When we arrived at the county hospital in Mount Vernon, both the Troyer family buggy and Grandfather Zook’s stood tethered to the hitching post. Sparky, Grandfather Zook’s beloved horse, wore a forest green horse blanket and neighed at Becky and me as we walked by.
Dear Lord, please let Grandfather Zook be okay.
The automatic emergency room doors opened. Inside the waiting room, Timothy sat with his parents. Mrs. Troyer huddled in her heavy cape and winter bonnet. Her husband wore a black stocking cap pulled down over his ears and a frown. Timothy murmured to his parents before walking over to us.
Becky hugged her brother. “Is he okay?”
Timothy stuck his hands into his jeans pockets. “He will be. He only has a few scrapes and bruises.”
Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. Praise the Lord, Grandfather Zook would recover. I felt like I could breathe again. On the drive to the hospital my mind played tricks on me. I had envisioned Grandfather Zook in Ezekiel’s place, dead in the pavilion. Although I knew it wasn’t true, the image was branded in my mind and would be there until I saw Grandfather Zook alive and well with my own eyes.
“What happened?” I asked just above a whisper.
“Grossdaddi was outside of the grocery store when someone jumped him.”
Becky gasped.
Timothy shot a glance at his mother, her face buried in a handkerchief. “Maam asked him to go pick up a few things for the evening meal.”
“How did someone jump him?” I asked.
“He did it while Grossdaddi covered Sparky with a horse blanket. The person came up behind him, threw a bag over his head, smashed him against the side of the buggy and cut off his beard.”
Becky chewed a layer of lip gloss off of her lower lip. “He could have been killed. Why would anyone do that?”
Timothy shook his head.
“Did the person take his money?” I asked.
“No.” Timothy glanced over his shoulder to his parents who whispered to each other in Pennsylvania Dutch. Mrs. Troyer wiped at her eyes, and her husband placed a hand on his wife’s arm.
Becky wagged her head. “Who would attack a sick old man like that?”
Who indeed? Curt and Brock came to mind, especially now that the Troyer family was involved. Chief Rose didn’t think Curt and Brock would resort to murder, but Probation Officer Fisher did. Since Fisher used to be Curt’s PO, he knew Curt better than the chief did, didn’t he?
The attack on Grandfather Zook and the three Amish girls must be related to Ezekiel Young’s death. Could there be more than one person loose in Knox County cutting off Amish hair? It seemed unlikely. If it were Curt and Brock, why risk going back to prison? Curt, whose father died in the First Iraq War, particularly despised the Amish culture. He felt that the Amish were disloyal to the country by being conscientious objectors. His hatred led him and Brock to harassing the Amish last summer, which ultimately landed the pair in prison. Would they do it again? And so soon?
I removed my winter hat. “Is Chief Rose here?”
Timothy nodded. “She’s been here and gone already. She got a callout right after she spoke with Grossdaddi.”
Becky fingered her braid. “I want to see him.”
“The nurse said they’d bring him out as soon as his paperwork for the hospital is complete. It shouldn’t be too long now.”
Mr. Troyer removed his hand from his wife’s arm and stared straight ahead. Through his granite-like expression, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. All he wanted was a simple life and his children to live the Amish way. Instead his two eldest children had left the culture, putting him in a precarious position with the church. Now, his father-in-law had been attacked in a way that seemed so specifically insulting to the Amish life Mr. Troyer loved.
Becky watched her parents. She leaned close to her brother and whispered, “How are Maam and Daed?”
Timothy’s jaw twitched. “Maam is a wreck, and you know Daed. You can never quite know what he’s thinking.”
A nurse’s aide appeared in the waiting room, pushing Grandfather Zook in a hospital-issued wheelchair. The elderly Amish man clutched his aluminum crutches in his hand. When Grandfather Zook was a child, he had contracted polio during the epidemic. As he aged, his symptoms worsened, and he became more and more dependent on the crutches to walk, and at times, even used a wheelchair. It wasn’t often that I would see Grandfather Zook in his wheelchair. He was far too stubborn.
More striking than the wheelchair was the absence of his white, fluffy beard. The beard had once hung down to the middle of his chest and been reminiscent of untreated cotton. Jaggedly cut whiskers hung only an inch from his chin.
Mrs. Troyer jumped from her chair and hugged her father. She spoke to him in Pennsylvania Dutch at breakneck speed. In English, she said, “Daed, your beautiful beard. What would Maam say?”
He shook his finger at his adult daughter. “Your maam would be upset, yes, but not put on such dramatics like this.”
His reprimand dried up her tears.
He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, kinner. I know you are only worried. You have your maam’s big heart.” He plucked at the short whiskers. “This is only hair. It will grow back.”
Mrs. Troyer wrung her hands.
The nurse’s aide let go of the wheelchair handles. “Do you need help getting him into the car, er, buggy?”
Timothy smiled at her. “We got it.”
She nodded and left.
“Chloe!” Grandfather Zook’s eyes sparkled as they fell on me. “You and Becky didn’t have to come all the way to the hospital.”
I gave him a hug. “Of course we did. We had to make sure for ourselves that you’re okay.”
His eyes twinkled. “It’s going to take more than a pair of scissors to stop me.”
“Were you scared?” Becky held her grandfather’s hand.
“It happened too fast to be scared. I was throwing the blanket over Sparky’s back and the next thing I knew my face was up against the side of the buggy.” He rubbed his cheek. A bruise had begun to form on his right cheekbone. “The good news is Old Spark got a piece of him before the perp got away.”
“Perp?” Becky’s brows shot up. “Where did you learn that word?”
“That lady police officer said it. I rather like it. It seems fitting for the scoundrel who did this.”
“What do you mean he got a piece of him?” Timothy asked.
“Sparky took a bite out of the man’s shoulder. You should have heard him scream. Horse bites hurt, and Sparky made this one count. He came away with a mouthful of the perp’s coat too.”
“Where’s the piece of coat?” Timothy asked.
“The lady police officer took it. She said it was evidence.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Becky let go of her grandfather’s hand and twisted her braid. “First Chloe finds a dead body, and now this.”
Internally, I groaned.
Mr. Troyer’s head whipped around to his eldest daughter. “What?”
Becky’s mouth fell open as she realized her mistake.
“Ezekiel Young is dead.” Timothy went on to explain the events at the flea market the day before.
Grandfather Zook paled. “How’s Ellie? She must be heartbroken.” His eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, grandkinner?”
Timothy’s brow creased. “I’m sorry. I thought you would have heard it from a neighbor in the district by now.”
Mrs. Troyer touched her husband’s coat sleeve. “Why didn’t we hear this from our neighbors?”
He said something back to her in their language. Mr. Troyer was more comfortable speaking Pennsylvania Dutch, but I knew sometimes he spoke it when he didn’t want me to know what was going on.
Becky gave me a tiny, lopsided smile as if she knew what I was thinking.
Grandfather Zook stamped his crutches on the ground. “That’s Deacon Sutter’s work. He—”
“Let’s not speak of this here.” Mr. Troyer’s tone left no room for debate. “My wife has an evening meal waiting for us back home.”
Mrs. Troyer patted my shoulder. “You, Timothy, and Becky are welcome to join us.” She seemed more at ease now that she would have the opportunity to feed her family. She was much like Ellie in that way. However, that was the only characteristic shared by the quiet woman and the flamboyant restaurant and flea market owner.
Timothy took hold of the wheelchair’s handlebars. “Let’s get you to the buggy.”
“I can walk.” Grandfather Zook pushed himself out of the chair and toppled forward. Mr. Troyer and Timothy steadied him. “Whoa,” Grandfather Zook grunted. “I must be more shook up than I thought.”
Because of the cold, Grandfather Zook rode with Timothy in his truck. Mr. and Mrs. Troyer went home in their buggy, and Becky drove Sparky and Grandfather Zook’s buggy home. I left my car in the hospital lot and rode with Becky.
The hot brick Grandfather Zook placed at his feet for warmth had long since lost its heat. I piled lap blankets over Becky and me and pulled my stocking cap farther down over my ears.
Becky flicked the reins and we backed away from the hitching post. She eased the buggy onto Coshocton Avenue, which was the center of shopping and businesses in the county. “This feels strange.”
“What happened to Grandfather Zook?”
“Yes.” She pulled Sparky to a stop at a traffic light and in front of a McDonald’s. “But I meant driving the buggy. I’ve driven this buggy hundreds of times but not in months and never wearing jeans.”
The light changed, and she made a clicking sound at Sparky. “Until I sat on the seat, I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
“That can’t be the only part of being Amish you miss.”
“It’s not. I miss seeing my family every day and Maam’s meals. I even miss milking the cows.” She laughed. “I don’t miss the cows that much, but I guess I miss the routine. The cows were always there needing to be milked twice a day. It was something I could rely on. Now, everyday is different.”
“Is variety a bad thing?”
“No, just different.” Street light reflected off her teeth when she grinned. “And now that I found the cable television, I don’t know how I could ever go back to being Amish.”
I laughed and snuggled deeper under the blankets. “What’s Thanksgiving like at your house?”
“It’s the best.” Becky went on to describe all the food, detailing the ingredients and preparations for each dish.
We stopped at the final traffic light on Coshocton, and Sparky knew his way home and pulled the buggy into the left turn lane. A pickup pulled up next to us in the right turn lane. It was green. I grew still as Becky chattered about pickling.
I felt the driver of the green pickup watching me. As if my neck had a will of its own, it turned my head.
Curt Fanning stared back at me. His dirty goatee was scruffier than before, and the features of his angular face were sharper as if he had both lost weight and aged beyond his twenty-five years while in prison. The red glow of the traffic light reflected off of his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck.
A slow smile spread across Curt’s face. He puckered his lips and made a kissy at me. I recoiled. He turned right on red and was gone.
I stared straight ahead. The light changed and Sparky took the left turn. Blissfully unaware, Becky was describing the proper consistency of turkey gravy.
My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest. I inhaled and exhaled long, deep breaths as quietly as I could.