Return to Grace

  Seth asked, “You’re looking for something bigger than bullets you didn’t locate before, bigger than a small box of money or treasure?”

  “Right, although some of those other items could show up. The truth is we’re not quite sure what we’re looking for, but as Seth or Hannah can explain since they stumbled on this—”

  “Hannah told me last night,” the bishop said. “But that does not give you or your people—radar machines or not—the right to disturb our graves.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Linc said, staring hard at the bishop, then at Seth. “We have a court order coming that will allow us to get to the bottom of this crime scene, literally. And I regret that word of this will soon get out to more than just your people, and we’ll have swarms of media in here again, because they complicate my job.”

  “We will see about all this,” the bishop said, and walked away.

  Seth felt guilty he’d helped to cause this latest outrage. In his mind, the first catastrophe was not the shootings, but that he’d let Hannah down when he’d gotten Lena pregnant, though he’d never wish that he didn’t have Marlena in his life. He, too, turned and walked away, with a frowning glance up the hill from where the bullets which had changed everything again had come, but, for now at least, had kept Hannah home.

  He gasped. On the ground, halfway up the hill between the fence and the woodlot, John Arrowroot sat cross-legged on a blanket, just watching. Was Armstrong too occupied to have noticed the man, or had he not yet met him and so didn’t recognize him? The sheriff, at least, should be keeping an eye on him. Seth went out the gate, now guarded by a State Highway patrolman, and circled the growing crowd of his people.

  Seth strode up the hill toward Arrowroot, but before he could say a word, the man called to him, “Now maybe you people will get what it means to have the government ignore you and have your sacred land violated!”

  12

  SETH STARED AT Arrowroot, who went on as if he’d said nothing important. “Shouldn’t you be up on my roof, starting the reshingling?”

  “You know I can’t with this going on. I have a feeling you’re enjoying yourself here, getting back at us.”

  “Not really. The last thing I want is the government—and make no mistake, the FBI is the U.S. government—digging up land sacred to the Eries. I’m just waiting for them to turn up one little artifact or ancient bone, and I’ll have them stopped like that—and Agent Armstrong knows it, even if he’s like a bull in the china shop.”

  “Stop them how?”

  “They’re throwing around their terms—GPR, FBI, the BCI. I told him my answer to them—the NAGPRA.”

  So Arrowroot and Linc Armstrong had had words already. “Which is?” Seth asked. This man obviously liked lording the information over him. Despite Arrowroot sitting there so cockily, Seth sometimes thought he could smell defiance to cover guilt reeking from him. But for shooting young people he didn’t even know and with the intent to kill?

  “It’s the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, a 1990 federal law,” Arrowroot said. He sounded like the lawyer he was as he went on. “For too long this country has ripped off not only land from Native tribes but their ancestors’ human remains, funerary objects, artifacts. But that law says, they turn one of them up—with their radar or so much as a spade—and all digging stops until they get forensic anthropologists and tribal observers out here to preserve and then return everything.”

  “Mr. Arrowroot, I do feel for Indian tribes losing their land, but my people have dug our graves on this hillside by hand for nearly a century and we haven’t turned up any objects like that.”

  “Not that you’ve made public, anyway. What about arrowheads in the fields? My people,” he threw back, emphasizing each word, “were known for their poison arrows, and they always used a mound like this for burials. You have any idea yet of what they’re looking for?” he asked with a tilt of his head down the hill.

  Seth had been baited long enough. His daad would have come up with a soft answer, but he blurted, “Maybe something you planted there.”

  “Now, look,” Arrowroot said, jabbing the air with his finger, “you want that job on my roof or not? Maybe you should get back to work.”

  “I can send someone else if you don’t want me there, but I can’t start when I said I could because of this.”

  “Yeah, fine. I’d be pretty shook, too, if I thought those bastards were going to dig up my wife’s grave.”

  Seth jerked his head around to glance down the hill. Armstrong, the sheriff and the two GPR men were huddled in conversation, almost on top of Lena’s grave. Armstrong immediately got on his cell phone, nodding and gesturing as he talked while the other three men pulled the GPR machine up toward Miriam Kauffman’s grave.

  “Let me know what you find out,” Arrowroot called after Seth as he hurried down the hill and stood at the highest part of the fence, closest to old Miriam’s resting place.

  “What is it?” Seth called to the sheriff. “What did you find?”

  By the time the sheriff walked up to where Seth stood, Bishop Esh and Ben Kauffman had joined him. Bishop Esh was out of breath. “I’m sorry, Seth,” the sheriff said, “but I’m not at liberty to say just yet. You’ll be one of the first to know if anything pans out. They need to examine the other graves with the lifted sod.”

  “Sheriff, just tell me one thing,” Seth said, reaching out to grasp the man’s shoulder, right above his badge. He remembered how adamant Agent Armstrong had been that Seth examine his FBI badge when he first questioned him about the shootings. Armstrong was a prideful man, but Sheriff Freeman was more approachable. “Lena Lantz is still buried there, isn’t she?” Seth asked. “She hasn’t been…disturbed, like the sod?”

  “Yes, Seth. As far as we—they—can tell, her coffin and body are there intact.”

  Seth heaved a sigh. “So something else has been put into her grave besides her coffin?”

  “Later, Seth. I swear that you, the Kauffmans and the bishop will be the first to know when we figure things out.”

  Seth could have fallen to his knees, but he nodded and stood firm. Things could not get worse, he thought, just before a helicopter with Channel 9 News/Cleveland printed on its side circled, then hovered, sucking grit and Amish hats into the air while someone leaned out with a camera.

  Hannah, who was helping Amanda Stutzman clean the common rooms of the B and B, first heard about what had happened when Lily Freeman jogged back that morning. She wore a hot-pink running suit with white stripes. Though she was sweating and out of breath—and still looked somehow put together—the moment she came in the front door, she told Amanda and Hannah about the GPR, the crowd at the cemetery and the news media literally hanging over the scene.

  “Their chopper was kicking up so much dust and leaves. I didn’t need that in my eyes and hair,” she told them. “Contact lenses, green-tinted ones at that. I used to wear glasses before I left here, but a lot of things used to be different. So you’re the Amish survivor of the shooting,” she said, patting Hannah’s shoulder. “Thank heavens you’re all right. Amanda told me you’d be working here. Despite that wrist bandage, it looks like you’re doing well.”

  “I start physical therapy this week, which I guess is a good sign. But do you know if they found what they’re looking for underground at the graveyard?”

  “It’s driving everyone crazy—the sheriff, too, I can tell, because he’s caught between the two worlds involved. I still know that man better than he knows himself.”

  Well, Hannah thought, there was a quote Ray-Lynn should hear, but it would worry her to death.

  What could be buried in those newest graves? Hannah still figured it was some sort of treasure. Who would get possession of it if no one dared claim it without incriminating himself? If it was in Lena’s grave, would Seth own whatever they found? The Amish church? As soon as Hannah was finished here today and Naomi picked her up, should she head to the graveyard to see what was g
oing on? Or would that make her fair game for the media visitors she’d managed to avoid before? She could already feel the assessing stares of her own people. In a big way, she was the one who had caused all this, set these terrible events in motion.

  Amanda interrupted Hannah’s agonizing when she asked her guest, “I suppose you’re going back to writing your book, but would you like some tea or a snack, Lily?”

  So this woman was writing a book. Was it really about her life in Nevada? Hannah wondered. It could be about the contrast between Homestead and Las Vegas. She sure hoped she didn’t see all the events around here as ideas for a murder mystery.

  “Coffee, but no more pastries for me right now, thanks,” Lily said, patting her flat stomach. “Love your bakery items, Amanda, but I’ve got to keep my girlish figure and that’s not easy in Amish country. Hannah, I see you’re keeping it off, though maybe you have your bus to catch, too.”

  She gave a light laugh, but it seemed to have an edge to it. It actually took Hannah a minute to realize she was talking about men, not buses. So did she mean she was still after Jack Freeman or did she have someone else in mind?

  It was almost dark that Sunday night when Sheriff Freeman, with the light bar on his cruiser blinking, made his way through several cars and three TV trucks with antennas and broadcasting dishes lining the road in front of the Esh house. Twice, Hannah’s father had gone out to ask reporters to please stay off his property, and their vehicles were now blocking one side of the two-lane Oakridge Road in front of the farm.

  The bishop let the sheriff in before he knocked and firmly closed the door behind him. Mamm, Naomi and Hannah had been serving cider and doughnuts to the assembled group: Ben and Anna Kauffman; Seth and his parents, Eben and Anna; and several church elders. Hannah saw Seth’s shoulders tense. How she longed to be able to stand beside him, to rub his back or at least touch it to comfort him.

  Silence fell as everyone clustered in the kitchen to hear what the sheriff had to say. He took off his big-brimmed hat and turned it over and over in his hands. “First of all, I promise you,” he began, “as soon as I leave, I will clear out those media vultures, at least tell them they have to keep back a hundred feet, off your property and out of the road.”

  “We appreciate that,” Daad told him. “Will Agent Armstrong be coming here, too?”

  “He’s very busy with the new developments.”

  “Would you like to sit down? Have some coffee and doughnuts?” Daad asked. Hannah almost wanted to scream at the polite chatter, but it was the Amish way.

  “No, thanks. I’ll need to get back to—to try to keep a lid on things. There’s no easy way to say this, after all else that’s happened.” His eyes met Hannah’s before he looked away, back to her father. “The coffins with the bodies of your loved ones have not been disturbed, exactly, so you can rest easy on that.”

  “Not disturbed ‘exactly’?” Seth said. “What did you find with that radar? Is there a pattern in the four graves you examined?”

  “The fourth one, Amos Miller’s, is so new, we think the sod just hasn’t grown back in this cold weather. But in the other three—Lantz, Kauffman and Zook—yes. It appears that there may be a second burial on top of the original coffins—two bodies per grave, the newer additions not in coffins but…in something else, not sure.”

  Everyone stood stunned. Hannah’s heartbeat thudded so loud she thought the others might hear it. Finally, some murmured, waiting for the bishop to speak again, but her father only put a hand on a chair back to steady himself. For one moment, he glared at Hannah, but covered it quickly. Her stomach cartwheeled. Did he blame her for all this, too? Seth folded his hands over his chest, and she heard sniffles as Mrs. Kauffman began to cry.

  “But those other bodies are not our people,” Seth said. “No one has gone missing or is unaccounted for. Even those who are in their rumspringa years or have gone to the world—well, we know where they are. I stood there while four men I trust filled my wife’s grave after her death. But your findings mean you will have to dig, to open it again.”

  “Agent Armstrong has a court order coming that gives him the right to do so. A backhoe will be here Monday morning—tomorrow—and it shouldn’t take long.”

  Hannah could tell her father was distraught. As usual, he tried to keep control, but she could see his chin quivering. Finally he said, “‘For you are like graves which are not seen, and the men who walk over them are not aware of them.’”

  The sheriff frowned. “A Bible verse?” he asked. “And a good one.”

  Seth stepped farther forward and stood beside the bishop. “I’ve used backhoes to dig foundations for more than one building project,” he said, facing the sheriff squarely. “They’re quick but, even with a skilled operator, they can really scrape or crush the soil. Those coffins are pine, Sheriff. I would ask, at least on my wife’s grave, that a backhoe should be verboten and—if the law insists on digging—it be done by hand, by shovels of our own.”

  “Ya, that at least,” Bishop Esh agreed. “Our men should dig, not a machine that could hit other tombstones and make them look as bad as the one on Lena Lantz’s grave.”

  Hannah bit her lower lip. Like one stone dropped in the pond where she and her friends used to swim, the ripples of what she’d done had gone out, out, out to more dreadful things. And she was certain that’s the way the bishop, her own daad, would see it.

  “I’ll see what Agent Armstrong says,” the sheriff answered, “but I will argue for that, Seth, if the others here are agreed.” Heads nodded, yas all around. “I’ll let you know first thing tomorrow. Right now I’ve got to clear out those media folks and check with Agent Armstrong on your suggestion. Makes sense to me, not only to cooperate, but because hand shovels, held by men who are careful and respectful, is the least the government can do if they don’t want bad publicity. We may have used new technology to find the hidden graves, but your way sounds best for this. Thank you all—for not fighting this further.”

  Her father nodded. “We, too, want to find out who would do such a thing. And why bodies are hidden among our own where they should not be.”

  Hannah forced herself to keep calm as people left for their homes, but once they were gone, she hurried down in the basement to be alone. In the familiar darkness, she went way back in the corner, past the washing machine, past the rows of neatly arranged canned vegetables and fruits that would shine like a rainbow if she lit a lantern. She still knew this black basement well, for it was where she sometimes hid when she was young. She and Seth had sneaked down here one time when there was a singing in their barn for their buddy group. Snatching a few moments alone when one of them wasn’t leading the songs and everyone was concentrating on the spread of good eats, in this very spot the two of them had caressed and kissed like crazy until she was downright dizzy.

  She sat on an old rag rug amid boxes of borrowed china for Naomi’s wedding dinner and started to cry. It felt good—cleansing. Finally, she could let out all the frustration and the pain of failing her people, her mistake of bringing her outsider friends into the heart of Amish land, of abusing the cemetery, and worse—of the fear she still loved Seth.

  She sobbed in great, gasping breaths as she had not since just after she left home, as she had after Seth had told her he was going to wed Lena. Nothing wrong with a good, thorough cry sometimes, she tried to tell herself as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose with her handkerchief. Her father was angry with her, had not forgiven. And here, Naomi’s wedding was in three days’ time, and she’d probably ruined that, too. The TV and newspaper reporters would not have swooped in—twice—if she had just stayed away. But then, whoever had been hidden in Amish graves needed to have their deaths investigated. Maybe, like Kevin—like she could have been—those people had been murdered.

  She froze, stopped crying, even held her breath when she heard a footfall on the stairs, a heavy tread, a man’s. Being trapped in the maze flashed through her mind. She didn’t want her
family—especially Daad—to find her this way, but who else could it be? She should just leave the Home Valley, go back to— But to where and what?

  “Hannah,” came a deep voice. “You down here in the dark?”

  Seth! But he’d gone home.

  “Ya, in the dark, for sure.”

  She swiped under her eyes, dabbed at her wet cheeks and tried to blink tears away. At least it appeared he didn’t have a lantern, she thought as she heard him bump into something and mutter, “Ach!”

  She felt torn in two again: she wanted to be with him but he was the last person on earth she felt she could face right now.

  “I just needed time alone,” she added, thinking he might take the hint. He didn’t.

  “I dropped my parents off,” he said as he came quickly closer, evidently as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, “then returned to apologize to the bishop for speaking out in his place to the sheriff both at the graveyard and here. But he was thankful I did. When I was leaving again, I asked Naomi if she’d fetch you, and she said you were down here. You’ve been crying. I’m sorry. Sorry for that and for everything—and I’m talking about ruining things for us in the first place.”

  “Water, as they say, over the dam.”

  “Is it? I think we’re still fighting the rapids, not only of this graveyard mess but of being near each other again after—after everything.”

  “I was feeling guilty, just terrible that I agreed to bring my friends back here, then the shooting, then the graves being disturbed—but at least, if more people have been shot, we need to know who died and who did it.”

  “Maybe a mass murderer—that’s what Armstrong’s thinking, I’ll bet, something that can make his career.”