Jesse wanted to pull his hair out from frustration—or scream, which probably would serve to frighten Hannah more than she already was.
“We’ll find her.” Hannah placed her hand on his arm.
They’d stopped at a roadside park because he couldn’t decide where to look next. Finally he turned to her and said, “What if we don’t? What if Mary’s the only one who can free Andrew and she’s gone?”
“Stop thinking that way, Jesse. Gotte won’t allow Andrew to remain in that jail. He won’t allow it.”
“Then why is he there in the first place?” The cry from his heart sounded more desperate, more miserable, than he intended. But if he couldn’t be himself in front of Hannah, the one person he knew was on his side, then their relationship would be built on shaky ground indeed. “I’m sorry, Hannah. There was no need for me to snap at you.”
“It’s all right. I know you’re worried.”
“Ya.” He ran a hand over his face and decided to come clean. “But it’s more than that.”
To her credit, Hannah didn’t rush him. She sat there, waiting patiently until he had the courage to share the burdens on his heart.
“I’ve resented Andrew every time he’s come home. Actually, it started the first time he left, I suppose, or before. It could have started before.”
“And now?”
He turned to her and was surprised to see a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Now I want my bruder home. I love him, and I’ll do anything I can—”
“Don’t you see, Jesse?” Hannah reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his. “You’ve changed. Already Gotte has used all that has happened for gut.”
“Ya, but I shouldn’t have needed changing.”
“None of us is born perfect.” Hannah ran her thumb over the back of his hand, and the knot in Jesse’s stomach began to ease.
“I think Andrew knows you care about him and that you’ll do anything to help him. That’s why he gave me the note. He knew I’d take it straight to you.”
Possibly she was right. Probably. And if she was, then it was all the more important that he not disappoint his brother.
“Let’s go over it again.” Jesse cornered himself in the buggy and studied her. “Where else could Mary be?”
“We went to her house.”
“No one there. Her parents weren’t even back from the funeral yet.”
“Went to the Village.” Hannah twirled the strings of her prayer kapp as she stared out the buggy window. “We spoke with Mary’s stand-in.”
“What was the girl’s name?” Jesse took off his hat and scratched the top of his head. “Helen.”
“Right—dark hair and bright fingernails. We even left her the number for the phone shack.”
“That’s it!” Jesse leaned over and kissed her on the lips—a quick, sincere, thank-you kiss. When Hannah reddened, he nearly laughed. Together they could solve this. They could set things right. “Hannah Bell, you are a genius. Time to head back to the phone shack.”
“We’ve already been there once.”
“Yes, but it could be that Helen has heard from Mary or that Amber has left us a message.”
They rode along in an easy, more relaxed silence. Jesse realized Hannah had been right. His brother had trusted him, and that meant there was a way to prove Andrew’s innocence. But if there was a way, why hadn’t Andrew done it? Why hadn’t he given the note and butcher paper to the police instead of letting them arrest him?
Jesse pulled into a gravel area adjacent to the phone shack nearest their homes. He brought his mare to a stop under the shade of a maple tree, set the break, and secured the reins. Together he and Hannah walked toward the tiny shed. Many of the local Amish teens and young adults had cell phones, and at the moment, Jesse wished he was one of them. What if they’d missed an important call? What if Mary had been here but had already left?
The two of them barely fit into the tiny wooden structure. He supposed that was because it usually took only one person to make a phone call. There was a counter running along one side of the room, probably three feet long, maybe a few inches more. On it was a telephone, a pad of paper and a pen, and a message recorder. The recorder was battery operated, and in the corner he spied a basket with extra sets of batteries. The other two things on the counter were a small box for leaving money for calls and a gas lantern.
But Jesse spent little time looking at these things. His eyes were locked on the recorder, the bright, flashing red light indicating there were messages, and the number two.
Hannah clutched the edge of the counter as Jesse pushed the Play button.
“This message is for Hannah Troyer or Jesse Miller. Hannah . . .” Amber’s voice on the recorder paused. Hannah could picture her worrying her thumbnail, trying to think of how to say what she needed to say. “Hannah or Jesse, this is Amber. Please call me. I had a visit from Shaw this morning . . . Roland Shaw, and I’m worried. Call me on my cell as I’ll be out of the office this afternoon.”
She left her cell number, though Hannah didn’t need to look at what Jesse had jotted down on the pad of paper. She’d memorized Amber’s number long ago.
The second message caused her to reach out and grasp Jesse’s arm.
“Mary? Mary Weaver? We need to talk. You weren’t supposed to leave until after the funeral.” There was a pause, and then the caller hung up.
Hannah felt the ground shift under her feet. For a moment she saw two phone recorders. She gripped Jesse’s arm more tightly, attempting to steady her world.
The message was from him.
It was from the person who had written the notes.
It was from the murderer.
She stared at Jesse, who shook his head to her unasked question.
“Play it again, Jesse. I don’t recognize his voice either, but maybe we can hear something in the background, anything that will help us figure out who the . . . the . . .”
“I think the word you’re looking for is killer, and this tape proves Andrew is innocent.” He slammed his fist against the counter, causing the recorder to bounce on the countertop. “How dare he call here? How can he be so bold?”
“He killed Owen with a bow and arrow on a public trail in broad daylight. I’d say bold describes him fairly well.”
Jesse was reaching under the counter, unplugging the recorder from where it was connected to the phone.
“Where are we taking it?”
“To the police. They need to hear this. They need to know they have the wrong man.”
“Maybe we should call Amber and ask her to meet us there.”
“Ya, gut idea.”
“And leave a note, in case anyone wonders where the recorder has gone.” She wanted to glance over her shoulder to see if he was watching them, but of course that was impossible. They were alone in a phone shack. Still, she would be glad when they left, when they were in public with lots of people, lots of witnesses.
Amber answered her cell phone on the first ring. Hannah explained about Andrew’s arrest, the note and butcher paper with identical handwriting, and the recording.
“Drive straight to the police station. Bring the recorder and the note and paper with you. We’ll meet you there. We’re in downtown Middlebury now.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Pam Coleman. We’ll wait for you outside the station, and, Hannah . . . be careful. Watch and make sure you’re not followed.”
“Pull into the closest home or establishment, ask to use their phone, and dial 9-1-1. Whoever this is seems to be growing desperate. There’s no guessing what he’ll do next.” She paused and then added, “I’m tired of following the trail of this creep. It’s time we go on the offensive. How fast do you think you can—”
“Twenty minutes.” Jesse had pressed his head close to Hannah’s and was listening. Now he spoke into the mouthpiece of the phone as Hannah turned it toward him. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“All right. Good.” Amber sighed and then added, “I love you two. Be careful.”
Jesse’s eyebrow arched as he placed the receiver back on the phone. “She loves us?”
Hannah waved her hand. “Englischers . . . they often have a need to tell you how they’re feeling.”
“Do I need to tell you how I’m feeling, Hannah?”
Her heart skittered, more than it had when she’d first heard the recording. “Scared?”
“Ya.”
“Excited?” Her hands began to sweat as he pressed his forehead to hers.
“Ya.” They stood frozen for a moment, and then Jesse pulled away a few inches.
“Perhaps this is nearly over.” He traced a line with his forefinger from her temple to her chin. “I am scared and excited, but I’m also grateful . . . that you are with me through this.”
As they hurried to the buggy, Hannah tried to envision what life had been like before Owen Esch had been killed.
Normal.
That’s what she was missing.
If she ever had that again, she would thank Gotte for it each and every day—just as she had after the last murder she’d helped investigate.