Shadows of Lancaster County Read online

  SHADOWS

  of

  LANCASTER

  COUNTY

  MINDY STARNS

  CLARK

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Sripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright©1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Tom Laman / National Geographic / Getty Images; David R. Frazier Photolibrary, Inc. / Alamy; Stockxpert

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  SHADOWS OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  Copyright © 2009 by Mindy Starns Clark

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  Shadows of Lancaster County / Mindy Starns Clark.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2447-4 (pbk.)

  1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Genetics—Research—Fiction. 3. Amish—Fiction. 4. Lancaster County (Pa.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.L366S53 2009

  813.’6—dc22

  2008040073

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 / LB-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Shari Weber,

  who helps me in ways too numerous to count,

  meets challenges with grace and strength,

  and lives God’s truth every day.

  I’m honored to call you my friend!

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Discover the Smart Chick Mysteries

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am deeply indebted to:

  John Clark, for always, for everything.

  Emily and Lauren Clark, for patience and understanding and inspiration.

  Kim Moore, for putting up with me—cheerfully!—over and over and over.

  All of the amazing folks at Harvest House Publishers.

  Thanks also to:

  ChiLibris, Alice Clark, Colleen Coble, the members of my online advisory group CONSENSUS, Aaron Dillon, Traci Hall, Traci Hoffman, Karri James, Aaron Jarvis, Benjamin Jarvis, Laura Knudson, Kristian, Tobi Layton, Chip MacGregor, Tom Morrissey, Gayle Roper, Ned & Marie Scannell, Tami, Abby Van Wormer, Sisters in Crime, Shari Weber, Richard & Janet White, and Stacie Williams.

  Special thanks to Erik Wesner, author of

  www.amishamerica.typepad.com.

  Finally, thanks to J.K. Wolfe, MD, and Harry Krause, MD, outstanding physicians who generously brainstormed with me as I attempted to blur the lines between medical reality and what-if fiction. Any inaccuracies—not to mention flights of fancy—are purely mine.

  ONE

  BOBBY

  I’m dead. The powerful engine gunning behind him drowned out every other thought. He held on to the handlebars of the borrowed motorcycle, crouched low on the leather seat, and accelerated as far as he dared. When the dark car struck his rear tire the first time, he managed to hang on through the jolt, though just barely. Regaining control, he crouched even lower and gripped the handlebars more tightly, adrenaline surging in the piercing cold. In vain he searched the blackness ahead for an escape, for some point of diversion where the motorcycle could go but the car pursuing him could not. Caught on the wide curve of a hilly highway, there were no shoulders here, and no way to know what lay in the darkness off to the right beyond the metal guardrail. Worse, he knew he couldn’t swerve back and forth on the blacktop to dodge the next hit, because moves like that on a motorcycle would end up flipping the bike and high-siding him whether the car rammed into him again or not.

  A second jolt came just as the guardrail ended, a collision that nearly managed to unseat him. Barely hanging on, he regained his balance, scooted forward on the leather seat, and took a deep breath, conscious of the vehicle still roaring aggressively behind him in murderous pursuit. In a choice between certain death on the road and possible survival off of it, he steeled his nerves and made the decision to leave the pavement no matter what he might run into. Holding on tight, he shifted his weight and angled the handlebars to the right, veering into the unknown darkness. The action was punctuated by a series of bumps and jolts as his tires went from blacktop to gravel to crunchy brown grass.

  Let it be a field, God. Let it be somebody’s farm.

  The headlamp of the borrowed motorcycle was strong, its beam slicing through the February night air to reveal the unfamiliar terrain he had driven himself into. Before he could discern what lay ahead, however, before he could even slow down or adjust his direction or see if the car had tried to follow, he spotted the looming gray mass in front of him—a solid, four-foot-high cement retaining wall. He knew this was the end.

  The sudden stop flung him heavenward, propelling him in a broad arc across the night sky like the flare of a Roman candle. As he went, he thought mostly of the ground far below him, the frozen and unforgiving earth that was going to greet him by shattering his bones or snapping his neck upon landing. He prayed for the latter, less painful option.

  Let it end quickly, God.

  As his trajectory continued, his limbs instinctively flailing against the void, his mind went to one person: his younger sister, Anna. He hoped beyond hope that his message would get to her, that she would understand what he wanted her to do. For a guy who didn’t even own a computer, he found it vaguely ironic that the last thought that raced through his mind just before certain death was of an email. But the message he had sent her was the only chance he had, the only hope that Lydia and Isaac might still be protected. That one email was the only way his desperate efforts might save his wife and son and the unborn child Lydia was carrying.

  Let it end quickly, God, he prayed again just before impa
ct. And please, God, please guide Anna to the truth.

  TWO

  ANNA

  The nightmare started up again last night.

  That was the first thought that struck me as I turned off the alarm. Somewhere in the early hours of the dawn I had gone there in my sleep for the first time in many months. Now as I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, I couldn’t understand why it was back, this nightmare that had plagued me off and on for the past eleven years.

  Why now? Why last night?

  Sometimes all it took was an external cue, like a house fire spotted from the freeway. An Amish character flashing across the television screen. A news report about a dead newborn baby. But I hadn’t experienced any of those things lately. There was simply no reason for the nightmare to have returned like this, out of the blue.

  Standing up, I traded my nightgown for shorts and a T-shirt and then padded into the bathroom. As I stood at the mirror and brushed my teeth, I tried not to relive it again now that I was awake, but I couldn’t help it.

  The dream was always beautiful at first: rolling fields that look like patchwork on an Amish quilt, cars sharing the road with horses and buggies, colorful laundry flapping in the wind. But then there was the farmhouse, the rambling old farmhouse. Without electricity or curtains, as I came closer the windows would turn into dark, empty eyes staring at me. My nightmare always ended the same: black to orange to hot white. Sirens. Screams. The acrid stench of smoke, of terror, of unspeakable loss. When I woke up, guilt would consume me like flame.

  Wishing I could spit out that guilt along with the toothpaste, I rinsed my mouth and then reached for my hairbrush, attacking my long, blond hair with vigor.

  It happened a long, long time ago.

  You paid your dues.

  All has been forgiven.

  Telling myself that over and over, I swept my hair into a ponytail, turned out the light, and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, judging by the mess on the counter and the fact that the door was ajar, I realized my housemate was already up and doing her exercises on the back porch. Kiki was always trying out some new fitness trend, the latest and greatest plan guaranteed to shed pounds and inches by the second. I had given up long ago trying to convince her that if she would just come jogging with me a few times a week, she would eventually achieve the results she so desperately sought. Still, I thought as I put away the juice carton and wiped off the counter, on days like today I was glad I could jog alone. I needed the quiet to clear my head and wash away the last remnants of my nightmare.

  Once the kitchen was tidy, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and opened the back door the rest of the way; a warm ocean breeze wafted in to greet me. I stepped out onto the uneven slats of the porch and let the door fall shut behind me as I inhaled the salty sea smell of morning. Gorgeous. As someone who had grown up in snowy Pennsylvania, I knew I’d never get used to the year-round warm weather and sunshine of Southern California.

  “Howdy,” Kiki said cheerfully. She was doing stretches on the far side of the porch, past the square of rotten boards near the door. “Wanna see my new Piloga move?”

  “Piloga? What’s that? Some cross between Pilates and Yoga?”

  “No, it’s named after the founder, Manny Piloga. He teaches the fifty-plus class down at the Y.”

  I smiled, glancing at my watch. It was early yet; I could spare a few minutes to encourage her efforts—not to mention that a quick chat might help distract me even further from my nightmare. As Kiki sat on the wooden floorboards, I reached for a folded aluminum chair that was propped against the wall and told her to be careful on the floor lest she get splinters in her bottom.

  “Aw, I’ve got so much padding, I probably wouldn’t even feel it if I did,” Kiki laughed, adjusting the waistband on her pajamas and stretching her legs out in front of her.

  “Hey, I saw that guy at the grocery store flirting with you yesterday,” I reminded her as I sat in the chair. “He didn’t seem to mind a little extra padding at all.”

  “That’s ‘cause he works in the deli department. He likes it when the scales weigh in heavy.”

  I rolled my eyes again, refusing to laugh at her joke, but she laughed loud enough for both of us.

  “Okay, check out the ab work I’ve been doing,” Kiki said as she leaned back, arms jutting forward parallel to the ground. Slowly, she raised her legs into the air and held them there. “I can stay like this for three minutes, just long enough for you to tell me about your date last night. A fancy dinner at Harborside, hmm? He must have had something in mind. Maybe a certain question he wanted to pop?”

  “Good grief, Kik, it was just our third date.”

  “Sometimes true love can speed things along. I got engaged to my Roger during our first date—and we were happily married for twenty-five years before he passed, God rest his soul.”

  “Yeah, well, you were one of the lucky ones. Very impressive stance, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Manny says it strengthens the core.”

  I opened up my water bottle, took a sip, and looked at my housemate, who also happened to be my landlord, coworker, and best friend despite the twenty-one-year difference in our ages. As she maintained her bizarre position, I thought about yesterday evening, about my third and final outing with Hal, or as I had come to think of him, Hal-itosis.

  “We decided not to see each other anymore.”

  She let out a long grunt, though I wasn’t sure if it was from exertion or exasperation.

  “ ‘We’ who? ‘We’ him or ‘we’ you? Or do I even have to ask?”

  “Well, like you expected, he did take me to Harborside for a reason. He told me he wants to get more serious.”

  “Exclusive dating serious or engagement serious?”

  “I have no idea, Kik. His exact words were ‘I think it’s time we should take this to the next level.’ I didn’t even want to know what the next level was. I suggested he would be happier with someone who enjoys day-old-coffee breath.”

  A loud laugh burst from Kiki’s mouth. “You didn’t say that!”

  “No, I didn’t. But I thought it. I just told him I didn’t think it would be fair to him, because I wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m not interested in a long-term relationship…with him.”

  “Uh-huh.” She was quiet for a long moment, but her silence was louder than words.

  I looked her way to see that she was still holding her pose, though beads of sweat were now forming along her hairline.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “What is it you’re not saying?”

  “I don’t know, Anna, it’s just that you’re so picky about who you’re willing to go out with, which is fine. Not every fellow who comes sniffing around a pretty girl is worth her time or attention. But how come the ones who make it through the first elimination never get to the next round?”

  “What am I, a game show?”

  “You know what I mean. How come every one of your relationships ends this way, with you breaking it off just when the guy wants to get more serious? How can you be so sure one of these fellows isn’t The One?”

  I shrugged, wondering how I could explain. I kept dating because I hoped someday to find the man who would make me forget all about Reed Thornton. He had been The One, as far as I was concerned, but I had lost him eleven years ago when the fire that burned in my nightmares had also extinguished my dreams with him. Even though I hadn’t seen or spoken to Reed since, I still thought of him often, no matter how hard I tried not to. Somehow, I had yet to meet the man who could even begin to compare.

  “I’m not waiting for the perfect guy. I just want a guy who’s perfect for me. If I can’t find that, I’d rather be alone.”

  With a loud groan, Kiki finally collapsed, breathing heavily as she lay sprawled on the floor. I glanced at my watch. I needed to get moving soon if I wanted to get in a full run before we needed to leave for w
ork. Still, as Kiki recovered from her efforts, I could tell she had more to say.

  “Go ahead, Kiki. Don’t hold back now.”

  With a chuckle, she rolled on her side and propped up on one elbow.

  “Fine. You’re a very private person, Anna, and I know you have trouble letting people in. But if you want to find someone, stop giving up so soon. True love starts when you open yourself to chances.”

  Chances? It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself the luxury of chances. Once I broke with my past seven years ago and created my new self, my new identity, my whole life had become one big chance. Back then, finding Mr. Right was the least of my worries—especially because my heart was broken from all that had happened with Reed. As time went on and I finally escaped from my past and found peace in my new life here in California, the daily risk factor had greatly lessened. Maybe it was time to take a few chances in life.

  “Thanks, Kiki, I’ll think on it,” I said as I stood and moved toward the steps in my bare feet. “Gotta run for now though, or we’ll be late for work.”

  Careful to avoid more rotten boards, I made my way down one side of the steps to the sandy beach.

  “Without shoes?” Kiki asked, moving into position for another exercise.

  “Yep, and no sunscreen either,” I said, grinning. “See? I can take chances.”

  I turned, my bare feet digging down into the sand, and took off. My movements were awkward until I reached the damp packed sand near the water. There it was easier to run, easier to find traction in the gritty ground. I tucked in my elbows and sprinted along the water’s edge until I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest. I slowed to a jog and ran farther than I had intended, which was not a wise choice given my bare feet. I would pay for this later, but for now it just felt good. It was calming. Sometimes I thought God used the sand and water and my quiet morning runs as a special gift for me, just to keep me sane.