Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (23 page)

The cop inside me rejects any notion of comfort. I need to finish this assignment, especially now that someone has made it personal. Maybe it’s my ego talking; a reflection of my anger at being bested and hurt, but there’s no way I can walk away. I need to know who tried to kill me tonight and why. I have a feeling once I do, I’ll know what happened to Rachel Esh.

“I’m going to finish this,” I tell him.

“I appreciate that, Kate. I really do. But the last thing anyone wants is for you to put yourself at risk. You’ve gone above and beyond already.” He pauses. “I don’t have to tell you that what happened to you tonight could have turned out a hell of a lot worse.”

“I know exactly what could’ve happened. I won’t let my guard down again.”

“All right.” He shifts gears. “Any idea why these two men would risk getting into trouble with the law to lock you in a chicken coop? What could they hope to gain?”

“Since they believe I’m Amish, they’re betting I won’t go to the police. Most Amish—particularly the Old Order and Swartzentruber—would rather handle things on their own than involve outsiders.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. I’ve seen it. But why do it at all?”

“To send me a message. Intimidate me.” I repeat what one of the men told me.
This is what we do to nosy Amish women.
“It’s interesting that he used the word ‘we.’”

“That confirms it’s a concerted effort. That there are others involved.”

“I’ve been asking a lot of questions. Too many, probably.”

“Someone noticed.”

I consider that a moment. “Dan, had I died in that coop—and I was, indeed, an Amish widow from another state—my death probably would have gone unnoticed and unreported.”

“That’ll put a chill in your damn spine.” He heaves another sigh. “I guess it’s safe to say you’ve officially pissed off Schrock.”

“I turned down his advances. Maybe that ruffled his ego.”

“Do you think he made you as a cop?”

“No. He thinks I don’t know my place.”

“Or whoever you’ve been talking to went to Schrock or mentioned it to someone who did. Any ideas? The woman at the quilt shop?”

“I can’t see her going to Schrock.” I take a long swig of tea. “Dan, I’ve talked to a lot of people since I arrived. It could have been any of them.” I sigh. “Guess I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought.”

“That son of a bitch is using some pretty heavy-handed intimidation tactics. If he’s responsible for half the shit that’s going on, he’s dangerous as hell.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“It goes against my better judgment to leave you in there.”

“Dan, I’m just now getting to the meat of this. Just a few more days. I’ll be careful.”

Suggs groans. “Something like this happens again and you’re out. You got that?”

“I got it.” I choose my next words carefully. “Would you do me a favor and not mention this to Tomasetti?”

“Oh boy,” he mutters. “Are you two…”

“Um … well…”

“I have no reason to mention any of this to Tomasetti. But I have to keep Betancourt up to speed.”

“I’d appreciate it if the two you kept it between you.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“Thanks, Dan.”

“If I were you, I’d start sleeping with that thirty-eight under my pillow,” the sheriff tells me.

“I plan to,” I reply. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Night, Chief.”

*   *   *

Fear and sleep make incompatible bedfellows. Throw post-hypothermic exhaustion into the mix and you have a long and excruciating night. To make matters worse, I bedded down on the sofa. I couldn’t bear the thought of someone breaking in and not hearing them from the back bedroom. When I finally dozed off at five
A.M.
, I had my .38 in my hand, the hammer back and my cell in the other.

Lucky for everyone involved, the men never showed.

I woke a couple hours later, clearheaded and fully recovered from my ordeal in the chicken coop. At some point during the night, it occurred to me that if the men had wanted to kill me, they could have done so. I don’t believe that was their intent, though if I had succumbed to the cold they wouldn’t have been too broken up about it.

Interestingly, I didn’t see a firearm on either man. Often when a criminal is armed and wants control of his victim, he will brandish a weapon. I’m not convinced they were armed, which is telling.

I’m working on my second cup of coffee when I notice the chafing and bruising on my wrists from the tape. A small blister is beginning to rise on the pad of my left ring finger, probably from frostbite. I’ll need to keep an eye on it in the coming days and watch for any sign of tissue loss or infection. I dress for the day, adding an extra layer for warmth, and at seven-thirty I leave the trailer and take the scooter bike to the farm store for a new lock.

The Roaring Springs Feed Store is about twenty minutes away. I arrive just as the cashiers are opening their registers. Grabbing a shopping cart, I head for hardware. I grab two commercial-duty bolt locks and the tools I’ll need to install them. On impulse, I add a couple of heavy-duty, zinc-plated barrel bolt locks. Then I’m off to sporting goods. There, I’m quickly reminded that stun guns are illegal in the state of New York. It takes me less than a minute to locate the pepper spray. I choose a compact canister filled with the highest percentage of oleoresin capsicum. The label boasts twenty-five bursts with minimal blowback and it’s made in the U.S.A. If my attackers return, I’ll be ready.

Back at the trailer, I set to work. Installing a bolt lock isn’t rocket science and I’m relatively handy—or so I’d imagined. The job isn’t as easy as I anticipated. The lack of power tools doesn’t help and a chore that would have taken a locksmith an hour ends up taking me close to three. The locks aren’t quite straight and the jamb is nicked. But the trailer is secure.

*   *   *

I fix hot soup from a can for lunch. As I eat, I pull out my phone, call up Google and retrieve an address for Abe and Mary Gingerich. It’s not far. I’ll stop by under the guise of thanking them for driving me to worship on Sunday and see if I can get Mary to open up about the bruise on her face.

The afternoon has turned colder with a brisk wind whipping down from the north. Dark clouds roil above the tree line to my left, prompting me to push the scooter bike faster as I head west. It takes me just ten minutes reach their small farm.

It’s a single-story stone house with asphalt shingles and a big chimney that’s puffing smoke. A swaybacked outbuilding that had once been a detached garage is being used to house goats. A greenhouse in the side yard is missing half its panes and falling to ruin. Beyond, I see the raised landscape timbers of a garden. No shutters on the house. No clay pots left over from summer. No adornment of any kind. The place is plain.

I stop the bike in the gravel driveway, dismount and lean it against a bare-branched maple a few feet away. The wind cuts through my coat, its icy hands rushing up my skirt and down my collar. By the time I reach the front door, I’m shivering despite the physical exertion of the ride.

The door opens and Mary Gingerich appears. “Kate?” Craning her neck, she looks past me as if to see if I’m alone. She doesn’t look pleased to see me. She has a full-fledged black eye now and I wonder:
What kind of person assaults a middle-age Amish woman?

The same kind that leaves fifteen-year-old girl out in the cold to die …

“I thought I’d swing by to thank you and Abe for driving me to worship on Sunday,” I say.

“No need to thank us.”

“May I come in?” I add a shiver for effect.

She offers a pained expression. She doesn’t want to invite me inside, but her good manners prevent her from refusing. “Come on.”

The living room smells of woodsmoke and some kind of frying meat. It’s a small space with a worn oak floor covered with a braided rug. The furniture is minimal: plain brown sofa covered with a half dozen homemade throw pillows. Rocking chair draped with a blue-and-white afghan. An overstuffed chair and ottoman face a potbellied stove in the corner. The curtains are black.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your afternoon,” I tell her.

“I was just frying up some
schpeck
for sandwiches.” Bacon. “Would you like to stay?”

“I can’t, but thank you.”

An awkward silence falls. The room is so quiet I can hear the bacon sizzling in the kitchen. Mary looks everywhere except at me.

“Mary, I need to talk to you about something that happened.”

Her gaze jerks to mine. In the depths of her eyes I see apprehension, maybe even fear.

“Two men on snowmobiles came to my trailer last night,” I tell her. “They broke in while I was sleeping, tied me up and took me to a farm where I was locked in a chicken coop.”

She makes all the appropriate noises, even manages to widen her eyes. But it’s a practiced response. She’s not surprised, and she’s not a very good liar. “But … why would they do such a thing?”

“To harm me. Intimidate me.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

Her gaze slinks away from mine. I wait, but she says nothing. It doesn’t escape me that she fails to ask if the men were Amish or what they looked like.

I gesture to her black eye. “I thought you might be able to shed some light.”

“I don’t see how—”

“The men were Amish. Early twenties.” I pause, push harder. “I’m betting they’re the same men who gave you that shiner and put that mark on your neck.”

Pressing her hand to her chest, she takes a step back. “Oh, Kate…”

It’s the first honest reaction I’ve seen. It’s obvious she’s hiding something—maybe even protecting someone. But who? And why?

“Who put those marks on your face?” I ask.

A laugh squeezes from her throat. “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I think those men came to you, too. I think they hurt you. And I think you’re afraid to talk about it because you’re afraid they’ll come back and do it again.”

“
Sell is nix as baeffzes
.” That’s nothing but trifling talk. But her gaze drops to the floor as if she can’t lie and look me in the eye at the same time.

“Who are they, Mary?” Tilting my head slightly, I make eye contact with her, refuse to release her gaze. “Why are they hurting people?”

Her laugh is the high-pitched trill of a nervous bird. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing you say will leave this room,” I tell her. “You have my word.”

A quiver moves through her, so minute I almost miss it. But I’m good at reading people, their thoughts, their emotions. She wants to open up. She wants to release the ugly truth trapped inside her. But this woman isn’t merely frightened. She’s terrified.

“I nearly froze to death last night,” I tell her. “Those men are dangerous. They need to be stopped.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” she whispers. “No one can stop them. Just … live quietly and they’ll leave you alone.”

“You live quietly and look what they did to you.”

“You know nothing,” she hisses.

I try a different tactic. “Maybe I should talk to the bishop.”

“Do not speak of this to the bishop,” she says quickly.

“Why? He won’t stand for that kind of behavior.”

She starts to turn away, but I reach out and gently grasp her arm. “Mary, talk to me. Please.”

“Leave this house.
Now
.”

We both startle at the sound of Abe’s voice. I turn to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. He stares at me without expression, his eyes as lifeless as a mannequin’s.

“You think you know so much,” he says quietly. “You know nothing of the way things work here.
Nothing
.”

“Then help me understand,” I say back. “Talk to me.”

“Leave us alone.” He motions toward the door. “Go.”

Uneasiness pricks the back of my neck when I notice the large bandage encompassing his right hand. The dime-size spot of blood.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

Mary turns away. A sob escapes her. Abe leaves his place at the doorway and moves closer.

No one answers for the span of a full minute. I’m aware of the fire crackling. Sleet striking the window on the west side of the house. The steady thrum of my heart. That little voice in the back of my head warning me to tread carefully.

“An accident,” the Amish man tells me. “In the workshop.”

I look from Abe to Mary and back to Abe. “You’re lying.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, but it’s laced with something else I can’t quite read. Fear? Panic? His face is such a jumble of emotions I can’t discern which.

“You did this.
You!
” He looks down at his hand. “All the questions and sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Look at what you’ve stirred up. Look what you’ve done to us.”

“Is this the way you want to live your lives? In fear?” I motion toward Mary. “Men coming into your home and hurting you?”

“No!”

“The people who did this need to be stopped.”

“By you?” His smile verges on nasty. “What can you do?”

“Not me,” I tell him. “The police.”

“The English police.” He spits the words with disdain. “Stupid woman.” Abe stalks to the door, opens it using his uninjured hand. “Leave us. Now. Stay away from my wife. Stay away from me. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Never taking my eyes from his, I cross to the door. Instead of going through it, I loosen his grip, close it, and turn to face him. “That isn’t the Amish way.”

Abe narrows his eyes, cocks his head. “You don’t act like an Amish woman.”

“I’m as Amish as you are,” I shoot back. “But I don’t tolerate violence. Evidently, you do.”

He looks down at the floor.

I wait.

“They came here,” Mary says after a moment, “two nights ago.”

“Who?”

The couple exchanges a look. Mary turns away and crosses to the door, twists the knob lock. There’s no bolt lock.

Abe sighs tiredly and looks away. “Can’t say.”

“Were they on snowmobiles?” I ask.

When he doesn’t answer, Mary turns to face me. “
Ja
.”

“Why did they come here?”