Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (27 page)

Taking a final look beyond her, I step back. I smell cigarette smoke and strawberry shampoo as she pushes past me. I motion toward the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

Frowning, she obeys. I’ve still got my hand on the butt of the .38 in my sweatpants’ pocket, out of sight. Not a good place for it, so I take a few steps back and snag my coat off the sofa where I left it. Placing the revolver on the sofa, I slide into the coat, then put the gun in my pocket.

Crossing to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, I pick up a book of matches and light the lantern. I go to the kitchen and put a match to the lantern on the kitchen table, turning up the wick for maximum light. Keeping one eye on the girl, I check the clock on the wall. Three
A.M
.

She looks like a kid sitting there, shivering, probably half lit on beer, her leg jiggling a hundred miles an hour. Tufts of hair stick out of her
kapp
. She’s got dirty hands. I remind myself this girl is only sixteen years old. Troubled. Vulnerable. The perfect victim for a cult.

“You want something hot to drink?” I ask. “To warm up?”

“Some whiskey would hit the spot.”

“Fresh out.” I go to the stove, run water into the kettle for two cups, and set it over the flame. “What are you doing out so late all by yourself?”

She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Just hanging.”

“With who?”

“No one in particular.”

“Uh huh.” I snag two mugs from the cupboard, set them on the counter. “Your parents know you’re out?”

“No.”

She lifts her hand, picks at a hangnail. Her fingernails are painted green and chipped at the tips. For the first time I notice she’s wearing jeans. A red sweater. A cheap pair of boots that don’t look very warm. The hems of her pants are wet. She’s been out in the cold and snow for quite some time.

The kettle begins to whistle, so I pour water over teabags, set one of the mugs in front of her, and, carrying my own mug, take the chair across from her.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

The girl is shivering so hard she spills a little bit of her tea on the table and, without apologizing for the spill, slurps loudly.

My curiosity grows while I wait, but I opt to give her a few minutes before questioning her.

“I think they killed her,” she whispers without looking at me.

My heart bumps hard against my chest. I know to whom she’s referring, but I ask anyway. “Rachel Esh?”

She nods. “She was my best friend. She didn’t deserve what happened. I miss her.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m scared because I think they want me gone, too.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Schrock. The people he surrounds himself with.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We have all night.”

She digs into her pocket. Simultaneously, I reach into mine, set my hand on the pistol. Marie pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lights up without asking permission. I consider taking it away from her and tossing it out, but I want her talking so I let her light up.

“Rachel was staying with Schrock when she died,” she says after a moment.

“I thought she was living with Mary and Abe Gingerich.”

She looks away, then back at me. “Her parents didn’t like her wild ways. They were afraid she was on the fast track to hell. You know, the drinking and staying out.” Her mouth twists, but she doesn’t quite manage a smile. “They didn’t like me. Mary Gingerich stepped up to help.” She shrugs. “It didn’t work out there, either. Someone told the bishop. He took Rachel in to counsel.”

Counsel
. Something goes tight in my chest. How I’ve grown to hate that word.

“How long had she been living with Schrock?”

“Three weeks.”

“What makes you think he had something to do with her death?”

“I just … Everyone thinks Schrock is some kind of fucking messiah or something. He’s not. He’s…” She sighs, frustrated because she can’t seem to find the words. “Rachel was my first friend here in Roaring Springs. We’ve known each other since we were ten years old. When we were twelve, Schrock started … paying attention to us.”

“Paying attention to you how?”

“He started inviting us to his house. For hot chocolate or pie. He gave us chores in his barn, mucking stalls or whatnot, and paid us. He let us ride his horses. We got to see the new filly born. Stuff like that. You know, innocent like. I mean, he’d preach sometimes. Read the bible. He was always quoting Jacob Ammann.”

I know from my school days that Ammann was an Anabaptist leader from the mid-1700s and the namesake of the Amish religious movement.

She pauses to blow on the tea and then sips. “Last summer, he invited Rachel to a party at the barn at the rear of his property.”

“What kind of party?”

Her mouth twists. “I wasn’t invited, but she told me about it. She said there was music and beer. Yoder and Smucker were there. Other people she didn’t know. I guess it got kind of wild, but Rachel thought it was exciting and fun. It was her first, but not her last.”

Marie doesn’t notice when the ash on her cigarette falls to the tabletop. I wait.

“Anyway, Schrock liked Rachel after that so she got invited again. And again. In the beginning, she was into it. She was part of it. She liked being included. I was always a little jealous.”

“What happened?”

Her brows knit. “After a few of those parties she stopped talking about it. Stopped telling me stuff. When I asked, she’d just bite my head off.”

“Any idea why?”

“I dunno. But I knew it wasn’t good. She wasn’t happy.” She puffs absently on the cigarette. “A few days before she died, she was acting all weird, like she was going to tell me something. We were going to meet … like we did sometimes at night. She died before…”

I sip the tea, give myself a moment to digest this sudden flood of information. “What do you think happened?”

“The last time I saw her, we were drinking and she started talking about it. She told me she did things she wasn’t proud of and she started crying. I didn’t know what to say and all of a sudden those parties didn’t sound so great.”

The words creep over me, like the stench of garbage left to rot in the sun. “Was Rachel there against her will?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I mean, not at first. But … the last couple of weeks she was different. Like it wasn’t fun for her anymore. She was stressed about something.”

“Any idea what it was?”

Marie shakes her head.

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“She was tight with Jacob Yoder.”

“Anyone else?”

Her eyes flick away from mine and then back. “Maybe.”

“She told you that?”

“Not really. But Rachel wasn’t very good at keeping secrets. She was … honest and real. Didn’t play games. Didn’t lie like everyone else. I think she was involved with someone. I think that’s what she was going to tell me.”

“I thought she was tight with Jacob Yoder.”

She thinks about that for a moment. “It was a different kind of tight. I mean, Rachel and Jacob knew each other since they were kids. They played together and as they grew up they just sort of became girlfriend and boyfriend. Everyone always thought they’d get married. I know she loved him. But this … other guy just came in and swooped her off her feet.”

“What guy?”

“I don’t know.”

I think about that in terms of motive. “Did she tell Jacob?”

“Rachel didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t even officially break up with him. They stayed friends, but I think things changed between them. He wanted more; she wanted less. It happened quick. She stopped spending time with him. I think she was crazy for this other guy.”

“How did Jacob take it?”

“He wasn’t happy.”

“Unhappy enough to do something about it?”

She shakes her head. “Jacob can be an ass. I mean, you saw the way he was acting on Sunday. But he’d never hurt Rachel. He was crazy about her. After she … died, he just changed. Starting with the drinking and acting like a jerk.”

I nod, but Jacob Yoder has just graduated to the top of my suspect list. Right below Schrock.

“Rachel didn’t die out there by herself. She was too smart to get caught out in a snowstorm unaware.” She puffs hard on the cigarette, blows out the smoke between tight lips. “I’m scared.”

I go to the stove, pick up the kettle, and refill her cup. “Did you tell your parents?”

“They wouldn’t understand. They think Schrock is like a one-way ticket to heaven or something.”

“Do you think you’re in danger?”

She lifts her shoulder and lets it drop. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“That would go over well.” She says the words with far too much cynicism for a girl her age. “Probably get me put in a foster home or something awful like that.”

“Marie, I’ll do what I can to keep you safe. But you have to be honest with me and tell me everything.”

“Yeah, right.” She looks down at her hand where the hangnail has started to bleed. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. You can’t do anything. You probably don’t even care.”

“I care,” I tell her. “And I’m a good listener.”

She drops the cigarette into her tea and it sizzles out. “So was Rachel, and look what happened to her.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, wrapped in our thoughts. There’s no way I can let this girl walk away. Not if she’s in danger. If she leaves and something happens …

I’m trying to figure out how to handle the situation without blowing my cover when she speaks.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she says.

“I can help you.”

“No one can help. He runs things and he’s got everyone behind him.” She laughs. “Or scared of him.”

“Why did you come here tonight?”

Shrugging, she offers a penitent smile. “I guess I liked the way you stood up to those guys at worship. Like you were some badass and going to take them apart all by yourself. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.”

“Let me look into all of this,” I tell her. “In the interim … will you do me a favor?”

“Oh, brother…”

“Let me walk you home.”

“You sure you want to be seen with me?” But her relief is palpable.

“It’s three thirty
A.M.
and twenty degrees outside. No one’s going to see us.” I say the words lightly, but her expression tells me she doesn’t believe the time or temperature is relevant. “Your parents find you gone and they’ll be worried. You shouldn’t do that to them.”

“They’re sleeping. I went out the window.” Rising, she starts toward the door. “I’ve done it before and they never even know.”

“Something happens to you and they’ll know.”

She nods. “Okay.”

I grab my scarf and step into my boots. “One more thing.”

She reaches the door and turns in time for me to see her roll her eyes.

“Lay low and let me handle this,” I say.

“You’re not going to involve the cops, are you?”

“Not yet. But if someone hurt Rachel, they’ll need to get involved at some point.” I hand her my gloves. “Might be the only way to stop Schrock.”

When both of us are bundled up, I open the door and we step into the night.

CHAPTER 20

Murder is big news in a small town. Make it a murder-suicide with an Amish twist and the story goes viral—at least in terms of the grapevine. It’s ten
A.M.
and I’m sitting at the sewing table at The Calico Country Store. A subdued Laura Hershberger sits across from me, staring into a cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. There are no customers in the store, but I’m thankful for the time alone with her.

“I can’t believe they’re gone.”

It’s the third time she’s uttered the words. I don’t look at her this time, just let her say what she needs to say. I stare down into my coffee, feeling more than is prudent for someone in my position, but that’s the human heart for you.

“For goodness’ sake, she was here just yesterday.” Shaking her head, she presses a hand against her mouth. “How could this happen? Why didn’t she give us a sign or
something
. Maybe one of us could have helped.”

“Was Levi depressed?” I ask after a moment.

“I don’t know.” She raises her gaze to mine. “You know how the Amish are. We don’t talk about such things.” She presses her lips together. “For better or for worse.”

I hold her gaze. “Was he distraught about his children and grandchildren leaving?”

“Of course he was, but this?” She shudders. “I don’t understand. He was so kind. Is it possible? Could he have done such a thing?”

“Did you know him well?” I ask.

Her mouth twists into a poor imitation of a smile. “I’ve known Levi as long as I knew Rebecca. He was quiet. Hardworking. A good man. Gentle. And devout.” She takes a breath and releases it slowly. “He was the first one in line to help when a neighbor needed it. The last to ask when he needed it himself.” Lowering her head, she rubs her temples with her fingers. “What he did … and taking her with him … it goes against everything the Amish believe in.”

“Maybe he didn’t do it,” I tell her.

Her head snaps up and she looks at me as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “But the newspaper … and the police are saying…”

“They’re still investigating. I don’t think it’s been determined yet.”

“If not Levi, then who?” She scoffs at the notion. “Who would do such a thing and why?”

“Did they have any problems with anyone? Neighbors? Family?”

Her brows go together. “Everyone loved Rebecca and Levi.”

The cowbell on the door interrupts. I turn to see Naomi, Ada, and Lena walk in, carrying their sewing bags. Laura and I get to our feet. The women are midway to us when Lena bursts into tears.

Laura crosses to her, arms open. “Come here, baby.”

Lena falls into her embrace. “We had harsh words,” she sobs, “and now she’s gone.”

“Shush,” Laura coos. “Rebecca never met an argument she didn’t like.”

“She was full of forgiveness,” Naomi adds.

“And a little bit of vinegar,” Ada puts in.

For most Amish, grief is expressed quietly and in private. But the Amish are human, and there are times when emotions run high and public displays can’t be helped.