“Next time you won’t walk away.”
He releases me. I fall back against the floor, sucking in breaths, choking, my head spinning. Vaguely, I’m aware of him getting to his feet. I turn my head, seeking my .38, only to see him kick it beneath the bed.
“Don’t make me come back,” he says in a gruff voice.
I roll, try to get my feet under me, but my legs aren’t strong enough. Instead, I scrabble toward the bed, aware that he could come back before I reach my weapon.
A sound at the door draws my attention. I look over my shoulder in time to see him disappear into the night.
* * *
Every investigation has a defining moment. A piece of evidence or snippet of information or middle-of-the-night epiphany that convinces a cop he’s on the right track. Someone trying to warn me away qualifies and for the first time since arriving in Pennsylvania, I’m certain of two things: Jonas Bowman didn’t murder Ananias Stoltzfus and the person who did doesn’t want me poking around.
It takes twenty minutes for the sheriff’s department to arrive. It took me nearly that long to pull myself together. Once my head cleared, I got dressed, found my gun beneath the bed, my cell on the floor behind the night table. All the while I tried to get my head around what just happened and who might be responsible. When I first wakened and realized someone was in my room, I’d assumed it was a random break-in. Some junkie or thief looking for cash. It didn’t take long for me to realize this was a targeted attack with a specific goal.
Go back where you came from.
This was not random. It was a clear message, intended to intimidate and scare me off. The messenger has no way of knowing his efforts did nothing but strengthen my resolve. The question now is this: Who wants me gone desperately enough to risk breaking into my motel room and attacking me in the middle of the night?
Someone with a lot to lose, a little voice replies.
I’m standing outside my cottage, looking at the smashed windshield and slashed tires on the Explorer, when the deputy pulls up, lights flashing. It’s after four A.M. now. A family in one of the other cabins has ventured onto their porch to see what riffraff has brought the police to this peaceful little paradise.
The deputy gets out of his vehicle and starts toward me, the beam of his flashlight blinding me.
I raise my hand to shield my eyes and identify myself.
“Ten-twenty-three,” he says into his shoulder mike, letting his dispatcher know he’s arrived on scene. “We got a call about a break-in.”
He’s around thirty years old and built like a tank. Dark hair shorn to the scalp. Thick neck corded with muscle. The tattoo of an eagle and shield peek out at me from the sleeve of his uniform.
I tell him what happened.
He asks a few basic questions as he looks around the room. “Did you see where he went?”
“I saw him go through the door and that was it.”
“Ten-eighty-eight.” Suspicious activity found. “I need a unit.” He turns his attention to me, lifts the beam of his flashlight to my neck. “You need an ambulance?”
“I’m fine.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“No clue.”
“You here alone?”
“Yep. It’s just me.”
He looks at me closely, as if he doesn’t quite believe me, and I get the sense he’s wondering if this is some kind of domestic dispute I don’t want to talk about.
“What are you doing here in Belleville?” He asks the question in a friendly way, but he’s curious about me, wondering why I’m here.
I tell him.
“I heard there was a cop from out of town asking questions.” He nods as if his curiosity has been sated. “You think what happened here tonight is related to that?”
“He didn’t ask for money or my purse. He did, however, suggest I leave town.”
His eyes sharpen on mine. “You get a look at him?”
I give the best description I can. Male. Six feet. Two hundred pounds. It probably describes half the men in the county.
The deputy relays the description to his dispatcher, then leaves the room and walks to my Explorer. “Damn.” He whistles. “Did a number on your vehicle.”
I wince at the sight of the smashed windshield and four flat tires. “He must have done this before he broke in,” I say.
“Must have been a pretty sharp instrument.” He shines the beam on me again, this time keeping it out of my eyes. “Lucky he didn’t use it on you.”
It’s a telling statement. If the intruder wanted to kill me, he could easily have done so.
“Is there an auto repair shop in town?” I ask.
“There’s a good one over in Lewistown,” he tells me. “They’ll tow you. You can pick up a rental car there, too, if you need it.”
He saunters to the door of my room and kneels to examine the lock. “Looks jimmied.”
I follow, study the jamb over his shoulder. Sure enough, the paint is scuffed, the wood gouged. “Looks like he popped the latch bolt out of the bore,” I say.
“This motel is pretty old.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Of course, we don’t get much crime around here.”
He rises and looks at me a little more closely. “You sure you don’t have any idea who might’ve done this?” he asks. “Maybe you ticked someone off and they followed you back here?”
A cast of names scrolls through my brain. The people I’ve come into contact with. The ones who weren’t exactly happy to learn I was looking into a cold case that apparently isn’t that cold.
“The only person I know who didn’t do it, is Jonas Bowman,” I tell him.
Frowning, he motions toward the office in the main building. “I’ll make a report, Chief Burkholder. We’ll step up patrols in the area. In the interim, I suggest you watch your back.”
CHAPTER 15
Big Valley Lutheran Church is a nondescript redbrick building with a crisp white spire, steep dormers, and arched stained-glass windows. A stately-looking sign in front proclaims ALL ARE WELCOME in big block letters.
It took me most of the morning to get the Explorer to the repair shop in Lewistown for a replacement windshield and four new tires. The work will take a couple of days, so the manager drove me over to the car rental agency, where I picked up a midsize sedan.
I’m feeling cranky and sore as I park in the lot behind the church and take the pavestone walkway to a side door marked OFFICE. The interior is hushed and smells of paper dust and lemon oil. I pass by the restrooms, spot another sign for the office, and head that way.
The reception desk is vacant, but I hear someone in a back room. “Hello?” I call out.
A silver-haired woman wearing a skirt, blouse, and cardigan, her arms piled high with padded envelopes and a few small cardboard boxes, comes through the door, and looks at me over the tops of her bifocals. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Pastor Zimmerman,” I tell her.
Two boxes slip off the stack in her arms and thump against the floor. “Oh, dear.”
“I’ve got it.” I round the desk and pick them up. “Where would you like them?”
“My office. This way.” She marches past me and makes a right into an adjoining office. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.