Rebecca's Return by Jerry S. Eicher Page A

river.” The voice of young Tad Johnson, only on the force for a year, came back quickly.
    “Beatrice, where’re you at?” Sally asked into the mike, waiting for a response.
    When there was silence, Tad asked, “You want me to run up?”
    “Just a minute,” Sally told him. “It’s her mom. Might be best if she goes in.”
    “The old woman in trouble?” Tad asked, concern in his voice.
    “Sounded fine, but thinks someone threw something against her house.”
    “Any other reports from the area?” Tad asked the logical question.
    Sally didn’t answer him, broadcasting more specifically this time, “Base one to mobile three. Base one to mobile three. Respond please.”
    “Yes, Sally.” Beatrice’s voice came through faintly, the static buzzing.
    “Where’re you at?” Sally asked. “You’re not coming through clearly.”
    “South of Cherry Fork,” Beatrice replied, her voice clearer this time. “Radio might be making trouble.”
    “Your mom called. Can you check it out? Thinks someone threw something against the house.”
    “Sure. You don’t think she’s imagining things?”
    “That’s why you’d better go,” Sally said. “Tad’s not as close either.”
    “On my way.”
    “Have Charley check the radio tomorrow.” Sally clicked her mike off.
    “Will leave a note on the dash when I come back in.” The transmission sounded weaker again.
    “You have your cell if it gives out?” Sally asked.
    “I do. I’m on 247 right now. Will let you know.”
    There was silence from the station as Beatrice drove north on the state road, wondering whether the radio had given out but deciding it likely had not. Sally kept her words to a minimum, calling only when necessary.
    So what is Mother up to? Beatrice wondered . Is she seeing things? It appeared as if she and Wallace might be right about the nursing home. Having an eighty-year-old woman living by herself, even in town, was no longer acceptable, if she was acting like this.
    This will certainly make the case easier with Wallace. If Mother is seeing things, imagining objects being thrown against her house in the night, then it is time Wallace and I take action. Now we will have solid reasons to back up our feelings. The sheriff department’s time can simply not be spent on imaginary things.
    Beatrice rattled across the Harshville Bridge, the clatter irritating her.

C HAPTER F IFTEEN

     
    I saac Miller had retired to the living room already, studying the Scripture texts the bishop supplied at last preaching Sunday. This weekend might well be his turn to preach, although one could never be quite sure. There was a normal rotation for preaching, but it could easily be changed with a visiting preacher who always got priority.
    Not that Isaac cared one way or the other. Preaching was a light burden to him, but one was not wise to mention such things. Common Amish belief required preachers to walk in humility, suppressing natural talent lest it spoil the man. Everyone knew in theory that God could work just as well through the most stumbling sermon as through the well-delivered one. But in practice the people enjoyed the latter ones better—but that too was not something to dwell on. One’s soul, it was widely believed, could quickly be damaged with such prideful thoughts.
    So Isaac studied the texts to be used that Sunday. They came from Mark, chapter eleven and Luke, chapter eighteen. His eyes caught on verses twenty-five and twenty-six in the book of Mark. He read them in German to get the full meaning and to memorize them, should they need quoting and if preaching fell to him.
    “And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.
    “But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses.”
    Isaac pondered the verses, trying to fully grasp their intent. He let the familiar words roll off his tongue again.
    Miriam