In the Land of Milk and Honey (4 page)

I shook my head. When I'd been a beat cop in New York, I'd been on calls to check on a neighbor or to investigate a foul smell and found someone deceased. Many of those deaths were illness-related. But this? An entire family? And so fast too.

A thought went through my mind—what if this had been Hannah Yoder's family? All of them dead—Sadie, Ruth, Hannah, Isaac, and the rest—strewn about the house like dolls in a
dollhouse shaken by an angry child. The idea was unbearable. “According to Jacob Henner, and what I saw in the kitchen, the family's been sick for a few days at least.”

“Could be food poisoning,” Grady suggested. We both knew that would be preferable to some apocalyptic disease, and more likely too. “In any event, this isn't looking like a homicide.”

“What about poisoning?” I asked. I wasn't ready to walk away from this, not yet.

Grady looked at me sharply. “You seen any indication of that?”

I shrugged. I wasn't about to tell my boss about
brauche
men and powwow, but I couldn't completely dismiss Hannah's fears in the face of this new tragedy. “Whatever it was, it was relatively fast and a hundred percent fatal. Poison would explain that.”

“Christ.” Grady went to rub his jaw and ended up crinkling up the paper mask instead. “Guess I should at least talk to the CDC. I don't really wanna bring in the crime-scene team, at least not until I hear what the experts say about protocol. But if you and Danielle want to continue to record what you can without disturbing anything—
or
taking off your gear—go ahead. I'm gonna go make that—”

There was a loud knocking from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the front door. Grady and I looked at each other and we both headed down. When Grady opened the door, the neighbor, Jacob Henner, was standing there with an officer in uniform. Jacob's face was wild.

Not wanting to expose the men to whatever was in the house,
I stepped out onto the porch. Grady followed and shut the door behind him.

“What is it?” he asked the cop, still speaking through his face mask.

“Tell 'em,” the cop said, looking at Jacob.

His face was red and his eyes bright with unshed tears.

What now?
I thought, feeling a new wave of dread. Was Jacob's family sick too?

“Th-thought I should tend to their animals,” he stuttered, his voice thick. “Went into the barn. The cows . . . the cows're sick too.”

“Show me,” I said, starting off the porch. Grady followed.

The barn door was open, banging in the April wind that had sprung up. As we crossed the yard, I would have given a week's pay to be able to strip off the confining suit and gloves, to peel the mask off my face, and breathe as much fresh air as I could get. The toxic, smothering smell of death and bile and sickness inside the house had seeped into my skin, hair, and mouth. But I didn't dare remove anything. Would I have to be sprayed down with disinfectant? I didn't even know. I was so out of my depth.

Inside the barn, Jacob led us over to a bar gate that opened into a large stall. The end of the stall was open to the pasture. Jacob went inside and held the gate for us. I looked at the manure-and-straw-covered floor of the stall and realized that, if I went in there, there'd be no going back into the house, at least not without visiting the hazmat RV again to change boots. I paused for only a moment though—this felt important. I stepped into the
stall, and Grady came in behind me. The uniformed cop stayed on the other side.

“This way,” said Jacob, still shaky.

He led us through the stall to the pasture. Just beyond the barn was a dead cow. It was light tan in color and fairly small, probably a calf. I recognized it as a Jersey, the docile and cream-rich dairy breed the Amish preferred. The carcass was lying up against the white wall of the barn, as if it had been sheltering there. Flies buzzed around it, and its tongue was out and bloated, its legs stiff.

“That one's dead. 'N' that one's sick,” Jacob said, pointing.

A few feet away, a full-grown light brown cow stood, staring at us with enormous eyes. It blinked and seemed to want to start toward us, but after one hesitant step it stopped. Its entire body shook, its flank trembling. It bleated out a cry. Foamy mucus hung from its nose in ropes.

Feeling sick, I put a hand to my mask.

“She needs to be milked,” Jacob said, his voice tight. “Her udder's so full 'n' she's in pain. Probably been a whole day or more. But I dunno if I should touch her. Do ya think I should go ahead and milk her? She's sick, but she needs to be milked real bad.”

Grady cleared his throat. “We should probably call in the ASPCA.”

“She needs to be milked right away,” Jacob repeated. This was a man used to taking care of things, not calling in someone else to take care of them for him.

As much as I hated to see the cow suffer, this felt all wrong, so
wrong it prickled the hairs on the back of my neck in warning. “Don't touch her. We don't know how long she's been sick or what she has. She might even have given it to the family. Plus, the milk—”

My brain hiccupped mid-sentence.
The milk in the sink. Glasses of milk on the bedside tables.

I looked at Grady, horrified. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe what I was thinking, what we were now both thinking.

“Fuck it,” Grady mumbled. “I'm calling in the CDC.”

By Saturday morning, the Lancaster City Bureau of Police was overwhelmed with technicians and investigators from the Centers for Disease Control in Washington, also known as the CDC. They were the knights and wizards of food-borne illness, and with the high number of fatalities in the Kinderman case, they were rightfully concerned. So was the public. News of an entire family dying—an
Amish
family at that—had made local headlines. The story was picked up by the Huffington Post. It was lurid and frightening enough to draw attention.

I was neither officially on the case nor, thanks to my pleading with Grady, officially off it. I couldn't forget my promise to Hannah to look into the sickness in the Amish community.
The curse.
I never mentioned that conversation to Grady, but I did my best to convince him that the department shouldn't close the case
until the CDC or the coroner determined the exact cause of death. Then again, there wasn't much for me to investigate until they did, and I had plenty of other work to do.

Within twenty-four hours, E. coli, the most likely suspect, had been eliminated. It wasn't found in the Kindermans or in their cows. Nor was a viral infection the cause. The CDC labs set in to dig deeper, looking for less likely pathogens. I knew they'd combed the Kindermans' farmhouse from top to bottom and were fanning out agents to speak to other Amish families in the area to see if anyone else had been ill recently. Remembering my own stonewalled investigation as an outsider a year before, I didn't envy them.

I decided it was time to talk again to a source of my own. I went to see Hannah.

—

“
I can't believe it. The whole family!” Hannah's voice was mournful as she placed two cups of strong, black coffee on the table. Supper was over in the Yoder household, and the older children were upstairs giving their mother a break by bathing the younger ones.

“It's devastating,” I agreed. Scenes from my walk-through of the Kinderman farmhouse rose up, my gorge rising with it. I swallowed down the burning acid in my throat. “It must be so hard on your church.”

Hannah tsked. “We pull together in God. It's all we can do. This is in his hands. But ocht—ist hard.” She shook her head, the
white strands of her bonnet swaying, and took a sip of her coffee. Hannah's hair was as neat as usual, and her thick blue dress and apron were ironed. But her eyes were swollen and red and her face was grim. She looked like a different woman without her typically placid expression. Hannah always seemed busy yet somehow at peace. At least, before today.

“We all pray the Lord spares any more children.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “I want you to know, we're going to find out what caused these deaths.”

“You're a gut friend,” Hannah said, toying nervously with her cup. “Did you ever speak to Henry Stoltzfus, the
brauche
man?”

I felt a twinge of guilt, but I had to tell the truth. “No, Hannah. I went to see Samuel and Aaron at the hospital, and I talked to their doctor. He was convinced it was the flu, but the tests for it were negative. I wasn't sure what I'd say to this . . .
brauche
man. I can't accuse someone of a crime without knowing what's actually going on.”

Hannah's lips pressed tight. “I don't see how anyone could be so evil. But some are now sure it is
hexerei
. We've never seen anything like this sickness in the cows. It's not natural.”

There were plenty of “natural” things that were just plain evil, but now was not the time for a philosophical discussion. “Has anyone else noticed their cows acting funny?”

Hannah nodded. “Leah Hershberger said her husband mentioned the cow was tremblin' when he milked her. Thought she'd been scared bad by a fox out in the pasture. And that was jus' before they all got sick.”

I made a mental note to tell that to the CDC liaison, Dr. Turner. “Anyone else notice sick cows?”

“One farmer's cow come down lame, real sudden like. Can't find a thing wrong with its foot. And Abe Miller on Willow Brook had a birthin' calf get stuck and kill the mother.”

This was becoming less helpful, as far as I was concerned. If people were afraid, nearly anything could be blamed on a curse.

“Are any other families sick?”

“Not so far,” Hannah said quietly. “Praise God. But I'm scared to death when one of mine so much as sneezes.” Hannah poured some milk from a small pitcher into her coffee cup. And I suddenly realized I'd put milk in my coffee too—and had drunk it. I knew the Yoders had their own milk cow. Fresh, raw milk was as ubiquitous as water in these households. My stomach wanted to cast it up. I fought the urge.

“Hannah . . . it might be wise for you to stop drinking your cow's milk. Just for a bit.”

“What?” Hannah looked shocked, like I'd suggested she fly to the moon.

“Look, the CDC is investigating the Kindermans' deaths, and hopefully they'll soon know exactly what caused them and if there's a link to Will Hershberger's death. But it's possible that whatever made them sick was passed on from the cows to the family in the milk.”

“But our cows ain't sick!” Hannah looked distraught, as if the idea had not occurred to her and she found it shocking, repellent.

I leaned forward and covered her hand with mine. “We don't
yet know what's going on. It's possible a cow could be sick for a day or two without showing any symptoms. And meanwhile, this sickness could still be passed through the milk.”

Hannah went pale, then paler still, as horrors passed behind her eyes. “But . . . they haven't said . . . The truck picked up yesterday like always.”

I heard what was behind the denial in her words. Because there was Hannah's family, yes. But the Yoders didn't just have a family cow, they had a small herd and they sold the milk. And beyond this farm there was an entire community that sold milk by the tons and depended on the money from it.

I held Hannah's gaze, and we shared a silent dread.
Don't get ahead of yourself. The CDC knows what it's doing.
I forced a reassuring smile. “I'm probably being paranoid. But if there's even a small chance . . .”

Hannah got up abruptly and opened the door of her refrigerator. She took out a plastic gallon of milk and poured it down the kitchen sink. She spoke stiffly. “I can keep the kids from drinkin' it in my kitchen, but Isaac's not gonna wanna stop production. Not with no proof the milk's bad.”

I was pretty sure she was right and that Isaac Yoder wouldn't be the only one.

—

A
mber Kruger dropped off her dog, Lemon, at the neighbor's at six
A.M.
on Tuesday morning. She'd never been a morning person, and the first hour of her Tuesdays and Saturdays were a
huge drag. But by the time her intern, Rob, arrived at her apartment and they'd driven to their first stop of the day, she was ready to smile and enjoy herself. She always felt a heady lift of spirits pulling into Willow Run Farm in Bird-in-Hand.

Amber loved her little business, and she didn't care what anyone said, particularly not her conservative jerk of an ex-husband. She'd started Lancaster Local Bounty a year ago with a vision of taking goods from Lancaster County Amish farms to the farmers' markets in Philadelphia and, eventually, New York. It was a ton of work, and it had taken her some time to find Amish farmers who would work with her. But she was hopeful that by next year she'd be turning a profit. She wasn't trying to get rich. She rented a one-bedroom apartment in an old row house in downtown Lancaster, and she drove an older pickup truck that was paid off. But she did have to pay rent and eat, and there were the booth fees at the farmers' markets and gas. She just wanted to do what she believed in and make enough not to go in the hole on a monthly basis. Her savings from years of working at a local health food market had about run out, and now that she was divorced there was no financial buffer.

But this—this right here—was why it was worth it: visiting, feeling a part of these beautiful small farms.

Amber and Rob got out of the truck. Levi came out of the house to greet them. He was wearing his standard garb—black pants, white long-sleeved shirt, black suspenders, wool jacket, and black hat. It looked like he'd just finished his “second breakfast,” having probably been up for hours. He nodded at them.

“Amber. Rob. Mornin'.”

Rob grunted. He wasn't much of a morning person either.

“Morning, Levi!” Amber said brightly. “Looks like it'll be a nice day.”

“Ja. Think so.” Levi looked at the sun, still low on the horizon. The sky was blue and without a cloud. The chill of night was still sharp. There was a touch of frost on the rolling fields. It was breathtaking. Daffodils bloomed in profusion around the Fishers' farmhouse porch, making it feel like spring despite the cold.

“Have everythin' ready ta go.” Levi walked toward one of the cement outbuildings he used for cool storage.

Amber followed. She and Rob, Levi, and one of Levi's sons loaded boxes of early spring produce into the back of Amber's truck. There were three different kinds of lettuces, spinach, some small red and white radishes Amber thought would sell well, spring onions, bunches of lovely asparagus, and the first flush of strawberries. Amber took everything Levi offered. Fresh produce was sparse this time of year. He tallied it up, scribbling on a notepad.

“How much milk d'ya wanna take today?” he asked.

“How much can you spare?”

“Ten gallons. Gotta hold some back for my regular customers.”

“I'll take them. I always sell out of the milk by noon, no matter how much I take.”

He smiled at that, looking pleased. “It's gut milk.” He added the gallons to the total.

Amber hoped she could pick up more milk at her next few stops. She liked to take at least twenty gallons to the Philly market, even on Tuesdays. She was currently working with five Amish farmers, all of them super nice people. From two other farms she got produce and milk, much like she did from Levi. The Red Barn sold her bundles of fresh herbs plus sugar and gluten-free baked goods made by Lyah Augsburger. And the Beacheys had fantastic cheese made from goat's milk.

Unfortunately, Amber had to pay the farmers up front. She'd tried talking them into letting her take the goods on spec, but they hadn't been interested. Still, they offered her a good discount. And usually she sold enough of it to cover her investment, if not much else.

She wished more people understood what a
privilege
it was to be able to get local produce raised chemical-free direct from Amish farms, and how important it was to support them by buying direct. Small family farms like this were all but gone in other parts of the U.S., replaced by thousand-acre empires farmed by huge machines. These people worked hard and had a challenging way of life. Why, just yesterday there'd been a story in the news about an entire Amish family that had taken sick and died, and the investigators still didn't know why. It was awful. Amber thought about mentioning the tragedy to Levi, but she wasn't sure how well he knew the Kinderman family, and she didn't want to upset him.

Sometimes the hippies at the Philly market turned up their noses because Amber's produce wasn't “certified organic.” She
explained that most of the Amish farmers didn't bother with that kind of government certification, but they raised their produce without all those toxic chemicals, and their animals grazed on real pasture and weren't locked up indoors their whole lives. But God forbid something not be stamped with a big old “USDA approved.” Idiots. Everyone knew the USDA was in bed with Monsanto and big pharma and every other corporate evil you could name. Amber considered herself a commando against all that. She was involved in nothing less than a holy war.

“That 'bout does it,” Levi said as he loaded the last of the raw milk into one of her coolers. “Total comes to two hundred fifteen dollars.”

Amber peeled off the cash, trying not to feel anxious about it. This was business. It took money to make money. “Thank you, Levi! See you Saturday.”

“Ja, See ya then. God bless.”

Levi and his son walked toward the house, and Amber looked around for Rob. She snorted as she saw him squatting down, petting the Fisher's dog. Like most farm dogs, it was used to visitors and was a social creature. It was pretty too—a Bernese mountain dog. Rob scratched behind both of the dog's ears and the dog panted happily. That boy was such an animal lover. He was a lazy-ass intern but an animal lover all the same. And she paid pennies for his time because he wanted to learn about organic farming. She could hardly complain if he didn't bust tail.

She took the opportunity to open a gallon of the raw milk and fill up her empty travel mug. She hadn't had time for
breakfast, but the rich milk would hold her for hours. She put the rest of the gallon in the cooler and opened up the driver's door.

“Let's go, animal whisperer!” she called out, laughing, to Rob.

Rob turned to her with a shy smile and headed for the truck.

—

“Ooh, fresh asparagus! Don't you wish we could have it all year long?”

It was a windy April day and almost closing time at the farmers' market. Amber was exhausted and ready to pack up the remains of their goods and head home. But the new customer was cute with her cropped blonde hair, boxy black glasses, and rosy-cheeked toddler in a carrier that wrapped around her torso. Amber couldn't help but smile.

“Fresh asparagus is the best,” Amber agreed wholeheartedly. “It's really amazing when you can just snip it off the stalk in the garden, walk to your stove, and toss it into a hot steamer. But this is as fresh as you'll find it unless you grow it yourself.”

“Ooh, gimme gimme!”

“How much would you like?”

“I'll take the three bunches here. Do you have more in the back?”