Chapter Forty
“Whitney, wake up. Come on, Whitney.”
A friendly voice was addressing me by a name used only by attorneys, preachers, IRS agents, and my mother. That didn’t give me an incentive to reply. Opening my eyes had never been such a chore. Focusing them proved even harder.
“That-a-girl, Whitney! You’re doing fine.”
Something wasn’t quite right. My elbow and shoulder throbbed when I moved my right arm. And the person coaxing me to wake up may have sounded like Chester, but he didn’t pass inspection. First, Chester’s ever-present glasses were gone. Second, his usually spiked hair appeared to be suffering from a bad case of hat head. Third, his school blazer had been replaced by overalls. And finally, Chester never called me Whitney.
“You’re at the Elijah Yoder farm,” he went on cheerfully. “And you’re perfectly safe. Mrs. Yoder put a couple poultices on your arm, so please don’t try to get up.”
Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “Whatever you do, don’t make me call you Whiskey. It upsets the whole family.”
Groaning, I tried to find a comfortable position. Lying on my back with my arm propped on downy pillows did not exactly feel natural.
“What happened to my arm?” I whispered and realized that my throat was parched.
Chester was ready with a ceramic mug of cool well water. He helped me into a semi-sitting position so that I could drink.
“You were shot, Whitney. Luckily, both bullets just grazed your arm-one right above your elbow and the other at your shoulder.”
I drank eagerly, the water tasting better than anything I had consumed in years. Including Pinot Noir. Glancing up, I spotted a worried-looking woman somewhere between age twenty-five and forty studying me from a wooden chair in the far corner of the room. Dressed in dark clothing and wearing a small white cap, she sat with her arms crossed.
“That’s Mrs. Yoder, Rachel and Jacob’s mother,” Chester said helpfully. “She’s the one who cleaned and dressed the wounds on your arm.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Yoder,” I said. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
I wondered exactly how much trouble I was getting credit for. Did she know about Nathaniel? And my dog?
“You can call me Sarah,” the woman said but not in a way that made me want to take her up on the offer.
I turned to Chester. “What happened to MacArthur?”
“MacArthur’s fine. He’s downstairs talking to Mr. Yoder and the elders. They’re trying to decide what to do about you.”
“What about Abra?” I whispered. “And the silver pickup?”
“MacArthur says Abra is okay. He saw her dash into the cornfield, and he’s sure she wasn’t shot. As for the driver of the pickup, MacArthur couldn’t get a good look because he-or she-was wearing a hood and dark glasses. They just kept driving.”
“But why shoot me?” I asked.
“Why not? Your luck has been pretty bad lately.”
“I mean, were they trying to shoot me? Or was Abra the target? Or MacArthur? What did they want?”
“I think you should ask MacArthur,” Chester said.
With my left hand, I grabbed the strap of Chester’s overalls, pulling him toward me.
“Where are your glasses, and why are you dressed like that?”
He grinned. “The Yoders let me go Amish! They loaned me Jacob’s clothes and straw hat. I was helping move the goats to a different part of the pasture when that brown and white one who ate your book charged me. He knocked off my glasses, and I accidentally stepped on them.”
“Your mother won’t like that.”
My response was automatic and completely irrelevant. Chester’s mother was Cassina, the perpetually self- involved, stoned celebrity who rarely remembered she had a son, let alone what he did or the fact that he owned two dogs.
Chester said, “It was so worth it! Wait 'til I tell the kids at my academy that I got to be Amish. They’d pay ten thousand dollars for a day like this!”
Here’s what I knew about Chester’s academy: all the kids had chauffeurs, personal assistants, and trust funds for life. Being Amish for a day would strike them as exotic.
“Fortunately, I had my Blackberry,” Chester whispered after verifying that Mrs. Yoder wasn’t listening. He produced his state-of-the-art cell phone from an overall pocket. “As proof that I was here, I made a video of Jacob and Rachel doing their chores, and I asked them to shoot me with the goats. Then I showed them the video of the dog show that I posted on youtube.”
That caught my full attention. “Are you…?“ I kicked the cobwebs from my memory.
“luvssdogss?” Chester asked. “Yup, that’s my youtube handle! You should see all the videos I’ve posted of Abra, Prince Harry, and Velcro!”
I sincerely hoped he hadn’t posted any of me drooling in my sleep with poultices on my arm.
“Chester, who knows about my getting shot?”
“Well, MacArthur called Jeb right away. Jenx, too. She’s on her way.”
I took the plunge. “Is Jeb coming, too?”
“He would if he could,” Chester said gently, “only he has that gig in Chicago tomorrow. He said he was sorry, but he’s sure you understand.”
“I understand, all right. His music-and other women-will always come first.”
“The show must go on,“ Chester reminded me. No doubt his mother used the same excuse. “Don’t feel sad, Whiskey-I mean, Whitney. MacArthur, Jenx, and I will never let you down.”
I squeezed his hand and closed my eyes, willing away the tears.
Across the room, Mrs. Yoder coughed softly. I heard the fabric of her dress rustle as she stood up.
“I’ll go see if the elders have finished,” she said. “You need to rest, Mrs. Mattimoe.”
The next voice I heard was the cleaner’s. Somewhere down the hall, MacArthur thanked Mrs. Yoder for her poultices. A moment later, he was at my side.
“How does if feel to be the luckiest English in Amish Country?” he said.
“You call getting shot twice ‘lucky’?”
“Getting grazed is lucky indeed. Getting killed would have been unfortunate.”
“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?” I said.
“If I’d done that, I would have had to report the shootings,” MacArthur said. “I fired my gun, too, you know…”
I remembered hearing his weapon fire twice. “What did you hit-besides the windshield?”
“Nothing. The glass shattered, but I’m sure the driver was fine. He-or she-never lost control of the truck.”
Gingerly I touched the cloth compresses on my arm. Minor wounds. My heartache over Jeb hurt more.
MacArthur went on, “I carried you to the house and asked Mrs. Yoder to make you a poultice. When I told her it would be the fastest way to get rid of you, she agreed. The elders want you out of here ASAP. We’re just waiting for Jenx.”
“Why is she coming?”
“First, she’s been tracking this case since shots were fired at Susan’s car. Second, she’s your friend. Strange as it seems, she really cares about you.”
Maybe it was a delayed reaction to everything that had happened. Or maybe I was simply exhausted. At any rate, I burst into tears. For the second time that day. Chester handed me a big old white cotton handkerchief.
“The Amish use these instead of tissues.” The way he said it, you would have thought that cotton was a new invention. “They’re economical and very absorbent. I’ve got another one in my pocket in case you need it.”
