I look at Henry and frown. “This might be a good time for you to start talking.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the pound of rain against the roof, the roar of water cascading over the dam outside, and the spattering of water onto the floor through a hole in the roof.
“You can’t possibly understand,” he says.
“Try me.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he tells me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I knew you were going to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” I ask, more gently.
He emits a sob, looks around as if searching for a route of escape. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Feet restless. Hands raised. Acting squirrelly.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell him.
He squeezes his eyes closed. He’s trembling now. His face is wet; I can’t tell if it’s from the rain or if he’s crying, but he’s struggling with some internal demon.
“Henry, I’m the best friend you’ve got right now,” I say softly. “Stay calm. Let me help you.”
His gaze meets mine. In its depths, I see a tangled mass of pain and desperation and hopelessness.
“My datt was not a good man,” he whispers.
“I know what he was,” I say.
“Such a bad thing. So many lies.” His mouth trembles. “He betrayed us. All of us. He tried to betray God, but the Lord would not be fooled.”
“Is that why you killed him?” I ask.
He blinks as if the question comes as a shock. “I did what I had to do.” His voice is so faint, I’m not sure I heard the words correctly. “You have to understand. There was no other way.”
He charges me without warning. Animal sounds tear from his throat. I step back, raise the .38. “Stop!” Slip my finger inside the guard. “Stop! Stop!”
He keeps coming.
I fire twice. Catch a glimpse of his face. Disbelief in his eyes. Teeth clenched. Lips peeled back. He plows into me hard, a linebacker crushing the opposition. His shoulder rams my midsection. Knocks the breath from me. Then I’m reeling backward, feet tangling.
“Stop!” I try to get my gun into position for another shot, but he’s too close. His arms locked around my abdomen, trapping my right hand.
My back crashes against the wall. Wood splinters. The screech of steel. A puff of cold air. Rain on my back. My foot finds air. And then I’m falling into nothingness.
CHAPTER 28
It’s as if I’ve been sucked into a vacuum. No sound. No gravity. Just me and a free fall of terror and the knowledge that I screwed up. I tumble down. My forearm strikes something solid. An explosion of pain streaks from forearm to shoulder. A scream tears from my throat. The water slams into my back like a concrete slab. Cold closes over me, stealing light and sound and air. The churning of water all around.
The slicker tangles around my arms. I can’t see or hear or breathe. The sensation of being sucked down. Panic engulfs me and for an instant, I struggle mindlessly. I don’t know up from down or dark from light. My foot plunges into mud. I shove off and propel myself toward the surface. One arm slips free of the slicker sleeve. I kick. Swipe at the water with my uninjured arm. Another burst of panic and then my face breaks the surface.
Water roars all around. I try to suck in a breath, swallow water, end up choking. I’ve lost my flashlight and .38. I don’t know where Henry is. If he means to harm me. I tread water, look around, try to get my bearings. Too dark to see anything. The one thing I do know is I’m being swept downstream.
I let the current carry me. Using my right arm, kicking my feet, I make my way to shore. My feet touch bottom. Swift water tries to pull my legs out from under me. But I muscle through, maintain my balance. Once I’m in shallow water, I fall to my knees and crawl up the bank.
“Kate!”
Jonas. I look up, see a flashlight beam through the driving rain. “Here!” I call out.
The yellow cone of light bounces and nears. I hear the crash of brush over the roaring water. Then I see Jonas skidding down the bank toward me. Yellow slicker shiny and wet. Hat gone. Eyes intense and focused on me.
“Where’s Henry?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He bends to me, grasps my hand in his, helps me to my feet. “Are you hurt?”
“He set the fire,” I tell him. My legs wobble as he hauls me up the steep bank. “He tried to kill me. I fired my weapon; I don’t know if I hit him.” I look around, hating it that I’m shaking so violently I can barely stand. “I lost my gun. My flashlight.”
“Henry pushed you into the water?” he asks.
I take his flashlight, shine the beam on the second story of the structure. Sure enough, there’s an opening where the wood splintered and both of us went through.
“The wall gave way,” I tell him.
“You’re hurt.” He looks down where I’m cradling my injured arm.
“We need to find Henry,” I tell him.
The wail of a siren rises over the roar of water, the din of rain. I look toward the front of the mill, see the flashing lights reflecting off the treetops.
“Maybe you ought to leave that to the police,” he tells me.
I don’t argue.
CHAPTER 29
Twenty years before
I was fifteen years old the last time I saw Jonas Bowman. It was worship Sunday at Leroy Miller’s farm. I’d suffered through three hours of preaching in a sweltering barn and another two of the old folks “piecing” on pie and coffee and catching up on the latest gossip. As usual, a “singing” was planned for afternoon; as usual, I had no inclination to attend.
The problem was, I’d agreed to let Jonas drive me home afterward. I wasn’t sure why that was a problem; my parents would be none the wiser if he dropped me off at the end of the lane. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I thought about him all the time. I missed him and yet I didn’t want to spend time with him. I couldn’t even be nice to him.
I’d caught glimpses of him throughout the morning. But with the women seated on one side of the barn and the men on the other, we didn’t speak. Didn’t even make eye contact. I didn’t, anyway. But I caught him looking in my direction a time or two. By the time worship was over, I was feeling sulky and out of sorts. The last thing I wanted to do was ride home with him.
We’d seen each other several times over the summer. We didn’t talk about it or make plans to meet, but somehow it always seemed to happen. He’d helped my datt dig postholes for the cross fence at the back of our property. Twice, we’d met at the creek. Once, at the covered bridge. Those stolen moments had become important to me, the more spontaneous, the better.
Mamm knew something secret was afoot. On more than one occasion, she reminded me that Jonas was too old. She couldn’t explain why Datt—who was six years her senior—wasn’t too old for her. When you looked at it that way, the four years between Jonas and me didn’t seem like that much.
I was almost to the Tuscarawas Bridge when the clip-clop of hooves—and the electric blare of music—drew my attention. I turned to see Jonas in his buggy pull up beside me. I kept walking. He slowed the horse to keep pace.