Plain Retribution. Dana R. Lynn
to find something?”
Judging from the skepticism scrawled across his face and seeping into his signs, Miles didn’t think so. And Rebecca agreed. Her heart sank.
“Holly would never leave her things cluttered or messy,” Rebecca informed him. His mouth was moving as he told Jackson what she said. She continued, “Disorder of any kind bothered her. I sometimes tease her that if there was a fire she’d make her bed before leaving the building.”
The joke had made people laugh before. Not anymore.
“I want you to look at this picture,” Miles signed. “Is this the vehicle she would have driven to work yesterday?” He tapped the screen on his phone, then flipped it around so she could see the picture he brought up. It was a white Jeep. He swiped his finger across the screen. A second picture of the back of the vehicle. The familiar vanity license plate came into view.
She swallowed. Nodded. Any hope she’d entertained that there might have been some mistake disintegrated. Something caught her eye.
“Wait, what’s that?” She pointed to a large blot of color on the side of the car. It was a dark smear. It hadn’t been there the day before. It looked like paint. Or...
A wave of nausea hit her, causing her to sway. “Is that blood?”
Miles hesitated. But the answer was on his face even before he nodded.
Holly wasn’t just missing—she was hurt. Why, Lord? Hadn’t she suffered enough?
She pushed back from the table, stood and moved to the sink. She gripped the counter with both hands, so hard her fingers hurt. Her control was slipping. The trembling started in her insides and worked its way outward. The view out of the window above the sink blurred.
A warm hand settled on her shoulder. Miles’s fresh scent washed over her a second later. Without thought, she turned and burrowed into Miles’s shoulder, fighting back tears. He patted her awkwardly on the back.
What was she doing?
Stepping away, she wiped at her moist eyes. More to give herself a moment to regain control than because she was crying. As she wiped her sleeve across her eyes, she gathered up the courage to face him. The compassion she saw in his expression was almost her undoing. Almost. But she was made of stronger stuff.
“Sorry,” she signed.
He shrugged. “Not a problem. It’s a completely natural reaction. Here’s what we need to do. I need to bring you into the station to ask—”
“But I’ve done nothing wrong!”
He raised his hands, made a calm-down motion. “I know. We just have some questions for you, and they should be answered at the station so that we can bring in a certified interpreter to make sure there’s no confusion or misinterpretation.”
What? she thought. “You sign. Your ASL is beautiful.”
She watched, fascinated, as his ears turned bright red. It would have been cute in other circumstances. “Thanks. But it’s the law. You need a certified interpreter. Unless you agree to accept me as the interpreter for now.”
She sagged back against the counter. “Fine. I accept. I don’t want to go to the police station. What do you need to know?”
Miles took his seat back at the table. Reluctantly, she moved to sit down again.
The conversation started very generally. Age, birthday, job. Then it got more specific. Where did Holly grow up? Who did she live with?
“How did you meet Holly?”
“We went to the same school for years. Holly was a year ahead of me.”
Jackson said something to Miles, who interpreted, translating it into sign. “You grew up in Spartansburg, right?” She nodded. “You lived in different districts. How did you go to the same school?”
She cocked her head at the officer. “Holly is hard of hearing. We were both bused out of district so we could attend the deaf program.”
“Have either of you had an issue with violent boyfriends, or threats? Anyone hold a grudge against either of you at work?” Miles again.
She paused. “No.”
But what about before? Was it relevant?
He waved his hand, drawing her attention back to him.
“If there’s something that might be related, we need to know.”
She drew a large gulp of oxygen into her lungs. She hated talking about this, and hadn’t for years. Not even to Jess. But now she had to. Because Holly was in trouble.
“Ten years ago, when I was fifteen, I went out with Holly and three other girls from her school. Ashley Kline, Brooke Cole and Jasmine Winters. Ashley and Jasmine were older and had just graduated. Ashley was driving her mother’s van and pulled over to help some guy who seemed to have broken down on the side of the road.”
Abruptly, she stood and moved away from the officers. Memories of that day pulled at her, dragging her under. So much bad had come from one simple act of charity—stopping to help a stranger. Miles slowly got to his feet.
“Maybe we should go to the station.”
She shook her head. She could do this. “No, I’m fine. There was just one man. He looked innocent enough. But he wasn’t. He hadn’t broken down. He was high on drugs and had stolen the car. When we stopped, he pulled out a gun and forced his way into the van and drove us to his house. He kept us locked up in the basement for two days. Until we were found.”
She stopped. The memories were hitting hard and fast now. Overwhelming her. She could feel the cement wall against her back, smell the damp moldy basement.
Miles approached her carefully, as if he expected her to bolt. “I’m sorry you went through that,” he signed. “And I hate that I have to ask you to relive it, but—”
“I understand,” she interrupted. “It’s for Holly.”
“The man who abducted you, do you remember his name?”
As if she could ever forget. “Terry Gleason.”
“Terry as in Terrence?”
She shook her head. “Just plain Terry.”
Miles turned his head. Sergeant Jackson must have asked something. Miles nodded and then returned his focus to her. “The other girls, did they know the man?”
“I think some of them might have known him. Jasmine seemed to. She was the oldest. Already eighteen. And possibly Ashley. I don’t know about Brooke. But I don’t know from where. I didn’t really know the other girls. And none of them could sign. Only Holly.”
“You said you were fifteen? Did you still go to school together?” Miles pressed his lips together. She could almost see the thoughts running through his mind.
“No. I was still Amish back then so I only went to school through eighth grade.” Regret surfaced, but she pushed away the feeling. Now was not the time. “The deaf program was a small group of students in a public school with a teacher of the deaf. Most of us went to her for Language Arts. The rest of the day, we were in classes with hearing kids and interpreters. Jess, Holly and I were the only three girls in the program. Jess left soon after I did to go back to her home school. That’s when Holly started to hang out with the older girls. I met her again a few years later. I was in the middle of my Rumspringa.” She signed “running around,” using the direct translation. That was the only sign for the word she knew.
“Whatever happened to the man who kidnapped you girls? Please tell me he went to jail.”
She nodded. “He went to jail. So it probably wasn’t him. I testified at the trial. My parents did not want me to. Law enforcement and trials are not something Amish people usually get involved with. But I couldn’t not testify.”