A stoplight greeted us at each intersection along the way to the hospital in Mount Vernon, and each time we stopped, Timothy’s grip on the steering wheel became a little bit tighter.
“How do you know the police chief?” The question popped out of my mouth, and I wished I could take it back.
Timothy kept his eyes on the road as we were held up by yet another stoplight. “Appleseed Creek is a small town.”
I suspected there was more to it than that. “You called the man you were talking with Deacon. Is that his name?”
“No. Deacon is his position in the church. We call him Deacon Sutter.”
Timothy made a left turn and we drove up a small hill that led to the hospital parking lot. The ambulance idled by the entrance to the emergency room. Timothy found a parking place quickly.
The waiting room was white with dark blue linoleum floor. Padded wooden chairs sat back-to-back in three rows. A flat-screen television in the corner played ESPN to an empty room. A sheriff’s deputy stood by the nurses’ station, drinking coffee from a paper cup and flirting with the pretty receptionist.
Although a different hospital, I remembered the horrible night my mother died and how my father dragged me to the emergency room.
Timothy spoke to the receptionist. “My sister, Becky Troyer, just arrived in an ambulance. How is she?”
The receptionist smiled at him. Her even, white teeth stood out against thick magenta-colored lipstick. The young deputy scowled. Obviously, he would have preferred she keep her smile aimed at him.
“She’s getting a cast for her arm,” the receptionist said. “It’s broken.”
I stepped up next to Timothy. “Can we see her?”
She scrutinized me. “Who are you?”
“Chloe Humphrey. I’m Becky’s roommate.”
The woman shook her head. “Only immediate family in the back. Her brother can see her.”
“How long will she be here?” I asked.
“They are with her now. It should only be a few minutes.”
The deputy shifted at the desk. “But then I have to take her to the sheriff’s office for questioning.”
Timothy winced. “Can we go with her?”
The deputy shrugged. “You can wait for her at the station if you like.”
The phone on the receptionist’s desk rang and the woman picked up the receiver, listening for a moment. “All right.” She hung up. “Mr. Troyer, you can go back and see your sister now.”
“I’ll show you where she is,” the deputy said.
Timothy’s brow wrinkled.
“Go on.” I shooed him. “I’ll be here.”
He nodded and followed the deputy down the hallway.
I removed my cell phone from purse, and the receptionist pointed at the NO CELL PHONE sign.
Outside the emergency room’s automatic doors, the humid air hit me like a wall. I checked my cell phone for the temperature. Ninety degrees. With nowhere to sit outside, I decided to make my phone call in Timothy’s truck, which he’d left unlocked.
I dialed Dean Klink’s office number.
“Hello.” His jovial voice contrasted with my emotions.
“Hello, Dean Klink? It’s Chloe Humphrey.” I rested my hand on the steering wheel, only to yank it away from the hot surface.
“Chloe, hello? How are you doing? We’re keeping you busy I suspect. By the way, I love your proposal for a learning management system. An absolute must! I’m making it a top priority the next time I meet with the president’s cabinet. I knew you were the right one to hire.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He barked a laugh. “Sir? I thought we told you we weren’t much for formality here.”
“You did. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize for that! What can I do for you?” A rap-rap-rap echoed through the line. I imagined the dean tapping the end of his pen on his desk.
“I’m off campus and will be for the rest of the day. My roommate was in a car accident.” I didn’t mention my roommate was a runaway Amish or that the bishop was dead. Details of the accident would travel through Appleseed Creek soon enough.
He took a sharp breath. “Oh dear, that’s awful. Is she all right?”
Was she all right? An excellent question. “She has a broken arm.”
“She’s lucky to be alive. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Now, I told you to call me Charlie.” His upbeat tone had returned.
“I’ll try.”
A vehicle backfired behind me, and a truck roared into the parking place next to mine. A green pickup. My stomach turned. The two men who had harassed Becky on the highway were inside.
“Well, well, well, looky who’s here,” the scrawny one said.
“It’s Red.” Babyface climbed out of the pickup. “We haven’t seen her since her little friend made me skin my knee.”
“Go away,” I said as he sauntered up to my door. The power windows were down, and I didn’t have the truck’s keys to raise them. I hit the locks, but knew that Babyface could reach inside the cabin and open the door if he wanted.
“Do you want to see the scar I have from falling down?” The faint hint of alcohol sullied the air between us.
The driver snorted a laugh.
“Leave me alone.”
The driver spat. “We’re just visiting with you. That’s not very neighborly of you to turn us away like this—and we are neighbors of yours. Grover is a real nice street, real nice.”
A shiver traveled down my spine. The green pickup had been driving up and down my street, watching the house. “There are police inside the hospital. If I scream, they will hear me.”
He snickered. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” Babyface leered. “Are you visiting your little friend?”
“’Course she is, Brock. Red loves to save little Amish girls in trouble. This one is in a heap of trouble too.” He tsked. “Mowing down an Amish big shot is never a good idea. I wonder what made her do it.”
Brock let loose a laugh. “Maybe the big shot had it coming.”
The other one nodded, like this was all making sense. “Could be. I always suspected there was something off about those buggy riders.” His grin widened. “Hate to see a pretty girl end up in prison.”
Brock smirked and fingered the door lock. “She’ll be very popular on the cellblock, I’m sure.”
Nausea washed over me.
I scanned the cabin for something I could use as a weapon. Timothy’s tool belt lay on the floor, a screwdriver sticking out of one of the pockets. I would have preferred a hammer, but the screwdriver would work.
“Why don’t you get out of the truck and we can talk about this?” Brock taunted. “We have some experience with the police. Maybe we can help you and your friend.” He doubled over in laughter, his hand still on the door.
I grabbed the screwdriver by the blade and whacked the handle on Brock’s fingers. He yelped and let go.
The thinner man convulsed with laughter until the hospital door opened and the deputy stepped outside. He spoke into a cell phone with his back to us.
The driver cocked his head at Brock. “Let’s go.”
Brock climbed back into the truck, cradling his hand. “See you around, Red.” Somehow I knew he meant that.