A Marriage for Meghan Page 28

  Thomas felt another surge of excitement, similar to the one he’d experienced with John King’s revelation. “What kind of truck does Trotsler drive? A small pickup like a Ford Ranger?”

  “Oh, no, Agent. He drives a huge, dual-axle Silverado with big tires and a foot-and-a-half of clearance under the frame. Figures, don’t it? The guy went from driving a ten-mile-an-hour horse and buggy to a serious piece of automobile.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Thomas shook hands again and practically ran out the door. He phoned in the information to the sheriff before jumping into his car. That should be enough for a search warrant. But considering it might take a couple hours, he consulted the Misty Meadows map from his last visit. He chose an adjacent street for his stakeout and positioned himself to watch Trotsler’s campsite.

  The man’s pride and joy was parked beside his dilapidated camper. The truck gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine, whereas mud and soot caked the exterior of the trailer. The front entrance featured an upturned bucket instead of steps. A ribbon of smoke curled from a stovepipe chimney at the back end, indicating their suspect was still inside.

  Thomas sat and watched. If Trotsler tried to leave, he would intervene and arrest him without waiting for backup. No way would he let this miscreant get away. Trotsler had wreaked havoc on the Amish community for much too long. The sheriff and his deputies would arrive as soon as they had the search warrant. In the meantime, Thomas tried to imagine his parents ever living like this. Trotsler existed in a netherworld between the fringes of two separate societies. He’d been cast out by the Amish and yet had only marginally acclimated to the English world.

  From his vantage point, Thomas studied the littered campsite with binoculars. A charred log still smoldered in the fire pit. A nearby pile of crushed beer cans revealed how Trotsler spent his free time. Fast-food wrappers and an empty box of packaged pastries testified to an unhealthy diet. This man used to live in a household filled with garden produce, fresh milk and cheese, and free-range beef and chicken. Thomas spotted an empty can of peas among the discarded beer cans. An inexpensive addition to his squirrel stew? He shuddered and slouched down in the seat.

  When his parents left the Amish lifestyle, both had found entry-level jobs and completed their education through GED programs. Then his dad attended college at night while working forty-hour workweeks. He struggled to improve his skills while still supporting his family. Eventually, he worked himself up to manager of a chain hardware store. Not once could Thomas remember his parents bad-mouthing their former Christian sect. What could make someone used to living in a tight-knit circle exist as a recluse with little human contact? Thomas jumped when his cell phone jarred him from his reverie.

  “Agent Mast? My deputies will be in position within a few minutes. They’ll block any possible escape routes.” As usual, Strickland sounded as though he was firing on all cylinders at maximum capacity. “We have the warrant to search the premises, although from the looks of things that shouldn’t take too long.”

  In his rearview mirror, Thomas saw the sheriff’s cruiser pull up behind him. Both men exited their vehicles simultaneously—Strickland with the warrant in one hand while his other rested on his holster. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Thomas drew his weapon and approached the front door of Trotsler’s camper. A deputy brandishing a shotgun stepped out of the brush behind the trailer to discourage flight in that direction.

  “Solomon Trotsler,” shouted Thomas. “This is the FBI and the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant to search the premises. Step outside with your hands raised.” Mast stood to the right of the doorway while Strickland stood to the left, both with guns pointed skyward.

  They waited for a silent count to ten before Thomas repeated the command. Water dripped from the leaky gutter. Faraway, a train whistle mournfully signaled an approaching railroad crossing. A dog barked on the next cul-de-sac, but no sounds emanated from inside. “Trotsler, you’re out of options. Open the door and keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Strickland held up fingers for a three-count, and then he stepped up onto the overturned bucket. With one fluid movement, he kicked open the door. The rotted wooden frame offered little resistance. Thomas and the sheriff entered the Trotsler residence with firearms leveled almost before the door hit the trailer wall.

  It took no time to locate their suspect. In the foul-smelling camper, a thin man sat in an upholstered recliner in the center of the room. With his elbows braced on his knees and his head resting in his hands, Trotsler’s face was hidden. But they heard the muffled sound of sobs over the soft drone of a twelve-inch TV. Within one or two seconds, Thomas absorbed the pertinent details. Newspapers, unopened mail, and food containers littered the floor and covered every flat surface. Empty wine bottles, along with more beer cans than were piled outside, attested to acute alcoholism. The sour odor of spoiled food and an unwashed body assaulted their senses.

  Thomas stood in front of his chair. “Solomon Trotsler, we’re taking you in for questioning in a series of recent hate crimes against the Amish population of Wayne County.”

  “I knew you’d find me eventually.” Trotsler raised his red-rimmed eyes to focus first on Thomas and then the sheriff. “Hate crimes? You bet I hate them. They kicked me out and wouldn’t let me see her anymore.”

  Mast and Strickland exchanged surreptitious glances while the sheriff pulled the suspect to his feet. The vacated vinyl recliner had split, allowing tuffs of fiberfill to protrude in several places.

  “See whom?” asked Thomas, snapping on handcuffs.

  “Edna Stoll. I loved her. I would have married her if her old man hadn’t married her off to that roofer. It ain’t right that Amish people can’t get divorced. Then we could have gotten hitched instead of sneaking around behind her husband’s back.”

  Strickland recited Trotsler’s Miranda warning while Thomas stared at the broken down human being. “This was all because you couldn’t marry somebody?” he asked.

  Trotsler planted his feet wide. “Edna repented and begged her husband to take her back. He forgave her—just like that—so she never had to leave. Doesn’t that just beat all?” He stared at Thomas as though seeking some kind of validation. “But I wouldn’t say I was sorry in front of the congregation, because I wasn’t.” With his explanation complete, he lifted his chin defiantly and relaxed his stance.

  A deputy entered to haul the suspect to a waiting squad car, while a detective stepped inside to gather evidence. He wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Man, what died in here? This guy ever consider hiring a cleaning service?”

  Mast and Strickland jumped down from the depressing hovel. “Who would have guessed that would be his motivation?” asked the sheriff. “A regular little love triangle. Wait until I tell my wife. She says either love or money is at the root of every crime ever committed.”

  Thomas leaned his head back to stretch out his neck muscles. He gazed up at a crystalline blue sky. “You married a very perceptive woman, Bob. I’ll bet Mrs. Stoll would be shocked if she found out how Solomon reacted to their breakup.” He shook his head.

  “You got that right. All that old gossip will start up again.” Strickland snapped his holster closed. “Well, this case would be a slam-dunk to try in regular county court. But I’ll bet the federal prosecutor won’t want to touch it—not since an ex-Amish person terrorized members of his former district. You might be going back to Cleveland empty-handed.”

  Thomas nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. But to tell you the truth, I’ve enjoyed my assignment down here. It’s been like a working vacation. Life in the city will be dull without a rooster crowing at dawn, cows grazing outside my window, and a home-cooked breakfast each morning in the big house.”

  “Sounds like you need to marry a country gal.” Strickland extended his hand for a shake. “Thanks, Thomas. My department appreciated the help from the big dogs.”

  “No problem. Let’s go back to your office. We sti
ll need Trotsler’s signed confession and I need to finish the case reports. Then I think I’ll take a couple days off. I have a school picnic on my social calendar before I pack up and head home on Sunday.”

  Strickland walked to his vehicle, but Thomas took a final glance at the broken door hinges, smeary windows, and bent lawn chair next to the fire pit and uttered a silent prayer. It was his first in quite some time, yet he felt a familiar sense of peace return by the time he’d finished.

  There, but for the grace of God…

  Meghan and Catherine took turns pacing back and forth between the schoolhouse steps and the long tables under the shade trees. Everything was ready for the end-of-year picnic. Papers displaying student work had been hung on all four walls of the classroom. The floor had been swept, the plants were watered, the chalkboard was washed, and the desks were tidied to present the best possible impression. James and John had arrived shortly after eight to set up the volleyball net and prepare the ball diamond for the annual game, students vs. parents. The two teachers covered the tables with white paper, placed jelly jars of wildflowers on each, and arranged stacks of plates, cups, silverware, and napkins. Large drums of lemonade and iced tea sat cooling atop blocks of ice.

  For the tenth time, Meghan turned her gaze skyward.

  “Would you stop fretting?” Catherine slipped an arm around her sister’s waist. “It’s not going to rain.”

  “I’ve had my eye on that one dark cloud toward the south. It looks a little ominous.”

  “Don’t you worry. It wouldn’t dare rain today. I believe we’re ready for our last day of the term. What will you do with all your free time this summer?”

  Meghan pondered that while a smile bloomed across her face. “First, I intend to sleep ten hours straight. Then I’ll spend one whole day floating around on my air mattress in the pond. And after that, it will depend on what the school board decides. I’ll have plenty to do if I’m to teach all eight grades by myself next year.”

  “I have faith in you, dear one.” Catherine tightened her embrace as they spotted the first of many buggies pull into the yard at exactly twelve o’clock.

  “Danki, schwester, for everything this year,” said Meghan. They hurried to greet the first arrival and accept their contribution for the potluck table. Soon all their students arrived, along with parents, grandparents, and younger siblings. When Joanna Kauffman stepped down from the buggy, Meghan gawked at her huge rounded belly.

  The former teacher approached them slowly. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I couldn’t miss your big day.” She opened her arms for a friendly three-way hug.

  “We’re so happy to see you,” said Meghan. “And don’t worry. My other sister is coming in case your future scholar chooses today to make an appearance. Abby’s a midwife, you know.”

  “Jah, I’ve met your sister, and it will be scholars,” Joanna corrected. “The doctor heard a second heartbeat during my last visit. What a surprise. My ehemann had to scramble to make another cradle. But now, with that done, I’m not worried about anything.”

  The women walked to where lawn chairs had been lined up to watch the afternoon’s games. Joanna lowered herself to the sturdiest-looking chair and released a weary sigh. When Catherine left to organize the food table, Joanna leaned toward Meghan and whispered conspiratorially. “I’ve heard good news through the grapevine, but I won’t spoil your fun. Now go about your day, Meghan. I’ll be fine here in the shade. And don’t forget to enjoy yourself.”

  As Meghan walked toward the long rows of tables and benches her heart filled with joy. I’ve heard good news? Joanna knew how important the future teaching job was to her and didn’t want her to worry unnecessarily.

  Meghan rang the school bell, signaling it was time for lunch. Amish people seldom needed a second invitation to a meal. Young and old queued to fill their plates with fried chicken, lunchmeat, potato and pasta salads, and plenty of pickled veggies and home-canned fruits. Wives were eager to use up the remainder of last season’s stock before the garden, orchard, and berry patch produced a fresh crop.

  Catherine stood sentinel at the end of the buffet, making sure everyone had whatever they needed. But Meghan positioned herself under the trees to observe unseen the smiling faces of her kinner with a growing sense of pride. She had done this. And no matter what the school board decided, she was a teacher.

  She was about to join the lunch line when she spotted a familiar buggy park at the end of the row. She held her breath while Jacob stepped down and tied his gelding to the hitching post. Meghan practically fainted for lack of oxygen waiting to see if Rachel climbed down on the opposite side. But she did not. A solitary Jacob repositioned his straw hat, tucked in his shirt, and strolled toward her as though a large red arrow pointed the way.

  “Jacob Shultz,” she called as he drew near. “Welkum! I’m surprised to see you—surprised and pleased.”

  Her final word had been barely a whisper, but his smile indicated he had heard nevertheless. “I’m not one to miss a picnic,” he said. “Not when there will be softball, volleyball, and plenty of good eats. Besides, all my nieces and nephews go to this school. Two of them are graduating today.”

  “Jah, they finished the year with much progress.” She clasped her sweating palms behind her back, hoping they wouldn’t betray a sudden case of nerves.

  “Both my schwestern said you and Catherine did right fine after taking over for Joanna.” Jacob tipped up his hat brim, revealing a sparkle in his green eyes. “I’m proud of you, Meghan. You accomplished what you set out to. And considering the pack of rascal boys in the eighth grade, that was no easy feat.” His grin filled his entire face.

  And it reminded Meghan of the price she’d paid to accomplish that goal. “Danki, Jacob. As an old friend, your opinion matters to me.” She shielded her eyes from the sun glare and tried to collect her thoughts. Her chance was slipping away.

  Stop sashaying around the pond and jump into the water. Men can’t read minds. James’ advice echoed in her ears, prodding her to action. “I noticed that you came to the picnic alone. Rachel Goodall isn’t with you?” she asked in a froglike croak.

  “No, she is not.” His succinct reply merely confirmed the obvious.

  “I do hope she’s not ill.” Meghan turned to look into his face.

  “I hope not too. Plenty of spring colds are going around.” He crossed his arms, slipping his hands beneath his suspenders.

  “But since Rachel isn’t here, I have a chance to speak my mind.” She inhaled a deep breath. “I was foolish, and my foolishness cost me my best friend. I’m sorry for the way I treated you, Jacob, and if you can forgive me, I hope you’ll give me another chance.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Another chance at what, exactly?”

  “At being your girl,” she blurted out. “I thought maybe you could court both of us to see whom you’re more compatible with. Rachel is a fine woman and my friend, but I would appreciate another chance.” She crossed her arms over her apron and waited.

  He scratched at his stubbly jaw. “Is it just friendship you’re after, Meg? Someone to go fishing with on Saturdays and maybe take a ride to town for ice cream?”

  She felt her face flush. “No, Jacob. I’m not twelve years old anymore. Besides, I realized something during the last couple months.”

  “What’s that?” he asked. Now he seemed to be the one holding his breath.

  “That I love you. And I always have.” She met his gaze so there would be no doubt to her sincerity. “So how about a second chance?”

  He tipped up the brim of his hat. “Okay, Miss Yost, I think I’ll give you another go-round. For one thing, Miss Goodall and I weren’t exactly compatible. The night I drove her home, all she talked about was her upcoming trip to Walt Disney World. And all I wanted to talk about was…well, you.”

  Meghan tried to swallow, but something was clogging her throat. “Okay, then,” she stammered. “Let’s grab a bite to eat before I ha
ve to give my end-of-year speech. I know the students are eager for the ball games to start.”

  Jacob extended an elbow to her. “I’m glad we cleared up that little matter because I’m starving.”

  She accepted his arm and walked toward her district in the grove of shady maples. “Me too, Jacob, on both counts.” She closed her eyes just for a moment and prayed. Danki, Lord. Thank You for having mercy on Your unworthy little goose, Meghan.”

  Gideon sat with his sons on the men’s side of the table. His ham sandwich tasted dry, his potato salad was too salty, and he’d almost broken a tooth on a cherry pit someone had overlooked during the canning process. But it wasn’t the food that had him out of sorts. He needed to speak to his fellow elders before he allowed more time to pass. After two more bites of his sandwich, he left his family to join the other ministers.

  “Ach, Gideon,” said Paul. “Sit and take a load off. The day grows warm, especially considering our recent weather.”

  The bishop nodded and sat down heavily. He waited in silence until Paul’s sons wandered over to the dessert table and Stephen and David finally finished eating and joined them. Gideon cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “I have not served my district well these past months, and I come before you filled with shame and regret. I let outside influences cloud my judgment and relied on my own counsel when faced with decisions.” He paused, while the other men stared at him. “I haven’t prayed without ceasing as our Savior instructed, and I haven’t turned to you, my fellow brethren, for advice often enough.” His voice drifted off as he focused on his folded hands. “For these grievous errors, I’m truly sorry.”

  Paul placed a hand on Gideon’s forearm. “You’re not the first man to stumble under pressure, nor will you be the last. We all make mistakes. I have plenty of my own to answer for one day.” Paul’s tone was as casual as though describing the pie choices on the dessert table. In fact, none of the three men seemed shocked by the heartfelt confession.