Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (22 page)

We’re on the snowmobile for less than ten minutes. By the time the engine slows, the cold has rendered me utterly useless. My hands and knees and feet are numb. I’m shivering so violently, I can barely stay astride the seat.

Tilting my head back for a better view, I try to get a look at my surroundings. We’ve arrived at a farm surrounded by hundreds of sixty-foot-tall trees. A large bank barn and paddock ahead. Two-story frame house to my left. We’ve stopped a few yards from a small outbuilding. Nothing looks familiar.

The gravity of the situation drops into my gut like stone. I have no idea where I am or why these men have brought me here. I have no mode of communication, no weapon, and not nearly enough protective clothing. In cop speak, I’m in serious shit.

I can’t help but think of Rachel Esh. She froze to death not far away from here. Is this the way it went down? Did these men come for her in the middle of the night? Did she get away from them and run into the woods? Did they look for her? Or did they know she wouldn’t make it and simply let her die in the snowstorm?

In the back of my mind, I consider telling the two men that I’m a cop. That if I die, they’ll be caught—and more than likely face the death penalty. As much as I don’t want to blow my cover and waste the time and effort invested in this operation thus far, it might be the only way to save my life.

But despite the risks and the fact that I’m not in control of the situation, some inner voice urges me to wait. I’ll keep my options open. For now, I want to see where this goes. I want to know who’s behind it.

The driver of the machine I’m on dismounts. I’m aware of his partner behind us, headlight illuminating us. The next thing I know, the driver turns, sets his hand against my chest and shoves me hard. I slide from the seat and plop into the snow on my backside.

Laughter erupts.

Using my hands, I scrape the hat up over my eyes so I can see and look around. One of the men is standing next to the outbuilding. Only then do I realize it’s a chicken coop. Shit.
Shit.

“Get up.”

I bend my knees, try to get my legs under me, but wobble and fall sideways. He doesn’t give me a second chance. Bending to me, he wraps both hands around my biceps and hauls me to my feet.

“Cut the tape,” he says to the other man.

A different kind of fear goes through me at the sight of the four-inch folding knife. I raise my bound wrists, watching as he severs the tape.

“Get in the coop.”

I turn to face him. “I n-need t-to get warm,” I sputter through chattering teeth. “Gloves.”

“How ’bout if I knit you a pair? Now get in there.”

His partner fumbles with a padlock on a hasp and with some effort shoves open the door. The other man clamps his hand around the back of my neck and forces me toward the door. Beyond, the interior is dark and smells of frozen chicken shit and dirt.

“I don’t want to go in there.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“This is what we do to nosy Amish women.”

Raising his foot, he places it on my butt and shoves me through the door. I stumble into the darkened interior, smack my forehead against something, and fall to my hands and knees. Something scampers across the dirt floor to my right.
Rat
, I think, but I’m too cold to care. The door slams shut.

I struggle to my feet, strike my head against a low beam, and duck back down. A roost. Rushing to the door, I slam both fists against it. “Let me out!” I scream. “Let me out!”

A round of laughter ensues, followed by conversation I can’t quite discern. The snowmobile engines rev.

“Don’t leave!” I slam my fist against the door. “Bastards!”

The men drive away. I stand at the door. Through a gap between the wood planks, I watch the taillights fade into the darkness. The sound of the engines fade. Dismay spreads through me. And then the men are gone.

“Pricks.”

I stand there, shaking with cold and rage and disbelief. I’m somehow incredulous the situation has deteriorated to this. If I don’t play my cards right, it’ll soon become a life-or-death scenario.

Turning, I face the interior of the coop. Weak gray light creeps in through the gaps between the weathered wood siding. There’s a small door that’s about two feet square and at ground level on the far end for the chickens, but it’s closed. There are no chickens in sight. I can tell by the smell they haven’t been gone long. The place is dirty and, though I’m protected from the wind, cold as hell.

I make my way to the chicken door and kick it. It’s solidly closed; there’s probably a cross board nailed across it on the outside. There are no windows. I go back to the large door, shove at it with both hands, but it’s secure. Using my shoulder, I get a running start and bang against it. The door shudders beneath the force of my weight. I ram it again and again; I bring my foot up and kick it as hard as I can, but it refuses to give way. The sons of bitches put the padlock back on; I can hear it rattling on the outside.

I’m breathing hard from the physical effort. My shoulder hurts from the impact. My hands ache with cold. I can’t feel my fingers at all. I’m wearing sneakers with the socks I went to bed in, but they’re not enough to keep my feet warm, or even ward off frostbite. But the physical activity has alleviated the worst of the shaking. For now.

Half a dozen outcomes float uneasily through my brain. As far as I know, the men have left me here to freeze to death. I wonder if that’s the way it went down for Rachel Esh. Did they leave her here to die and then dump her body in the woods so the police would believe she’d perished in the storm? But why? Did she spurn Schrock’s advances? Did she see something she shouldn’t have?

This is what we do to nosy Amish women.

Have I been asking too many questions? Is that what this is about? Or does this have something to do with the two women I saw with the men on snowmobiles? Were those women somehow harmed? Are the men afraid I’ll identify them? The problem with that scenario is I didn’t see their faces; I couldn’t identify them. If not that, then what?

The bottom line is I’ve been careless. I spurned Schrock’s advances. I’ve asked too many questions. I fooled myself into believing I was being careful. In reality, I’d committed the mortal sin of undercover work: I underestimated the perspicacity of my enemy.

Pacing the confines of the coop, swinging my arms to keep the blood circulating, I mentally catalog the people I talked to. Mary and Abe Gingerich. Their daughter, Anna. Laura Hershberger. The women at the quilt shop. Marie Weaver. The one event that supersedes the rest is my visit with Schrock. Of all the possible culprits, he’s the one who wields the power and has the authority to direct someone to do this, all without getting his hands dirty.

If I freeze to death tonight, no one will ever know what happened. As with Rachel Esh’s death, the coroner will be able to determine the cause of death—which would probably be hypothermia—but not the
manner
of death, which would be homicide. I made it easy for them.

Instead of letting the thought shake me, I use it to spur my temper. Starting in the nearest corner, I feel my way around the perimeter of the coop, testing each piece of siding as I go. The structure is about twenty by twelve feet. There are two roosts at about head level. The floor is hard-packed dirt. One wall is a maze of nesting boxes where the hens lay eggs. The large door is solidly secure, so I go back to the chicken door. I lower myself to the ground a couple of feet away from it, bring my feet up and plant a double barrel kick in the center. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Come on,” I pant.

The fourth blow cracks wood. Encouraged, I kick it again as hard as I can. One of the planks splits. Half of it pulls away from the frame. Another kick and my foot blasts through the hole. A wood sliver slices my calf as I pull it back through. I don’t care. A final kick and the plank flies off and lands in the snow outside. Then I’m on my knees, shoving at the loosened wood with my hands.

It’s not a quiet process. If there’s anyone nearby, there’s no doubt they’ve heard my assault on the chicken door. Someone could be waiting for me on the other side. I pick up a split piece of siding to keep with me in case I need to defend myself.

When the opening is large enough to accommodate me, I go to my hands and knees and slither through. I find myself in an aviary constructed of chicken wire, steel T-posts and a few four-by-four wood braces. It’s just high enough for me to stand upright. I wish for wire cutters as I walk the perimeter. Relief leaps through me when I realize the wire is attached to the structure with only a few fencing staples. I try yanking it with my hands but the effort is unsuccessful, so I throw my shoulder against it. The chicken wire stretches and bends and then snaps away from the building. I work my way down to the bottom, peel back the wire and slide through.

Free of the coop, I dart around to the other side of the building. Though the moon is obscured by clouds and the shadows of the trees, there’s enough light for me to make out the track marks of the snowmobiles. They went in the opposite direction from where we came in. Taking off at a run, I retrace the tracks back toward the trailer.

CHAPTER 17

By the time I arrive back at the trailer, I’m in bad shape. I’m no longer shivering. The cold burns my lungs. My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts. I can’t hear anything over the roar of blood in my ears. At some point, I dropped the piece of wood. Someone could sneak up on me and I wouldn’t hear them approach. I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

I stagger like a drunk as I round the end of the trailer, and for a crazy instant, I can’t remember where the door is. Then I see the stairs and lurch toward the deck. At the foot of the steps, I stumble and go to my knees. All I can think about is getting inside. I’m not sure I can stand, so I climb the steps on my hands and knees. Gripping the doorknob, I pull myself to my feet and open the door.

I totter to the bedroom, fall to my knees and pull my .22 from beneath the mattress. I know my phone is there, too, but in my confused state I can’t find it. Gripping the .22 with both hands, I leave the bedroom, keeping my eyes on the windows as I walk back to the living room. I stand there a moment, my head swimming, trying to decide what to do next. I’m aware that I’m experiencing the initial stage of hypothermia, but the knowledge doesn’t help.

I can’t remember if I locked the door, so I go to it, twist the lock. I head to the kitchen, drag a chair to the door and wedge it beneath the knob. Dizziness presses down on me when I straighten and I have to lean against the bar. The shivers are starting to return. I make my way back to the kitchen, fill the kettle with water and light all four burners. I don’t set down my revolver, instead warming one hand at a time over the flame, knowing it’s going to be painful when the feeling returns.

I find a mug and a teabag and pour hot water. I sip the tea without tasting, trying to get the hydration and warmth into my body. My hand is shaking so violently some of it sloshes over the side of the cup. I go to the table and sit. I’m nauseous and hungry at once. My hands and feet ache. The skin on my face and my ears burn and for the first time I worry about frostbite. As bad as it is, though, my mind is beginning to clear. By the time I pour a second cup of tea, I feel steady enough to call Suggs.

“Yeah?” he answers in a sleep-rough voice.

I have no idea what time it is. “It’s Burkholder.”

“Chief, what the—Is everything okay?”

“No.”

I hear rustling on the other end. “What’s going on?” he says, urgency and concern sharp in his voice.

“A couple of guys on snowmobiles broke into the trailer. Caught me sleeping. I couldn’t get to my phone or weapon and they hauled me away, locked me in a fucking chicken coop.”

“
What?
Kate, what the hell? Who?”

“I’m pretty sure it was the same men I saw with those women night before last.”

“You get names? Description?”

“No. Dan, they wore ski masks. All I know is that they’re young. Early twenties maybe. And Amish.”

“Shit. Are you okay?”

“I barely made it back to the trailer. Those sons of bitches left me in that coop to freeze to death.”

“How long ago?”

I look at the clock on the stove. “Two hours.”

“Look, Kate, you’re slurring words. Unless you’ve been hitting the booze, you’re probably hypothermic. I’m going to get an ambulance—”

“No,” I cut in. “I’m fine now. I just need to get warm.”

“You sure you don’t need to get yourself checked out? I can be there in ten minutes and take you to the ER myself. No one will be the wiser.”

“Sheriff, I’m okay. I made hot tea. I’m on my second cup. Going to bundle up in a minute, get my core temp back up. I thought you should know what happened.”

“Hell yes I should know!” He snaps the words and I sense him reeling in his temper, trying to be patient with me. “I’m glad you’re okay. How did they gain entry?”

“I don’t know. The door was locked.”

A beat of silence as he mulls that bit of information. “Is it possible they have a key?”

“If the landlady rents to the Amish and doesn’t change the locks between tenants … it’s possible.”

“I use a locksmith here in Roaring Springs. I can get him out there first light.”

“I know this sounds paranoid, but if someone’s watching the trailer … might be better if I change it myself.”

“What about tonight? What if they come back?”

“It’ll be the last time they walk into someone’s home uninvited.”

He makes a sound of discomfort. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m warming up. Hands and feet hurt.”

“I meant what I said before, Kate. If you want to end this, just say the word. We’ll get you out pronto. No problem. Do you understand?”

The prospect of going home tantalizes me. My mind flashes to my big farmhouse kitchen. The ever-present smells of coffee and potpourri. Tomasetti singing off-key in the shower. The police station with my cramped little office and beat-up desk. At this moment, they’re the most comforting images in the world.