“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.
“I was going to make it right today,” Lena says.
I didn’t know Rebecca well, having only met her once. But whether I knew her or not, she deserved the chance to live her life. And as the grief pours off these women, I feel that same sadness welling inside me.
Naomi goes to the coffee pot and returns with two cups, shoves one of them at Lena. “Rebecca thought of you as her own daughter.”
“She enjoyed a lively spar, too,” Laura says.
“Never had to wonder where you stood with her,” Ada adds. “Just look at how she talked about the bishop.”
Seeing an opening, I pick up my own cup of coffee and casually ask, “Speaking of the bishop, I’m surprised Levi didn’t reach out to him. Especially if he was distraught.…”
Naomi nods. “I wish he had.”
Lena pulls away from Laura and takes her cup. “Bishop Schrock would have guided them through the darkness.”
“Did Rebecca and Levi have family?” I ask. When Laura shoots me a warning look, I add. “Sometimes if you’re going through a rough spot, it’s your fami
ly who pull you out.”
The women exchange glances and suddenly it dawns on me that Laura isn’t the only one who knows Rebecca’s family is gone. Either Rebecca confided in someone else, or people simply noticed they were gone.
“I heard her son and daughter-in-law left,” Naomi says in a low voice.
All eyes sweep to Naomi. “Took the two girls with them,” she says. “That’s all I know.”
“Why did they leave?” I ask.
“I suppose no one rightly knows,” Naomi replies.
Laura motions toward the sewing table where the quilt they’d been working on waits. We take our chairs. Rebecca’s is conspicuously empty.
Lena lowers herself into the chair, scooting it away from the table to make room for her belly. “What about her grandson?”
Ada picks up her needle, threads it and begins to stitch. “Rebecca told me Bishop Schrock sent her grandson away to help an elderly couple who’d lost their family in a buggy accident. Never understood why he did that.”
“I knew about it,” Laura admits. “She told me last summer. Evidently, the couple was in their eighties. They lost their family in a buggy accident and had no one to take care of them. Andy was on Rumspringa and had gotten into trouble a few times. The bishop saw it as a way to help that old couple—and help Andy at the same time.”
Ada lifts her chin. “Didn’t help Rebecca or Levi much, did it?”
It’s a heavy topic for a sewing circle, but sometimes tragedy has a way of loosening tongues. I take advantage of the opportunity to try to find out what else they know. “What kind of trouble did her grandson get into?” I ask.
“The bishop caught him with a radio in his buggy,” Ada tells me.
“He was sent away for that?” I keep my eyes on my sewing.
“The bishop took Andy in for counsel,” Ada says. “Next thing I know he’s gone.”
“What exactly does the bishop’s counseling entail?” I’m feigning interest in my stitching, but it’s not easy and in my peripheral vision, I see the other women look my way.
“Just a good talking to, I imagine,” Lena says. “Bishop Schrock is good with the young folks that way.”
Ada pulls her thread through the fabric with a little too much force. “Nothing good came of any of it, if you ask me.”
“Sometimes you make sacrifices to help others,” Lena says gently.
I steer the subject back to Rebecca’s missing family. “Did Rebecca hear from her grandson after he was sent away?”
“Rebecca wrote him, of course,” Ada says. “Don’t think she heard back, though.”
Naomi huffs. “He should have, but you know how those young men are sometimes.”
Lena offers a sad smile. “Maybe he’s courting a pretty Amish girl about now.”
The smiles that follow are subdued and thoughtful.
“Rebecca would have liked that idea.” Ada sighs. “I’m sure going to miss her.”
* * *
The afternoon at the quilt shop was a bust, at least in terms of garnering new information about the fate of Rebecca’s family. Ada is particularly displeased with Schrock and the only one willing to speak out against him. The others are either too frightened—or devoted. Tomorrow, I’ll try to get Ada alone and see what else she has to say about the bishop.
I stow the scooter bike in the shed, watching the windows and keeping an eye on the ground for tracks. I let myself into the trailer and without removing my coat, I call Suggs. “I’m going over to Schrock’s farm.”
“Shit, Kate.” The sheriff doesn’t sound pleased to hear from me.”You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
I tell him about my conversation with Marie Weaver last night. “She told me Rachel Esh lived at Schrock’s place for three weeks.”
“First I’ve heard of that.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Is this Weaver girl credible?”
“I think so,” I tell him. “She’s scared. Probably on Schrock’s radar.”
“That’s not good. At this point she may be the closest thing we have to a witness,” he says.
“She sneaks out at night and runs around all hours. Doesn’t have much in the way of supervision. Maybe you could give CPS a heads up and have them pick her up.”
“Sounds like the right thing to do,” he says. “We can sort it out later with the parents.”
The solution isn’t ideal; Marie sure as hell isn’t going to like it, but there’s no other way for us to guarantee her safety.
“About Schrock,” I say. “I just want to go out to his farm and take a look around.”
“Yeah, and I want to lose sixty pounds.”
“He won’t know I’m there, Dan. Just a quick in and out, and no one will be the wiser.” I pause, getting my words in order, formulating my argument. “It’s a huge property with several buildings. I want to know what he does out there when he thinks no one’s looking.”
“You know if you see something, we won’t be able to use it against him. There’s this little glitch called a warrant.”
“I’m aware—”
“What the hell are you going to do if someone catches you on the property?”
“It’s dark,” I say firmly. “There’s a lot of cover. If something unexpected happens, I’ll play innocent. Tell them I took a wrong turn. Got off the trail. Got lost.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Dan, there’s a young woman with a new baby out there.”
He falls silent for a moment and then says, “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“Not when I’m right.”
“You going to go right now?”
“Yep.”
“All right.” He heaves an unhappy sigh. “You got one hour. If you don’t call, I’m going to drive out there, hunt you down and drag you out myself.”
I’m about to pop off a smartass reply, but he hangs up on me.
* * *
Ten minutes later I’m out the door and walking west on Swamp Creek Road. The snow has stopped, but it’s brutally cold. The sky is overcast, but the clouds are thin enough for a hazy moon to light my way.
An hour isn’t much time when I’ve half a mile to travel on foot just to get there, so I take advantage of the absence of traffic and jog. If a car or buggy happens by, I’ll duck into the woods until it passes.
By the time I reach the turnoff for Schrock’s farm, I’m out of breath. Keeping in mind that he has at least one dog, I start down the lane, staying alert, keeping an eye on my surroundings. But the place is seemingly deserted. I pass by the barn where worship was held. On Sunday, it was a pleasant place filled with Amish families, singing, and frolicking children. Tonight, the darkened windows watch me like menacing eyes as I pass.
A few hundred yards in and Schrock’s house looms into view. The downstairs windows glow yellow with lantern light. The upstairs windows are dark. The scent of wood smoke laces the air, and I wonder if he’s inside, sitting next to the fire, reading Martyrs Mirror. I wonder if Esther and her new baby are with him. I wonder if they’re safe.
The sound of a horse’s snort jerks my attention to the two buggies parked outside the barn. I hadn’t noticed them upon my approach. Slinking into the cover of the trees, I skirt the house and move closer to the barn. The sliding door is open. A yellow slash of lantern light bleeds out. Evidently, Schrock has visitors and they’re in the barn.
It’s a two-story bank barn with a stone foundation and a dirt ramp that leads to the sliding door. The second-level windows are dark, the loft door closed.
A sound resembling the pop of a BB gun startles me. I look over my shoulder, but quickly realize it’s coming from inside the barn. My feet are silent against the snow as I wind through the trees. I’m close enough to hear voices now. Men speaking Pennsylvania Dutch and engaged in an animated conversation. I’m about twenty feet from the barn with my back against a tree when I realize the exchange is not a friendly one. Another pop! snaps through the air. This time it’s followed by a yelp. Not
a BB gun, I realize. Something else …
I stand there for a moment, listening, wondering if I can get close enough to see what’s going on without being seen. I’ll have to traverse ten or twelve yards of open ground with no cover. No trees. Not even a fence.
I work my way through the trees to the rear of the barn. Thankfully, there are no cattle or horses. Out of the line of sight of the front door, I leave the cover of the trees and cross to the barn. Upon reaching it, I press my back against the foundation and sidle toward the front of the building. I struggle to control my breathing, but my heart is pounding. If someone walks out of the barn and comes around to the side, I’ll have some explaining to do.
I reach the front of the barn and peer around the corner. There’s no one there. Nothing has changed. To my left the two horses and buggies still stand idle. The sliding door is open, light slanting out. The men are still arguing. I can’t be sure, but it sounds as if someone is crying—or in distress.
An instant of hesitation and then I’m around the corner. My back scrapes against the siding as I edge toward the door. I duck beneath a window, light spilling onto the snow-covered ground to my left. I reach the door and pause to listen. For the first time I recognize Schrock’s voice. He’s berating someone for some serious offense involving a woman ime familye weg. Pregnant.
Pressing myself hard against the wood, I peek around the jamb. Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker stand with their backs to me. Eli Schrock stands a few feet away from them, his back to me as well. A fourth man whose face I can’t see stands with his back to them, his hands braced against the wall. At first glance, I think he’s wearing a white T-shirt mottled with rust-colored paint, then I realize his back is bare, his flesh striped with welts.
Abruptly, Schrock draws back. For the first time I notice the buggy whip in his hand. He brings it down hard on the man’s bare back. “Gottlos!” Ungodly.
A scream tears from the man’s throat. His body goes rigid. His hands clench like claws against the wood. For an instant, I think he’s bound. Shock rattles through me when I realize he’s not.
“Oftentimes pain is the only way to cast out the devil.” Schrock slams the whip against the man’s lower back. Leather pops sickeningly against flesh.
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