessness steal over her legs, her arms. You can’t do this. You are weak. Tears rose from the hard lump in her throat. Yes, she was weak. No, she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t.

  The Apostle Paul had said the same thing. He was weak, but in Christ Jesus he could do anything with his power. A warmth st
ole over her body, an assurance of strength. Adrenaline followed it.

  She sat up, swung her legs over, secured the belt of the white bathrobe, checked the security of the knots one last time, then slowly loosened the crack of the window. In one turn, she was rewarded by a loosening scrape. She turned steadily, until the long, narrow window was propelled out, allowing enough room for the rope of sheets to be thrown over. Leaning out, she peered desperately into the semi-darkness.

  Oh, no. It did not reach the ground. Well, it had to be close. The sheets passed both windows of the second and third stories, went to the first story. She had to go.

  With a deep breath, she climbed up on the windowsill, grasping the sheet. It was so thin. The actual taking hold of the sheet was much harder than she had imagined. How to do this? She finally realized she’d have to sit on the windowsill, with her legs dangling down the side while keeping her hold on the sheets. She’d have to sit forward, then take the plunge, twisting her body to keep her feet against the wall.

  She looked back. Three fifty-eight. A good omen. A little before the set time. Grasping the rope of sheets in both hands, she pushed herself off the windowsill, her teeth clenched in the desperate effort to keep a firm grip.

  She swung out too far. There was a tearing at her shoulders. Her hands slipped. Oh, no. She couldn’t do it. She would fall. Such thoughts tumbled through her mind, but only for a moment. Then her arms rippled with strength. She propelled her body sideways, then in a turn, her feet slid against the stone wall.

  Slowly, hand over hand, she lowered herself. The air was so cold. Should have thrown this bathrobe down, the way it billowed out. The first knot. On down. Ouch.

  She was going too fast. The sheets burned the palm of her hand. Grasping them more firmly, she slowed her descent. Better to take her time. She didn’t want bleeding palms on her hands. The last knot.