An Unexpected Match Read online

  “My family. My vows. Oh, Max!” She put her face in her hands and wept.

  Max rounded the table and knelt before her, pulling her close. She made foolish soothing noises and rubbed her back, letting her cry herself out. There were times when no words sufficed.

  “I should never have gone to class, Max. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gone out into the world. The preachers are right. The world will capture you and pull you away from Gott.”

  Max pulled a chair close to Rachel and leaned close. “Listen to me, kiddo, because I want to make a very strong point, both theological and sociological.”

  At that pronouncement, Rachel looked up with waterlogged eyes.

  “The world can lead you astray. Your leaders are right. The world can tempt you to activities that are wrong. The world can be the devil’s playground. But the world can also be full of wonderful opportunities and options and people. It’s like there are two worlds out there. You get to choose which one you live in.”

  Max paused a moment as a new thought hit her. “Well, for you there are three worlds. There’s your Amish world, circumscribed by tradition and rules, and full of safety and security because everyone knows exactly what’s expected of them. You’ve lived there your whole life. It’s what you know.”

  Rachel hummed agreement, encouraging Max to keep talking.

  “Then there’s the evil world where people break the Ten Commandments and do all kinds of wrong, evil, and cruel things. Your church is right to warn you about that world. The Bible warns us about that world, and so does my pastor. Drinking, drugs, immorality—things like that and many much worse.”

  Max squeezed Rachel’s hands. “But between the two there exists a world where you can live a godly life and still enjoy the freedom of choice and the independence to be who God made you to be. It’s not as stable a world as your Amish one because we have to figure out who we are ourselves, and that’s a challenge.”

  Smiling wryly, Max rose. “That’s where I am, Rachel. Trying to figure out who I am now that I’m no longer a wife. Trying to find my new purpose. It’s hard, but I, not my community or my church, get to do the figuring and make the choices.”

  Rachel rose, her eyes wide and confused. “I need to go home. I need to think.”

  Max nodded. “Sure. Want to take some coffee cake with you?” She slipped some cake in a plastic bag and zipped it shut. She held it out to Rachel, who took it automatically.

  “One last thought, my dear. Rob needs time to think and figure all this out too. He got blindsided, and he needs time. He may not be a lost cause.”

  But a week of no Star, no calls, no tugs on her hair made her think otherwise.

  Chapter 32

  Johnny hated driving in Philadelphia. Everybody knew where they were going but him. The roads turned into one-way streets without warning. The cars parked at the curb made the streets too narrow. Road signs were invisible or wrong. At least they didn’t agree with his GPS. And the delivery trucks parked wherever they wanted, blocking traffic while cabs blew their horns.

  Give him the twisty back roads of western Chester County where buggies were your biggest obstacle and an occasional milk tanker blocked the road while it maneuvered into a farm lane in reverse.

  When Mr. Sherman sent him on this errand, Johnny had assumed he would be going to a seedy part of town where gangs populated the street corners and death lurked behind every dumpster. He expected to see druggies and winos lying against abandoned buildings and hookers on every corner. He’d been telling himself he wasn’t scared ever since he got the assignment.

  He ended up outside a nice restaurant on Sansom Street on Saturday, a little more than a week after Mr. Sherman accepted his offer to work for him.

  After he checked the address for the third time, he walked in. Tables were filled with people having late lunches. He walked to the bar that gleamed with polish along one wall. In comparison Corner Bob’s looked like a dive.

  A large African-American man smiled at him. “Help you?”

  Johnny saw coffee on the counter behind the bar. “Coffee. Decaf.” His nerves were too jumpy for caffeine. “To go.”

  The big man handed him his drink, a lid in place.

  Johnny slipped off the lid, blew on the beverage and added some real cream from a little pitcher the bartender pushed toward him. He took a scalding sip and then drew a quick breath to cool his mouth. “Uh…I’m looking for Marco,” he managed.

  The big man looked him over with a dislike that hadn’t been there mere seconds ago. “Why?”

  All Johnny could think to say was, “Mr. Sherman sent me.”

  “Huh. Let me get him. I don’t want no part of that man.”

  Which man, Mr. Sherman or Marco? Or both?

  A minute later a little Hispanic man swallowed up by his white Oxford cloth shirt was at his elbow.

  “I’m Marco. You from Mr. Sherman?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “How do I know? Maybe you’re a cop.”

  “How do I know you’re Marco? Maybe you’re a cop.”

  “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe,” Marco said it with a straight face. “Catch a tiger by the toe.”

  Ridiculous, Johnny thought, but easy to remember and nothing a normal man would say to another man. “One potato, two potato, three potato, four.”

  Marco reached behind the bar and brought out a manila envelope. It was slightly bigger than an eight and a half by eleven sheet of paper and bulged gently with—he didn’t want to know with what.

  He took the envelope made chubby by its contents and gave a curt nod, hoping he looked confident in spite of his heart threatening to jump from his chest.

  “You got something else for me?” he asked.

  “Like what?”

  How was he supposed to know? “Mick sent me.”

  Marco grunted and reached under the counter again. This envelope was smaller and its contents harder and fatter. It made a bump in the envelope at its base. A bottle? A super-secret high-tech battery? A roll of gold coins?

  Johnny took the envelope but Marco didn’t let go. Johnny looked up in surprise.

  “Either of these envelopes got their seals broken, you’re a dea—” He stopped before he said the final D as the bartender returned to his position, a scowl aimed at Johnny and Marco. Marco smiled a most unpleasant smile. “Let’s just say you don’t want to get curious.”

  “Not curious,” Johnny managed around his dry throat. “Not curious at all.”

  Marco released the envelope. “Good.”

  Johnny held the envelopes in one hand and his coffee in the other as he forced himself to walk out like he hadn’t a care in the world. He climbed in his car, anxious to be out of the city, anxious to reach home, anxious to get rid of whatever he had. He put the envelopes on the passenger seat and stared at them as if they were a pair of coiled rattlers ready to sink fangs into him. The very sight of them made him shudder. He slipped his coffee in the cup holder, and started the engine. He checked behind and pulled into traffic.

  And stopped. He was trapped on the narrow street behind a produce truck delivering to the restaurant he’d just left. A man wheeled his fruit and vegetables down an alley, totally oblivious to Johnny and another car now behind him. The one concession to the rest of the vehicular world was the truck’s blinkers flashing.

  A second truck pulled up behind the car behind him. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t go forward. He was trapped! Every movie scene where trucks penned someone in flashed through his mind. Someone always died in those scenes.

  He waited, fantasizing the doors on the vehicles behind him being thrown open and men with Uzis thundering toward him.

  He looked in his rearview mirror, but all he saw were drivers resigned to waiting. To prove his lack of fear to anyone watching him, he casually picked up his coffee and sipped. It was still too hot, and he made a face. He managed another swallow. He’d left the lid on the bar, so he’d better drink as much as he could bef
ore he started driving.

  He looked at the envelopes lying so innocently on the seat beside him, flap side up. If this was the olden days, there would be a red wax seal so Mr. Sherman would know no one had opened them. All this envelope had was the sticky stuff on the flap. All he could say was it better hold.

  What was in them? Not that he’d ever look, but still…Was this how Eve felt when she studied that forbidden apple?

  A horn sounded behind him, the loud blast making him jump so badly he spilled coffee all over himself—and the manila envelopes. He watched in horror as dark brown liquid seeped into the paper of the envelopes. They began to crinkle like wet paper did.

  He held his breath. The seals, which took the brunt of the coffee, still looked to be holding, and he finally breathed. But what if he’d just ruined something inside? Was some important paper now wet with running ink? Was Mr. Sherman going to let Mick loose again?

  The pull to look inside and see if something had been ruined was so strong his hand started to shake as it hovered over the envelope. He felt like a fish on a line being pulled closer and closer without the power to escape.

  Several angry honks from behind broke his trance, and he saw the produce truck turning the corner ahead. He hit the gas and followed. Now he had to find his way back to the Schuylkill Expressway, I-76. Between his GPS and the too small signs, he finally found his way and cruised in the heavy traffic toward King of Prussia.

  He glanced over at the envelopes every few seconds. In fascinated horror he watched the edges of the flaps curl as the coffee worked on the glue. Then just as he passed Conshohocken, the flap on the large envelope came loose. It didn’t flip up or anything, but it was obvious it was no longer sealed.

  Johnny felt the sweat pop out all over his body. Mr. Sherman was going to think he did this on purpose. All his protestations, honest and heartfelt, were going to sound lame at best and like lies at worst.

  Then Mick’s flap came undone too, and he added the D to Marco’s You’re a dea—.

  As he turned off the Schuylkill onto 202 South, he thought longingly of California. He should just keep on driving and not stop until he reached the Pacific. Find some small town out there or maybe a big city like LA or San Francisco. Which one could he disappear into best?

  But he didn’t have the nerve, not so much because he feared for himself, though he did, big time. He kept remembering Corner Bob and those pictures of his little girl. He saw Rachel’s concern when he was hurt, and he couldn’t put her or Sally or Ruthie in danger. He wasn’t that big a coward.

  So he turned off 202 onto Route 30 to 322 and Honey Brook. He turned toward the farm. He wanted to go there and hide in his old room. He’d make believe none of the past few months had happened. He’d put on a pair of broadfall trousers, a white shirt, and straw hat and stand on the big green harvester as a team of work horses pulled it through the cornfields.

  If only it could be so.

  He was so lost in his dream of home and safety that the stop sign snuck up on him. So did the car crossing the intersection in front of him. He saw it at the last moment and stomped on the brakes. The tires screeched, the coffee went flying, and the envelopes on the passenger seat were airborne. He reached for them, but it was too late. They fell from the seat onto the floor.

  And disgorged their contents at his feet.

  Chapter 33

  Johnny stared at the papers on the floor of his car. With trembling hands he picked them up and studied them. Might as well. The damage was done. The genie couldn’t go back in the bottle.

  There were several birth certificates with the seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania raised on each. And the little blue booklets reading United States of America that fell out with the papers were passports.

  False papers. False passports. For who?

  Illegals for sure. Terrorists? Or was it human trafficking? Johnny shuddered. Or maybe it was just illegal seasonal workers. What used to be the mushroom capital of the world was about twenty miles south.

  But why would papers for those people find their way to Honey Brook instead of directly to Kennett Square or Oxford or one of the towns in mushroom country?

  Johnny forced himself to face the truth. Mr. Sherman, sitting calmly in Corner Bob’s like a fat slug, was part of some criminal network dealing in illegal papers to illegal people, and now he was too. Johnny thought he’d throw up.

  There was one thing still lying on the floor, and Johnny reached for it. It was a vial of liquid, and it was what had made Mick’s envelope fat. The label on the bottle had lots of print on it, most too small to read, but the word Testosterone stood out in large letters across the front of the bottle.

  Anabolic steroids. Mick took illegal muscle builders.

  Johnny shook his head at his own denseness. He should have known. Look at the guy’s bulk, his strength. Sure, the man was a gym rat who lifted weights with the devotion and intensity other men gave their favorite football teams, and he’d assumed that was the reason for the bulging biceps.

  But there was his terrible temper too. Steroid rage? With all the stories that had been in the news about the baseball players caught in the steroid scandal, he knew more than he wanted to about what the stuff did to people.

  He glanced around. No one was paying him any attention in the Turkey Hill mini-mart lot where he’d pulled in after everything spilled on the floor. He looked at his watch. He had only fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet Mick to give him the steroids. The papers were to be delivered to Mr. Sherman at Corner Bob’s this evening.

  Johnny thought of Mick’s frenzy at the trailer, the beating at the diner, poor comatose Harry, even the pleasure Mick got from squeezing the muscle at the top of his shoulder just to inflict pain, and he shuddered. The man was crazy.

  Johnny pulled his shirttail out and rubbed the bottle clean of his prints. Like Mick’d know what Johnny’s prints looked like. It wasn’t like he was in any database anywhere. And it wasn’t as if Mick had access to any database even if he was in one.

  But that temper!

  He slid the bottle back in its envelope, licked the flap, and tried to make it stick. No go.

  All he could do was deliver the stuff and hope Mick didn’t care that he knew what was in the pouch.

  It was telling, now that he thought about it, that Mick had a separate delivery spot for his package. It was a safe bet that Mr. Sherman didn’t know about Mick’s habit and Mick didn’t want him to know.

  Did the fact that he knew put Johnny in more or less danger? Was it a bargaining chip—“Leave me alone or I’ll tell”—or was it, as Marco said, a death warrant?

  Without knowing the answer to that question, he pulled into the designated meeting place—a parking area adjacent to a little farm stand that had seen better days. The derelict structure was boarded up and so old it leaned to one side. Willpower alone seemed to keep it upright, and it would be only a matter of time before a strong wind flattened it. Johnny couldn’t remember ever seeing it open.

  Woods crowded in on one side of the parking area, and weeds grew high along the edge of the gravel. Runoff from storms had cut deep gouges in the dirt. A farm lane, rutted and stony, curled up the far side of the parking area.

  He looked up the farm lane to a shabby house that had also seen better days. An old Amish lady, white haired and bent, was trying to push a hand mower over her lawn.

  Johnny frowned. Where were the people from her district? They should be doing the mowing for her. When he was growing up, Mom went frequently across the street to old Mamie Weaver’s to mow her lawn after Red Tim Weaver died. This lady’s Gmay should be taking care of her if her children weren’t.

  He looked at his watch. Five minutes early. He sat in his car and waited. After ten minutes, Johnny could stand it no longer. He climbed from the car and began pacing back and forth from the woods to the farm lane. He glanced at the old farm house. The little old lady had abandoned her lawn mower and was nowhere to be seen.


  Just when he was sure he’d jump out of his skin from the tension of waiting, a black convertible roared into the parking area and skidded to a stop with a spray of dirt. Johnny stepped behind his car, not so he wouldn’t be seen but so he wouldn’t be run over. He made his face show no emotion as Mick climbed out.

  The man’s shoulders and biceps strained the seams of his brown shirt. He wore tan dress slacks and tasseled loafers, ever the GQ guy. His hair looked freshly barbered. His frown chilled Johnny to his toes.

  He reached into his car and picked up the envelope. His legs felt as supportive as a piece of Datt’s baling twine.

  “Give it,” Mick ordered, holding out his hand.

  Johnny handed him the envelope, flap down. The coffee stain hadn’t bled through to the front and it looked almost as it should.

  Mick flipped the envelope and the stain was the least of it.

  Face red, eyes narrowed, Mick glared. “What happened?”

  “Coffee. That’s all. Coffee spilled.” Johnny held his hands out in front of him. His stomach was curdling and his heart racing. Did Mick notice?

  Mick upended the envelope and the bottle fell into his hand. He gave Johnny a final glare, then studied the vial.

  “It’s just like the guy gave me,” Johnny said. “I didn’t do anything to it. I swear.”

  Mick stepped right up to him, their toes almost touching. “So you say.”

  Johnny forced himself not to take a step back. “So I say.” His voice was shaking only a little.

  Mick grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him until they were nose to nose. “If you ever—”

  Johnny never knew what threat Mick had in mind. The pffft was barely audible and the hole in Mick’s head was small, but shot was shot, blood was blood, and dead was dead.

  As Mick fell, he fell into Johnny who gasped audibly and tried to push him away. Mick’s finger’s still clutched his shirt, and Johnny pulled and pushed, trying to get free, trying to make believe he wasn’t supporting a corpse.