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Benjamin Lapp walked around the corner of his barn and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun. He froze mid-step. The woman holding the gun had her finger on the trigger.
“Easy.” He said the one word in what he hoped was a low, calming voice.
“Hands up.” “Ya. Okay.”
“Turn around. Walk to the barn.”
The sun had already set over her shoulder, and night had nearly fallen. But there was a sliver of light remaining, enough to see the sweat beading on her forehead, her labored breath beneath the black vest, and the blood running down her right arm.
He walked slowly. No need to spook her more than she already was.
The sound of that first shot had sent him out into the night to see what had happened. He didn’t doubt that the second would stop his heart.
When they’d stepped into the coolness of the barn, she motioned him toward the workbench. “Sit.”
Moving to the window, she divided her attention between the gathering darkness and him.
Ben didn’t speak. He did slowly lower his arms, but she immediately raised the gun.
“Keep them up.”
He’d never argued with a woman holding a gun, and he didn’t plan to start now.
Then again, the only woman he’d ever known to hold and shoot a firearm—a rifle not a handgun— had been his mother, and he wouldn’t have messed with her if she were holding a mop.
Stepping away from the window, the woman pressed her back to the wall. “You don’t talk much.”
“Nein. I’m not exactly sure what to say in this situation.”
“You’ve got the accent down. I’ll hand you that.”
“What accent?”
“And the clothes? What did you do, steal them off a clothesline?”
“Not too many six and a half foot Amish men hanging about. I assure you, the clothes are mine.”
“Save it.”
She continued to study him for several minutes.
Finally she said, “Turn the lights on. Just one.”
“I can’t.”
“Do not test me.”
“Of course not. That is—I’d be happy to turn the lights on, but there aren’t any.”
“Aren’t any what?”
“Lights.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Amish farm—no electricity. There’s a gas lantern...over there on the shelf.”
She shook her head once, a curt definitive motion. Did she think he’d try to burn the place down? Why would he do that to his own barn? And how would it help him in this situation?
“Flashlight?” she asked.
“Ya. Top shelf over by the office.”
“You get it.”
He moved slowly, carefully, retrieved the flashlight, switched it on, and placed it on the workbench facing toward the ceiling.
“Tell me what you’re planning.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“A what?”
She stared at him another minute, her eyes piercing his with such hatred that Ben couldn’t begin to imagine what the person she thought he was had done. Because one thing was certain—he’d never met her before. He would remember if he had. She was short—a full foot shorter than him—but what she lacked in height she made up for in intensity. Her hair was red and cut to frame her face. Her body—compact was the word that came to mind. There wasn’t an ounce of extra on the woman, a fact made obvious by her tight-fitting black clothes. Definitely not Amish.
“If it were up to me, I would have put a bullet in your head when you walked around the side of the building.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Because it’s not up to me. Tell me the plan.”
“I don’t have a plan.”
“Tell me where the bomb is. My boss has agreed to cut you a deal, against my protests.”
“Because you would shoot me.”
“Do not mock me.”
In the soft light he could just make out the wound on her upper right bicep. Blood had soaked through the fabric of her shirt, rendering it glossy in the low light. Occasionally he thought he saw a tremor in her arm, which wasn’t comforting in the least. She was holding the gun with her right hand.
“You’re hurt.”
She didn’t respond, as if he hadn’t even spoken.
“I have some medical supplies in the office. Accidents happen all the time in a barn. Let me get the kit for you.”
“Is it on an automatic timer?”
“Is what on an automatic timer?”
“Did you hide it in the market?”
“What? Nein.”
“Stop. Just stop lying.”
“I’m not.”
A low moan came from the back of the barn. She jerked the gun up and toward it.
“Hey. Take it easy.”
She was already behind him, prodding him to his feet with her good arm, then pushing the flashlight into his hands and urging him forward. Could he overpower her? Doubtful. She’d shoot him before he could even turn around. She’d made that abundantly clear. Best to bide his time—hope and pray that she passed out from the wound. Then he could fetch a doctor and maybe find out what this was all about.
“Toward the back, slowly.”
“It’s Molly. She needs milking. It was what I was about to do when I heard something outside.”
“What did you hear?”
“A shot—maybe. Didn’t know it at the time, just heard the pop. No doubt the same shot that hit you in the arm.” Which was when he realized that they weren’t alone. Of course they weren’t. Someone had shot the woman, and it hadn’t been him.
They’d reached Molly’s stall. The cow turned her head toward them—large brown eyes and a tuft of brown hair poking up between her velvety soft ears. She let out another baleful cry.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I need to take care of Molly.” Ben had his back to the woman. He didn’t turn around, didn’t raise his voice or make any quick moves. But he did proceed into the stall.
“Stop.”
“She needs milking. Cows get used to a certain schedule.”
“I said stop.”
“And if you miss that schedule it’s uncomfortable—painful even, as you can tell by the look she’s giving me.”
He continued forward, expecting at any moment to hear the click of the trigger, feel the searing pain of the bullet. He’d been struck by a bullet once before, when he was a child and hunting with his brother. They’d been messing around and the rifle had gone off. It was a pain he’d never forget and certainly didn’t want to experience again. But then there was Molly...
He walked forward and righted the milking stool.
🙛
Nora couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
This guy was good. He had the clothes, the accent, even a name for the cow.
Which wasn’t fooling her.
The tremor hit her arm again. She switched the gun to her left hand.
“That arm is only going to get worse unless you let me clean and bind it. I’m guessing you don’t want to see a doctor.”
He cleaned the cow’s udders, slipped a pail underneath it, and proceeded to milk the beast.
The cow tossed him another look, as if to say it took you long enough, and commenced to eating more hay out of a wire basket attached to the stall’s wall.
As Nora watched his strong hands expertly and quickly milk the cow, she realized she’d made a mistake. Whoever had shot her wasn’t in this stall. Whoever had shot her, the same person who was planning an attack on Shipshewana, was still out there.