Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (29 page)

“Which woods?” I mutter.

It could be a prank—or a trap. There’s only one way to find out. Holding the note by one corner in case I need to send it to Suggs for fingerprints, I let myself in to the trailer and lock the door.

As usual, the place is cold as an icebox. Tossing the note on the kitchen table, I go to the stove and turn on a couple of burners for heat, and set the kettle on for tea. I don’t bother removing my coat as I tug the phone from my pocket and call Suggs.

He answers on the first ring. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine.” Quickly, I summarize the scene in Eli Schrock’s barn. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

“Just when I thought nothing could surprise me.” He makes a sound that’s part groan, part sigh. “How badly was he injured?”

“They marked him up badly. He was conscious, but he could barely walk.” I consider that a moment. “Dan, if Schrock hadn’t stopped when he did, the guy could have gone into shock or worse.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. But he’s Amish. Forty years old. Had a full beard, so he’s married.”

“You witness Schrock beating him?”

“Yes.”

He pauses. “That’s it. We’re pulling you out. Get your things packed.”

“We still don’t know who—if anyone—was involved in Rachel Esh’s death. And we still don’t know what the hell’s going on over there at Schrock’s place.”

“We’ve got him on felony assault. I want you out of there so that’s going to have to do.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Kate, damn it—”

“Give me until morning.”

He says nothing.

“If you call it now,” I tell him, “all this will have been for nothing.”

“Felony assault—”

“I was there without a warrant. A defense lawyer will tear that to shreds and you know it.”

He sighs and I sense him calming down, getting ready to acquiesce.

“There’s more.” Quickly, I tell him about the note. “Give me an hour to check it out. When I get back, I’ll pack and you can pick me up in the morning.”

“Any idea who might’ve left the note?”

“No, but it wasn’t Schrock. It wasn’t Yoder or Smucker. I had eyes on them.”

“Could be a trap.”

“Or a break in the case,” I tell him. “Someone knows what’s going on and wants it to end.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Finally, I say, “I thought I’d bundle up and hang out in the woods north of the trailer for a while. See what happens.”

“You know there aren’t many roads up that way. Not a whole lot of anything except trees. If something goes wrong and we need to get there quick…” He makes a tight, unhappy sound. “Look, the only way I’ll give you my blessing on this is if I can park a deputy off that two track that runs north off Swamp Creek Road. There’s a little turnaround that goes into the woods.”

“I know it,” I tell him. “It’s about a quarter mile down the road from Schrock’s place.”

“You comfortable with that?”

“You’re not worried about me, are you?”

He’s not amused. “Just do me a favor and call me half an hour before you walk up there. Don’t stay any longer than an hour, and call me the instant you get back to the trailer.”

“You got it.”

“And keep the damn letter so I can send it to the lab.”

CHAPTER 21

The thing about undercover work is that instead of laying low and trying to stay out of trouble, you basically walk around with your stick and jab it into every beehive you can find just to see what flies out. Tomasetti would tell me I’m a natural. The problem is, those beestings can hurt. If they swarm, they can kill you.

The aerial photos tell me the woods north of the trailer encompass hundreds of acres of rolling hills, ravines, and the occasional creek. Since the note didn’t specify the exact location where I would discover this mysterious truth—if it indeed exists—I decide to head straight north a quarter mile or so. I’ll follow Suggs’s instructions and give it an hour.

At eleven thirty
P.M.
I’m bundled in long underwear, two pair of socks, my dress, cardigan, and barn coat. I slide the .22 into its holster beneath my skirt, over the long underwear for easy access. The pepper spray goes in my coat pocket, the mini Maglite flashlight in the other.

Standing at the door, I call Suggs. “I’m heading out.”

“Be safe and call me in an hour, or before if you need to.”

“Roger that.”

I disconnect and tuck the cell into my pocket. Wrapping a scarf around my head and neck, I pull on my Walmart gloves. A quick glance through the window tells me it’s dark and I can’t see shit. And, of course, it’s snowing like the dickens.

Locking the door behind me, I descend the steps and set out. It’s twenty degrees with a wind chill in the single digits. The snow on the ground reflects just enough light for me to avoid any close encounters with the trees, but it does little to light my way. I consider using the flashlight, but it would make me visible to anyone else out here, so I nix the idea.

I push myself into a brisk pace, swinging my arms to stay warm. I head due north, in the general direction of the area where I saw the men on snowmobiles. Occasionally I stop to make note of landmarks and listen for the whine of engines, but the only sound is the whisper of wind through the trees and my boots squeaking against the snow.

It takes me ten minutes to reach my destination. The tracks are long gone—covered by new snow—but I recognize the area. I decide to hunker down for a while and see what happens.

Glancing around for cover, I spy a copse of trees twenty yards to my right. In the darkness, the thicket at the base looks like a tangle of black, fragile bones. The last thing I want to do is spend the next hour sitting in snow; I’m not exactly dressed for extreme weather. But it’s the best seat in the house, so I cross to the trees, break through the brush, and use my boots to tamp down the scrub. When I’ve made enough room, I kneel. I can just see over the top of the brush in a 360 degree circle. Not perfect, but it’ll do.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize it’s going to be a long hour. My face and hands and feet are already cold. The physical exertion of the walk kept me warm earlier. Now, motionless and with the wind bearing down, I’m getting seriously cold. Within twenty minutes, I’m shivering. I’m thinking about calling it a night, wishing I’d thought to buy chemical hand warmers, when the whine of an engine interrupts.

I get to my knees and peer over the top of the brush. No one in sight, but the sound is growing louder. Definitely from a snowmobile, possibly two, and coming toward me. A minute later, I spot the flicker of headlights. The first machine emerges from the trees and glides to a stop twenty yards from where I sit. Male driver. No passenger. Same green and white helmet as one of the men I saw two nights ago.

A second snow machine pulls up beside the first. Male driver. No passenger. I recognize the snowmobile. Blue and white Polaris. What the hell are they up to?

The men dismount and remove their helmets. Next comes the ski masks. I recognize them instantly. Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker. Casually, they lean against their snowmobiles as if setting in for a wait. Yoder reaches into the pocket of his snowsuit, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He passes it to Smucker, who does the same. When they’re both smoking, Yoder presents a flask and takes a long pull. For several minutes, the two men pass the flask back and forth. They’re talking and laughing, but I’m too far away to discern what they’re saying.

I’m wondering how all this relates to the note, pondering who might’ve left it and why, when I hear the approach of yet another snowmobile. Through the scrub, I see the machine materialize from the woods to the east. Male driver. No passenger. I’m trying to make out the type of machine, searching for a license plate, when the headlights play over me. For an instant, I’m blinded. Ducking, I crouch more deeply into the brush.

The headlight flicks off and the man shuts down the engine. Removing his helmet, he sets it on the seat, peels off his ski mask. I don’t recognize him. White male. Mid-twenties. Dark hair. Medium build. Even from this distance I can see he doesn’t have the “bowl” haircut representative of so many Amish men. This guy doesn’t get his hair cut at home. He’s English. Interesting.

The three men converge. The newcomer looks agitated, gesturing animatedly and looking around. Yoder and Smucker don’t look happy. Voices are raised. Shouting, Yoder shoves the newcomer. The other man reels backward. For a moment I think they’re going to fight. Then the third man stalks to his snowmobile, yanks the ski mask over his head, and puts on his helmet. He mounts the snow machine. The engine fires. Shouting something at Smucker and Yoder, he peels out, showering them with snow, and then disappears into the woods in the same direction from which he came.

“Fuck you!” Yoder kicks snow in his direction. “Stupid pussy!”

Rushing now, the men don their masks and helmets and speed away in the opposite direction, toward Schrock’s farm.

I hold my position until the sound of the engines fade completely. Finally, shivering and stiff, I rise and leave the copse of trees. I cross to the place where the men congregated. There’s nothing there except the track marks and a couple of cigarette butts.

What did I just witness? Three friends out for a midnight snowmobile ride? Did they simply get into an argument over something inconsequential? If that’s the case, why did someone leave me a note? Is there more to it? More to come? Ever present in the back of my mind is the fact that Rachel Esh’s body was found less than a quarter mile away.

Pulling the phone from my pocket, I hit the speed dial for Suggs.

He answers on the first ring. “You okay?”

“I’m in the woods a quarter mile north of my trailer.” I tell him about Yoder and Smucker, the third man, and the argument between them. “I couldn’t get the plate number. Dan, I think Smucker and Yoder are headed toward Schrock’s place. There’s something going on and I think it’s happening tonight. A quick look-see and I’m out of there. If things get dicey, I’ll back off.”

“Hmmm.” He’s not convinced, but doesn’t call me on it. “I got a deputy parked out on that two track so if you get into any shit, he’s just a few minutes away.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Be careful, and if the cold becomes a problem, let me know and we’ll pick you up.”

“Roger that.”

Tucking the cell into my pocket, I check the time—one
A.M.
—and start off at a jog. Light snow is still falling, but the cloud cover has thinned. Misty moonlight silvers the tree branches and makes the track shoe marks visible and easy to follow. Within minutes, the physical exertion warms my core, staving off the shivers and helping to ease the ache in my hands and feet. I jog until I’m out of breath and slow to a brisk walk.

Around me the trees thicken. The snowfall tapers off, and when the moonlight beams down, the world transforms into an ethereal place of scampering shadows and snow that sparkles like diamond sand. I’m fifteen minutes into my hike when I hear music. I stop and listen for the source or the sound of a snowmobile engine, but there’s no one there. I walk another two hundred yards before I see the flicker of light coming through the trees. I slow down, wary now, doing my best to not make any noise.

I visualize the aerial map; I’m on Schrock land now. His house is a mile or so southwest of where I stand. Highway 30 is due west. The Trout River State Forest lies to the north. Beyond is the Canadian border.

So where the hell is the music coming from?

I continue on another fifty yards. To my right the land slopes steeply. If my sense of direction is correct and memory serves me, I think the Little Trout River lies to the northeast. I pick my way around a rocky outcropping and duck beneath low branches. The music is louder now. An old Led Zeppelin song I haven’t heard for years. The haunting pulse of Jimmy Page’s guitar echoes off a thousand trees. Ahead, light beckons. There’s some kind of structure a hundred yards away. I wonder if I’ve walked up on one of Schrock’s late-night parties.

As I draw closer, I realize it’s an old barn. Paint long since gone. Tin roof with several sheets peeling and curled. A fire blazes in a stone fire pit, light flickering against a concrete silo that leans at a precarious angle. Another building has already collapsed to a heap—the source of the firewood no doubt. Beyond is a tumbling frame house that’s long since been abandoned. Part of the roof has caved in, the remainder a swayback patchwork of splintered planks and tin shingles. The lone window stares at me like a black eye socket.

Two snowmobiles are parked outside the barn, but no one’s in sight. I’m too far away to see footprints, but golden light spills out through the big sliding door, telling me someone’s inside.

I recall seeing the roof of the old barn when I looked at the aerial maps. It’s part of the original homestead and is probably close to a hundred years old. Suggs had seemed confident none of the old outbuildings were in use. Evidently, he hadn’t looked closely enough.

So what the hell are two Amish guys doing out here on Schrock’s land at one o’clock in the morning? The first answer that enters my head is drugs. Are they using the barn to manufacture meth? Store marijuana? Either scenario would explain the late night snowmobile traffic. Perhaps even the presence of the two women I saw them with. But why did someone leave me that note? I can’t help but wonder if maybe Rachel Esh stumbled upon this place, same as me, and saw something she shouldn’t have.…

It’s too cold for me to stick around much longer. The last thing I need is frostbitten fingers or toes. But I want to know what’s inside the barn. If I swing south and make my way through the trees, I’ll have a semi-decent view of the interior through the door.

I veer left, away from the tracks I’d been following, and, using the trees as cover, I make my way closer. I’ve only gone a few yards when the drone of an engine sounds behind me. Instinctively, I drop to my knees. Light flickers off the trees around me. I glance over my shoulder and see a single headlight glinting through the trees just ten yards away. Hunkering down, I crawl to a rock the size of a shopping cart and peer around it.