Under the Cajun Moon (51 page)

A
nna Bailey thought she left the tragedies of the past behind when she took on a new identity and moved from Pennsylvania to California. But now that her brother has vanished and his wife is crying out for help, Anna knows she has no choice but to come out of hiding, go home, and find him. Back in Lancaster County, Anna follows the high-tech trail her brother left behind, a trail that leads from the simple world of Amish farming to the cutting edge of DNA research and gene therapy.

Following up on her extremely popular gothic thriller,
Whispers of the Bayou
, Mindy Starns Clark offers another suspenseful standalone mystery, one full of Amish simplicity, dark shadows, and the light of God’s amazing grace.

ISBN: 978-0-7369-2447-4 $13.99    Read a sample chapter:
www.HarvestHousePublishers.com

If you enjoyed
Under the Cajun Moon,
you’ll love
Shadows of lancaster County.
Here’s a sample…

B
OBBY

I’m dead.
The powerful engine gunning behind him drowned out every other thought. He held on to the handlebars of the borrowed motorcycle, crouched low on the leather seat, and accelerated as far as he dared. When the dark car struck his rear tire the first time, he managed to hang on through the jolt, though just barely. Regaining control, he crouched even lower and gripped the handlebars more tightly, adrenaline surging in the piercing cold. In vain he searched the blackness ahead for an escape, for some point of diversion where the motorcycle could go but the car pursuing him could not. Caught on the wide curve of a hilly highway, there were no shoulders here, and no way to know what lay in the darkness off to the right beyond the metal guardrail. Worse, he knew he couldn’t swerve back and forth on the blacktop to dodge the next hit, because moves like that on a motorcycle would end up flipping the bike and high-siding him whether the car rammed into him again or not.

A second jolt came just as the guardrail ended, a collision that nearly managed to unseat him. Barely hanging on, he regained his balance, scooted forward on the leather seat, and took a deep breath, conscious of the vehicle still roaring aggressively behind him in murderous pursuit. In a choice between certain death on the road and possible survival off of it, he steeled his nerves and made the decision to leave the pavement no
matter what he might run into. Holding on tight, he shifted his weight and angled the handlebars to the right, veering into the unknown darkness. The action was punctuated by a series of bumps and jolts as his tires went from blacktop to gravel to crunchy brown grass.

Let it be a field, God. Let it be somebody’s farm.

The headlamp of the borrowed motorcycle was strong, its beam slicing through the February night air to reveal the unfamiliar terrain he had driven himself into. Before he could discern what lay ahead, however, before he could even slow down or adjust his direction or see if the car had tried to follow, he spotted the looming gray mass in front of him—a solid, four-foot-high cement retaining wall. He knew this was the end.

The sudden stop flung him heavenward, propelling him in a broad arc across the night sky like the flare of a Roman candle. As he went, he thought mostly of the ground far below him, the frozen and unforgiving earth that was going to greet him by shattering his bones or snapping his neck upon landing. He prayed for the latter, less painful option.

Let it end quickly, God.

As his trajectory continued, his limbs instinctively flailing against the void, his mind went to one person: his younger sister, Anna. He hoped beyond hope that his message would get to her, that she would understand what he wanted her to do. For a guy who didn’t even own a computer, he found it vaguely ironic that the last thought that raced through his mind just before certain death was of an email. But the message he had sent her was the only chance he had, the only hope that Lydia and Isaac might still be protected. That one email was the only way his desperate efforts might save his wife and son and the unborn child Lydia was carrying.

Let it end quickly, God,
he prayed again just before impact.
And please, God, please guide Anna to the truth.

A
NNA

The nightmare started up again last night.

That was the first thought that struck me as I turned off the alarm. Somewhere in the early hours of the dawn I had gone there in my sleep for the first time in many months. Now as I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, I couldn’t understand why it was back, this nightmare that had plagued me off and on for the past eleven years.

Why now? Why last night?

Sometimes all it took was an external cue, like a house fire spotted from the freeway. An Amish character flashing across the television screen. A news report about a dead newborn baby. But I hadn’t experienced any of those things lately. There was simply no reason for the nightmare to have returned like this, out of the blue.

Standing up, I traded my nightgown for shorts and a T-shirt and then padded into the bathroom. As I stood at the mirror and brushed my teeth, I tried not to relive it again now that I was awake, but I couldn’t help it.

The dream was always beautiful at first: rolling fields that look like patchwork on an Amish quilt, cars sharing the road with horses and buggies, colorful laundry flapping in the wind. But then there was the farmhouse, the rambling old farmhouse. Without electricity or curtains, as I came closer the windows would turn into dark, empty eyes staring at me. My nightmare always ended the same: black to orange to hot white.
Sirens. Screams. The acrid stench of smoke, of terror, of unspeakable loss. When I woke up, guilt would consume me like flame.

Wishing I could spit out that guilt along with the toothpaste, I rinsed my mouth and then reached for my hairbrush, attacking my long, blond hair with vigor.

It happened a long, long time ago.

You paid your dues.

All has been forgiven.

Telling myself that over and over, I swept my hair into a ponytail, turned out the light, and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, judging by the mess on the counter and the fact that the door was ajar, I realized my housemate was already up and doing her exercises on the back porch. Kiki was always trying out some new fitness trend, the latest and greatest plan guaranteed to shed pounds and inches by the second. I had given up long ago trying to convince her that if she would just come jogging with me a few times a week, she would eventually achieve the results she so desperately sought. Still, I thought as I put away the juice carton and wiped off the counter, on days like today I was glad I could jog alone. I needed the quiet to clear my head and wash away the last remnants of my nightmare.

Once the kitchen was tidy, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and opened the back door the rest of the way; a warm ocean breeze wafted in to greet me. I stepped out onto the uneven slats of the porch and let the door fall shut behind me as I inhaled the salty sea smell of morning. Gorgeous. As someone who had grown up in snowy Pennsylvania, I knew I’d never get used to the year-round warm weather and sunshine of Southern California.

“Howdy,” Kiki said cheerfully. She was doing stretches on the far side of the porch, past the square of rotten boards near the door. “Wanna see my new Piloga move?”

“Piloga? What’s that? Some cross between Pilates and Yoga?”

“No, it’s named after the founder, Manny Piloga. He teaches the fifty-plus class down at the Y.”

I smiled, glancing at my watch. It was early yet; I could spare a
few minutes to encourage her efforts—not to mention that a quick chat might help distract me even further from my nightmare. As Kiki sat on the wooden floorboards, I reached for a folded aluminum chair that was propped against the wall and told her to be careful on the floor lest she get splinters in her bottom.

“Aw, I’ve got so much padding, I probably wouldn’t even feel it if I did,” Kiki laughed, adjusting the waistband on her pajamas and stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Hey, I saw that guy at the grocery store flirting with you yesterday,” I reminded her as I sat in the chair. “He didn’t seem to mind a little extra padding at all.”

“That’s ’cause he works in the deli department. He likes it when the scales weigh in heavy.”

I rolled my eyes again, refusing to laugh at her joke, but she laughed loud enough for both of us.

“Okay, check out the ab work I’ve been doing,” Kiki said as she leaned back, arms jutting forward parallel to the ground. Slowly, she raised her legs into the air and held them there. “I can stay like this for three minutes, just long enough for you to tell me about your date last night. A fancy dinner at Harborside, hmm? He must have had something in mind. Maybe a certain question he wanted to pop?”

“Good grief, Kik, it was just our third date.”

“Sometimes true love can speed things along. I got engaged to my Roger during our first date—and we were happily married for twenty-five years before he passed, God rest his soul.”

“Yeah, well, you were one of the lucky ones. Very impressive stance, by the way.”

“Thanks. Manny says it strengthens the core.”

I opened up my water bottle, took a sip, and looked at my housemate, who also happened to be my landlord, coworker, and best friend despite the twenty-one-year difference in our ages. As she maintained her bizarre position, I thought about yesterday evening, about my third and final outing with Hal, or as I had come to think of him, Hal-itosis.

“We decided not to see each other anymore.”

She let out a long grunt, though I wasn’t sure if it was from exertion or exasperation.

“ ‘We’ who? ‘We’ him or ‘we’ you? Or do I even have to ask?”

“Well, like you expected, he did take me to Harborside for a reason. He told me he wants to get more serious.”

“Exclusive dating serious or engagement serious?”

“I have no idea, Kik. His exact words were ‘I think it’s time we should take this to the next level.’ I didn’t even want to know what the next level was. I suggested he would be happier with someone who enjoys day-old-coffee breath.”

A loud laugh burst from Kiki’s mouth. “You didn’t say that!”

“No, I didn’t. But I thought it. I just told him I didn’t think it would be fair to him, because I wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m
not
interested in a long-term relationship…with him.”

“Uh-huh.” She was quiet for a long moment, but her silence was louder than words.

I looked her way to see that she was still holding her pose, though beads of sweat were now forming along her hairline.

“What?” I demanded. “What is it you’re not saying?”

“I don’t know, Anna, it’s just that you’re so picky about who you’re willing to go out with, which is fine. Not every fellow who comes sniffing around a pretty girl is worth her time or attention. But how come the ones who make it through the first elimination never get to the next round?”