The Amish Heiress

Chapter Seven - Closing In

Chapter Seven

Closing InSammy Bender looked through the crack in his door. The man in the hallway was medium height and powerfully built, with a sharp, hawk-like face set off by a short crew cut and black turtleneck under a brown, houndstooth wool jacket. The tan slacks were sharply pressed, and the black brogans bore a high-luster shine, military in its perfection.

“Whaddaya want?”

The hawk-faced man glanced down at a small notebook in his hand, checked the number on the apartment door, and smiled. Somehow the smile made Sammy shiver.

“Sammy Bender?”

“Yeah.”

“Formerly of Sing Sing Correctional Facility?”

“I done my time...”

“Brother of one...”—the man glanced down at the notebook—“Joseph Bender?”

Sammy didn’t like the turn of the conversation. “Say, what are you, a cop? I’m clean, see. I visit my PO every month, and I don’t cause no trouble.”

Sammy started to close the door, but the man put his shoe in the opening, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crisp, one-hundred dollar bill. He held it close to the crack.

“I have no interest in you, personally, Mr. Bender, or your brother. I only need some small pieces of information that you might be carrying in that drug-addled brain of yours. So if you let me in, perhaps I can help you in your determined desire to escape the cares of this dreadful world.”

Sammy closed the door, released the chain latch, reached out, grabbed the money, and started to close the door. It was the wrong move, because the next thing he knew, he was up against the wall in the hallway with a small but deadly-looking revolver pressed painfully against his face and a steel grip on his arm.

“Not a good way to begin a relationship, Sammy.”

Sammy Bender slumped his shoulders in defeat. The man kept his grip while he put the gun back in the shoulder holster where it had resided so invisibly, and then he pushed Sammy down the hall.

When they got into the front room, the man pointed to the ragged, cigarette-burned stuffed chair by the window. “Sit down, Sammy.”

Sammy Bender sat. “Okay, I’m sitting. Are you going to shoot me?”

“Why would I want to do that? Then I wouldn’t be able to find out what I need to know.” He glanced around and smiled the same joyless smile. “Besides, it would make an awful mess in this otherwise elegant sitting room.”

A ray of hope splintered the darkness in Sammy’s brain. “So, what do you want, and how do you know about Joe?”

“How I know about Joe is my business, and that’s not what I’m here for anyway. I need to know about the woman and the little girl.”

“The woman? What woman?”

“The woman, Rachel St. Clair, and the little girl, her daughter, that lived with you for a while back in the fifties.”

“Oh, Rachel...” Sammy paused, thinking back. “That’s a long time ago, man. I ain’t seen Rachel since I seen Joe. And Joe’s dead.”

“Dead?” The man reached for his notebook. “How did that happen?”

“I think he died in a car crash out in Ohio. The cop told me all about it.”

“The cop?”

“Well, he was actually a sheriff from someplace by Akron— Woozer or Weiser, I don’t know.”

“Wooster?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Wooster.”

“And what exactly did he tell you about Joe?”

“When Joe and I robbed the bank, Joe drove the car. I got caught inside the bank and went to prison. Joe split. The sheriff who visited me told me Joe died in a wreck in Ohio. He had a little girl with him. The girl was Rachel’s daughter, Jenny. The sheriff was looking for Rachel. That’s all I know.”

The hawk-faced man pulled the hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and snapped it flat between his hands. He laid it on the coffee table in front of Sammy and then he pulled out two more and laid them beside the first in a perfectly even row. “I need more, Sammy.”

Sammy looked at the money, and a hunger began to grow in his belly. “Okay, Rachel’s dead, too.”

“And how do you know that?”

“The sheriff went to my mom’s house in Patterson. They got a tip from her that Rachel had overdosed in Stroudsburg. When they were at her place, there was an Amish guy and a hippie and a girl with the sheriff—a real human ‘Incredible Journey’ or sumpthin’.”

Sammy cackled at his joke and spittle flew out of the hole where his front teeth used to be. He went on, looking at the money while he spoke. “The girl was Jenny.”

That got the hawk-faced man’s attention. “So, you’re telling me that Jenny is still alive?”

“Yeah, she was at my mom’s house.”

The man reached down and pushed one of the bills over to Sammy. “More, Sammy.”

“Jenny stayed in touch with my mom. She and the rest of them went to Stroudsburg and found out that Rachel was dead. She let my mom know.”

The man reached down and pushed the second bill over. “And...”

It felt hot in the room. Sammy wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “Uh...”

“C’mon, Sammy, just a little more.”

“Halverson! The sheriff’s name was Halverson! And Jenny married the hippie. My mom told me she sent her a letter.”

“And what was the hippie’s name, Sammy?

Sammy’s brow furrowed. “That was a long time ago, pal.”

The hawk-face man reached for the third bill and put it back in his pocket.

“Wait. Uh...the guy’s name was Johnny or John. That’s the best I can do. When my mom told me, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Good boy, Sammy.”

The bill appeared magically and made its journey to Sammy’s side of the coffee table. Sammy picked up the money and felt the crispness of it between his fingers. “Brand-new Franklins. This will keep me up for a week. Thanks a lot.”

Sammy heard the click of the door latch closing and looked up. The hawk-faced man was gone.

*****

“So Rachel St. Clair is dead. What about the girl?”

Augusta listened intently while the voice on the other end of the line replied to her question. Then she spoke again. “All right, she was alive in 1965. That’s twenty-five years ago, Randall. Have you made any progress in finding her?”

Again, the voice spoke while Augusta listened. “Uh-huh, all right, Randall. Where are you now? Wooster? Why Wooster?”

Another long pause and then Augusta smiled. “Good work, Randall. Let me know when you find out more.”

Augusta hung up the phone and turned to her grandson, Gerald. He was sitting stiffly on a couch in an elegant sitting room at the St. Clair mansion. He tapped his fingers together nervously and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of menthol cigarettes.

Augusta waved her hand. “Not in here, Gerald. If you want to smoke those filthy things, do it outside.”

Gerald frowned and put the cigarettes back in his pocket. “So what did our spy have to say?”

“He’s not a spy, Gerald. He’s a former Special Forces and CIA. That makes him exactly suited to our needs. There is nothing Randall can’t find out.”

“Well?”

“All right, Gerald, calm down and I’ll tell you where we stand. Rachel St. Clair, your great aunt, is dead. She overdosed on heroin in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, in 1950. The man she was with, Joe Bender, left her body behind in a motel room and drove west with Rachel’s child, Jenny St. Clair. He crashed his car outside of Dalton, Ohio and was killed. The girl survived the wreck and was adopted by an Amish couple in Apple Creek, Ohio. She was still alive as of 1965.”

“How in the world did Randall find all that out?”

“Gerald, you must never underestimate Randall. He is ruthless—without feeling. His intelligence-gathering capabilities are superb. He was able to gain, umm...access to police files in Stroudsburg. In them, he found that in 1965 one Bobby Halverson, who was the sheriff of Wayne County at that time, paid a visit to the department there. Jenny St. Clair, along with her adoptive father and another man, Jonathan Hershberger, accompanied him. They were able to give the police information that established Rachel St. Clair’s identity. It was all in the file. Randall is in Wooster following up on Halverson. He’ll be back to us soon.”

“Well, I wish he would hurry up. I’m getting tired of this whole game. I don’t see why they won’t just give me the money. I’m a St. Clair, too!”

Augusta looked at her grandson. He was such a beautiful boy, but he was so impatient. She smiled anyway. “Now, Gerald, dear, don’t get petulant. Things have changed and it’s not going to be as easy to get our hands on the money as I thought. But I’m working on it. So just relax. Your grandmother will take care of everything.”

Augusta stood up, walked over behind the couch and began to stroke Gerald’s hair and forehead. “Haven’t I always taken care of you, dearest? Why don’t you relax. Grandmother will handle everything.”

Gerald turned to look at Augusta and then shrugged his shoulders and accepted the caresses.

*****

The black BMW drove slowly up to the small house in Wooster, Ohio. Yellow daffodils bloomed along a white picket fence, and yellow forsythias blossomed on large bushes under the windows. Birch trees in the front yard were putting forth their lime-green leaf buds. An older man stood by the front porch with a hose in his hand, absentmindedly watering some juniper bushes that grew on either side of the steps. The whole place was immaculate. The man in the yard was big and carried himself with a military bearing. He looked very tough, despite the years that had lined his face. Randall stopped the car and watched the man for a moment, assessing him. Then he climbed out of the car and walked up to the fence. The old man glanced up at Randall. “Mornin’. Can I help you with somethin’?”

Randall looked down at his notebook. “Ralph Halkovich?”

“Bull Halkovich. Nobody’s called me Ralph since I broke my Aunt Daisy’s window when I was ten.”

“Okay, Bull. I’m looking for Bobby Halverson. The folks down at the Sheriff’s Department said you knew how to reach him.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bull went back to watering the bushes.

“I said I’m looking for Bobby Halverson.”

Bull sighed and glanced up again. “I heard you.”

“Well, can you help me?”

Bull twisted the nozzle on the hose until the mist he was directing toward the junipers was cut off and then he laid the hose down. He walked over to the fence and looked down at Randall. “Mister, I don’t go handing out Bobby’s info to any Tom, d**k, or Harry that comes driving into Wooster in a fancy car with New York plates and smoked windows. Bobby’s retired and he’s getting old and he doesn’t like people to come around much, so you’ll have to give me a real good reason to spill my guts.”

Randall smiled and took a guess. “Semper Fi, Bull.”

“You a Marine?”

“Yes, First Division, Vietnam, then Special Forces. How about you?”

“Nope, but I fought side by side with them in the Pacific.”

“Wasn’t Halverson a Marine?”

“Yep, won the silver star on Guadalcanal. He was a real tough customer...”

Bull’s eyes narrowed. “Say, you trying to squeeze something outta me? How did you find out so much about Bobby?”

“Take it easy, Bull. I’m just trying to be friendly here. In my line of business you have to do your homework.”

Randall realized that it didn’t seem wise to try and outfox the old guy, and he better tell Bull as much of the truth as he could. “Look, Bull, I represent a family that is looking for the heirs of one Robert St. Clair. We understand that Bobby knows quite a lot about the subject and we’d like to contact him.”

Bull put his hand to his chin and rubbed it contemplatively. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know about any Robert St. Clair and I ain’t giving you no info on Bobby until I check with him. Gimme your card and I’ll have him call you.”

“I assure you that I’m on the up and up here, Bull...”

“Gimme the card!”

Randall reached in his chest pocket to retrieve a business card. He felt the handle of his pistol and debated using a different tactic, but Bull was ahead of him.

“If you’re thinkin’ about pulling that popgun you got in your pocket, I can tell you this. I may be old but I’m still in army shape, and I could come over this fence and break your puny neck before you got it out. And besides, I’m too big to kill with that little .38. So leave that idea in the filing cabinet.”

Randall’s hand moved past the gun and pulled out a card. He handed it to Bull. “My number’s right there. I would appreciate any help. Have the sheriff call me.”

“And who should I say you represent?”

“I represent Augusta St. Clair, Robert St. Clair’s sister-in-law.”

Bull looked down at the card. “Uh-huh.”

Randall reached out a hand. “Well, nice to meet you, Bull.”

Bull just stared at him with steely eyes, so Randall turned, went back to the car, climbed in, and pulled away. He drove to the end of the block and looked back. Bull was still staring after him. Randall watched as an old cat that had been hiding under the hydrangeas walked slowly out and began bunting against Bull’s leg. Bull reached down and picked him up, turned, and headed toward the house.

Randall smiled. “And now Bull goes in and calls Halverson. Army guys are so predictable.”

He glanced at his watch and then headed back toward Pennsylvania.