by Jane Jensen
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.
—
Amber 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 suga
r 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?”
“No, sorry. This is the last of the asparagus today.”
“Oh no! In that case, let me grab those quick. What about strawberries? I saw some at other booths, but they were from greenhouses. Your stuff is from Amish farms, right?” The woman looked up at the large banner Amber had designed. It depicted a painted farm scene with a red barn and the words “Fresh Direct to You from Amish Farms in Lancaster County,” and “Chemical Free!” and “Raw Milk!” The woman tilted her head. “Are the strawberries coming in over there yet?”
“We had the first batch this week.” Amber grinned. “So good! Unfortunately, I didn’t have that many pints and I sold out. But I should have a ton more on Saturday.”
“Damn.” The woman lightly frowned. “I work an early shift at the hospital on Saturdays. Don’t get home until three.”
“If you’re sure you’ll be here before we close, I’d be happy to set aside a few pints for you.”
“Would you?” The woman looked like she’d been promised a winning lottery ticket. Then again, the first spring strawberries straight off the farm were close. “I can definitely be by, like, three thirty?”
“We close at four, so yeah, if you can make it by then that would be great.”
“That’s amazing! Thank you so much!”
Amber smiled at the woman. They were definitely on the same wavelength. And her baby was such a cutie. Lucky baby to have a mama like this one.
“And I suppose you’re completely out of raw milk?” the woman pouted.
“Oh, yeah! Sorry. That goes fast.”
The woman sighed. “I figured. Oh well!” She jostled the brown-haired munchkin strapped to her chest. “We’ll have to get our moo moo at the store tomorrow!” she cooed to the little girl. “Lilah’s crazy about the stuff,” she told Amber.
“Well that’s something she and I have in common.” Amber leaned forward to touch the baby on the nose. She was rewarded with a smile.
“They have it at the natural food store in town, but it’s a pain getting over there. We’re so lucky, aren’t we? I have a friend who’s a mom in Maryland. Sometimes she’ll drive up for a visit just to pick up raw milk. I can’t imagine not being able to get it whenever I want it.”
This was a topic Amber felt passionately about, and her tiredness from the long day faded as her blood rose. “I know!” she agreed. “Technically, I’m not supposed to sell it to anyone who’ll take it over the state lines. But screw that. Anyone who wants to buy it from me, I’m not asking questions. If they happen to mention they’re from Jersey or Maryland, I’m just like, ‘La la la! Didn’t hear that!’”
The woman laughed. “Good for you! So how much do I owe you for the asparagus?” The woman pulled a wallet out of a pouch in the carrier.
Amber hesitated. “You know, I have a gallon of milk in the truck I poured one glass out of this morning. If you want it, you can have it. Just so you have something to hold you over till tomorrow. No one drank out of the carton or anything.”
The woman looked unsure. “Seriously? I don’t want to take it if you were keeping it for yourself.”
“Oh, I still have most of a gallon at home. I’m good.”
“Well . . . okay. That’d be wonderful! Would you like some milk, Lilah?”
“Moo moo!” the little girl said happily, kicking her legs.
Amber laughed.
CHAPTER 4
The CDC held a VIP emergency debriefing at the police station on Tuesday morning, four days after the Kindermans had been found. The heads of a few state agencies came down from Harrisburg, and only the top brass of the police were invited. Fortunately, Grady stopped at my desk and nodded at me to come along. He knew I had a real jones for this case, even though the CDC were in charge of it.
Dr. Glen Turner from the CDC led the meeting. He was in his mid-thirties with sandy hair, a goatee, and a “hip scientist” vibe. His button-down oxford shirt and khakis stood out among all the suits. He came across as very intelligent and firmly in charge. He was pretty cute too. Not that I cared one way or the other. It was just an observation.
“Our lab has identified the toxin
.” Dr. Turner had his laptop plugged into a projector, and he put up a photograph of a plant. It had long stems and a wide head made up of tiny white flowers. “The Kindermans died of tremetol poisoning. It was in their cow’s milk. Tremetol is found in a few wild plants—most commonly Eupatorium rugosum or white snakeroot.” He waved at the picture on the screen. It looked like the sort of flowering weed you’d see along rural roads. “Also called deerwort, tall boneset, and richweed. The animals eat the plant, get sick, and develop tremors and weakness. The tremetol is passed along in their milk and meat. In sufficient concentrations, it’s fatal to humans.”
I had a million questions, and I wasn’t the only one. A dozen hands went up, but Dr. Turner waved them down. “Let me get through this information, please. I’ll take questions later.”
He clicked to a photograph of the Kindermans’ farm. “We’ve already been in touch with Pennsylvania’s DCNR—the Department of Conservation and Natural Resources.” He nodded to a man in the room, and the man put up a hand in acknowledgment. “They tell us white snakeroot isn’t native to Pennsylvania, and they aren’t aware of any growing here in the wild. We’ve checked the feed supplies the Kindermans were using for their dairy cows. They grew and harvested their own hay and bought grain feed from a local supplier. There’s no sign of the tremetol in the feed. So that’s a good thing, because a lot of farms use that same supplier.”
Holy shit. The possibilities spooled out in my mind.
“Our most important concern at the moment is to locate the source of the tremetol on the Kindermans’ farm. It is possible we’re looking at an invasive-plant problem, so we’re working with the DCNR. We’ll be checking every inch of the Kindermans’ fields. But it’s also possible the cows got the toxin some other way—something brought onto the farm like livestock medicine, ear oil, insect repellent, whatever. We’ll find it. And yes, we have prepared a press statement we’ll be releasing in about an hour. Questions?”
