Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (18 page)

“I’ve interrupted your reading,” I say.

He closes the door. “You’ve read
Martyer Schipiggel
?”

“When I was a teenager.”

“The Anabaptists have suffered many torments because of their faith.” He motions to a straight-backed chair across from the sofa. “And yet they forgave, even loved their persecutors.”

“Dirk Willems,” I reply, referring to the story of the martyred Anabaptist who fled from his captors, risked his life crossing thin ice, and made it to the other side. When his pursuer gave chase and fell through the ice and into the frigid water, Willems went back onto the ice and rendered aid. Because of his kindness, Willems was recaptured, tortured, and burned at the stake.

Schrock smiles, pleased that I’m familiar with the story. “It’s the Amish way.”

My boots are nearly silent against the floor as I cross to the chair.

“Would you like
kaffi
?” he asks.

“Thank you.”

He walks into the kitchen. I watch as he removes a plain mug from the cupboard, lifts an old-fashioned percolator from the stove, and pours. I lower myself into the chair, lean back with my hands in my lap, and try to settle my nerves.

“Sometimes I make it too strong.” He returns with a mug in each hand and passes one to me. “When you’re a widower, you learn to do all the things your wife would normally do.” He smiles. “And usually not as well.”

“How long have you been a widower?” I drink some of the coffee. He’s right; it’s strong, but good.

“A long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

He offers a kindly look. “God had another plan. Perhaps it was His way of bringing me here to Roaring Springs where I could dedicate myself to serving as
Vellicherdiener
.”

I expected him to go to his chair and sit, but he sets the coffee on the mantel above the hearth and remains standing. “You’ll be joining the church on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

He studies me for a moment. “What about you? How long have you been a widow?”

“John has been gone for nine months now.” I say the name with reverence. “He was a good husband. A good man.”

“You never had children?”

“We weren’t blessed with children.”

“Children are important.” His eyes bore into mine. I look for disappointment, but he gives me nothing. “But we are blessed with only what God gives us.”

I look away, take another drink of coffee. “Yes.”

“There’s still time if it’s the Lord’s wish.”

It’s an overly personal statement, so I don’t respond. I try to get a handle on the source of my discomfort, identify it, stave it off, but I can’t. I don’t know why I’m here or where he’s going with this line of conversation. I’m not sure what to say next, so I pick up the cup and drink.

“It must be difficult,” he says.

“What’s that?”

He walks to the hearth, lifts a log from the rack, and places it on the fire. “Being alone at such a young age. No children. No husband.”

“I have my faith,” I tell him. “It fills up my life. It’s enough for now.”

He straightens and crosses to me, looks down at me, studying me intently. I’m no stranger to odd individuals or awkward situations, but my unease is making itself known. My palms are damp. My heart beats a little too fast. I’m sweating beneath my coat, but I don’t want to take it off.

“A young woman has needs,” he says softly. “Without a husband…” He shrugs. “Even an
Amisch
woman.”

Incredulity rises inside me, but I bank it. I look up at him. He’s standing too close, his head cocked. His gaze searches mine, as if he’s waiting for a reaction. Or something I’ve not yet revealed to him. For the first time it strikes me that I feel strange. My heart rate is too high. My hands and feet are still cold from the ride over, but the back of my neck is damp with sweat. The heat from the fire is making me sleepy, which is unusual because I’m “on.”

I startle when he reaches out, takes my left hand, and pulls me to my feet. For an instant I feel light-headed, but it quickly levels off. In the back of my mind I wonder if I’m coming down with something. Or if the stress is getting to me …

We’re standing face to face, about two feet apart. Around us, the house is so quiet I can hear the crackle of the fire, the wind driving snow against the window, the steady thrum of my heart. I know better than to let the moment unnerve me, but it does.

“Did your husband forgive you?” he asks.

“Forgive me for what?”

“You never gave him children.”

I glance down where my hand is enclosed within his. I try to tug it away, but he doesn’t release it. Despite my best efforts, I’m flustered. I feel unsettled and spaced out. I raise my gaze to his and find his eyes probing mine. I’m aware of my heart tapping hard against my ribs. The .22 against my thigh. The weight of my phone in my pocket.

“That’s private.” I say the words slowly, enunciating each syllable because suddenly I’m having difficulty speaking. “I prefer not to talk of such things, even to you, Bishop.”

“Artificial birth control is against the rules here. It’s against our conscience and is considered taking a life.”

Kate Burkholder would have told him to piss off. Kate Miller, bound by her faith and the
Ordnung
, is obligated to submit.

“I’ve never used it,” I murmur.

“Then why no children?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you a good wife?”

“Of course I was.”

“You submitted to your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

I say nothing.

Gently, he turns my hand over so that it’s palm up. Again, I try to withdraw it from his, but he maintains his grip. I’m keenly aware of his proximity. The warmth of his skin against mine. Raising his other hand, he runs his index finger across my palm. A feather-soft touch, but I feel it with the power of an electrical shock.

“Did you have thoughts of other men?” he asks.

I stare at Schrock, taken aback. “Bishop, that’s an … inappropriate question.”

“So you did, then? While you were with your husband, you were thinking of another man?”

“Never.”

“Do you plan to remarry?” he asks.

“One day. God willing.”

“Sadly, many widows never do. Some, of course, are too old. They have difficulty finding a suitable husband. Not you, of course.” He shrugs. “Some of the young widows have too much guilt.”

“Guilt? I have no guilt.”

“Some Amish women find it difficult to open their bodies to another man. After taking their vows.”

Had the circumstances been different—had I not been required to maintain my cover—I would’ve laughed in his face and left him with a resounding
fuck off
. Of course I can’t do either of those things. As distasteful and outrageous as this exchange has become, I’m bound to participate.

“I have no such guilt.” I’m alarmed when I slur the final word. It’s then that I know the light-headedness isn’t my imagination. Something’s wrong. My vision is off. I stare at him, aware that my face is hot. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip. Not embarrassment or discomfort. More like a fever.…

Only then does the possibility that I’ve been drugged strike me. A warning bell clangs in my head. Did he put something in the coffee? I didn’t drink much, but I’m definitely feeling the effects of … something.

“I can help you,” he whispers. “As your bishop, I will counsel you. Prepare you for your husband. Teach you to be a better wife in the eyes of God.”

I yank my hand away and stumble back. His fingers scrape my skin as he lets go. “I don’t need any of those things.”

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. A sort of dark amusement peeks at me from behind his eyes. He’s enjoying this, I realize. He enjoys intimidating people. Toying with their emotions. Manipulating them to get what he wants. Bending them to his will. Finding a weakness and taking advantage of it.

Hurting them.

I have to hand it to him: he’s good at it, at least when it comes to grieving widows and vulnerable teenagers. But I’m a cop, and at the moment it’s taking every bit of restraint I possess not to blow this whole thing for the sheer satisfaction of taking him down a few notches.

“God came to me last night, Kate Miller. In a dream. He told me your husband died because you were not a good wife to him. You had impure thoughts.”

I step back. “That’s not true.”

“I know these things. I look at you and I see a woman who is lost and alone. A frightened woman who wants to belong but she doesn’t know how to reach out. A woman who longs for the return of the faith she’s lost. I know everything about you.”

“No, you don’t,” I whisper.

“I know John never forgave you. Because of that he cannot get into heaven. Come with me tonight, and I’ll show you the way to forgiveness.”

“I have to go.” Turning abruptly, I run to the door, throw the lock.

He reaches the door at the same time I do and sets his palm against it, blocking me. He bows his head slightly, his face coming within inches of mine. Too close. “Wait.”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I have to go.”

He straightens, his expression disapproving, disappointed. “All right.” His eyes go to the window. “It’s dark and snowing. At least let me hitch the buggy and drive you home.”

“I’ve got the scooter bike.”

He looks at me for what seems like an eternity. As if he’s trying to decide whether to let me go. For an instant, I’m afraid he won’t. I’m not incapacitated; I’m armed and able to defend myself. But I’m impaired. And for the first time, he’s frightened me.

After an interminable moment, he opens the door. “As you wish.”

I rush through. My head spins as I cross the porch to the steps and stumble down them. What did he put in that coffee? The tox screen done on Rachel Esh showed she had OxyContin in her blood. Was it from Schrock? Is that what he gave me? Something worse?

At the foot of the steps, I glance over my shoulder, find him at the door leaning against the jam.

Goddamn predator.

“Be careful out there, Kate Miller,” he calls out. “It’s very, very cold.”

I feel eyes tracking me as I walk swiftly through the falling snow. I wonder if he’s laughing because my coordination is off. The son of a bitch. A chill that has nothing to do with the falling temperature hovers at the base of my spine. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder until I reach the trees, where I break into a run.

I’m out of breath when I reach the scooter bike near the end of the lane. As I push it toward the road, I notice there’s at least two inches of new snow, and I hope I can get the damn thing home.

It’s not easy. After a few hundred yards, I get off and push it the way a kid would push a bike with a flat tire. All the while I fret over what I might have ingested, my mind replaying every moment. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The things he said and the manner in which he said them.

I’m not easily shocked; in the years I’ve been in law enforcement, I’ve seen things I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t witnessed them with my own eyes. I’ve seen things I later wished I could erase from my brain. I’ve met more than my share of people who were violent or foaming-at-the-mouth crazy or both. Individuals whose minds are as putrid and dark as a rotting carcass.

Eli Schrock is none of those things. He’s charismatic, with a gentle demeanor and kind eyes. He’s well spoken, outwardly religious, and caring to the point of discomfort. All of which makes him the most dangerous kind of criminal.

This community into which I’ve been thrust isn’t merely an Amish settlement. Eli Schrock is no more an Amish bishop than I am. He’s taken something sacrosanct and twisted it to meet his own self-fulfilling and perverse needs.

By the time I reach the trailer, my head is beginning to clear. I’m immensely relieved; as far as I know, he could have slipped me a dose of something nasty. Something fatal.

I check for footprints around the trailer before going inside, but the snow is coming down too hard for the precaution to do much good. Shivering, I open the door and go directly to the sink, yank a glass from the cupboard and down a full glass of water. Working the phone from my pocket, I dial Suggs.

“I just got back from Schrock’s place,” I tell him. “I think the son of a bitch drugged me.”

“Drugged you? Kate, Jesus Christ.” His voice takes on an urgency I hadn’t heard before. “I’ll get an ambulance out there now. Get you to ER.”

“That’ll draw too much attention. Dan, I’m not finished with this bastard.”

“But—”

“Can you pick me up?” Even as I say the words it occurs to me that someone could be watching. Frustrated, I smack my hand down on the counter. “Meet me at the Amish phone booth.”

“Damn it, Chief. Are you sure you’re okay to do that?”

“Make sure there’s no one around to see us.” I hear stress in my voice, make an effort to edge it down. “Don’t drive your official car.”

He curses again. “I’ll be in my wife’s SUV. Be there as soon as I can. If you get into trouble, call.”

*   *   *

Three hours later I’m sitting on a gurney in the emergency department of Alice Hyde Hospital in Malone, my legs sticking out of a worn hospital gown that refuses to remain closed in the back. Upon my arrival—and thanks to Suggs’s position as sheriff—I was immediately wheeled into an exam cubicle and assessed by the on-call physician. Once my vitals were taken and deemed normal, three vials of blood were drawn. As a precautionary measure, I was given an intramuscular injection of Naloxone, which, I was informed, is a routine treatment for an opiate overdose. It’s a safe medication and has no side effects if, in fact, I did not ingest an opiate narcotic. The blood tox screen will tell all in a few days.

“Knock, knock,” comes Suggs’s voice from the other side of the privacy curtain.

I reach for the sheet lying across the head of the gurney, snap it open, and cover my legs. “I’m here.”

The curtain is shoved aside and the sheriff peeks in. “How you feeling?” he asks.

“I think they’re about to spring me.”

“You gave me a hell of a scare,” he growls. “I guess it’s safe to say you don’t have any qualms about putting yourself in the line of fire.”