A Gathering of Secrets

by Linda Castillo

  They’re downplaying it. I can’t tell if they’re covering for each other or if they simply don’t want to discuss it.

  The girls begin to chatter among themselves, so I smack my hand down on the tabletop hard enough to get their attention. “Stop lying to me.”

  Startled looks are exchanged. Neva sets down her cup. Ina looks away. Viola pretends her chair isn’t situated just right and scoots it closer to the table.

  “I’m not the enemy here,” I say softly.

  “We know that,” Neva says.

  “I just need information,” I say. “The truth.”

  “We haven’t lied to you,” Ina says.

  “If I hadn’t pushed, you wouldn’t have told me about Emma,” I say. “You didn’t tell me that Daniel used to come in here, bothering the three of you.”

  “He didn’t,” Neva blurts.

  I give her a look that lets her know in no uncertain terms I’m not happy with the answers I’m getting. “I think he did a lot more than bother you.” I look from girl to girl. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “I think he came here to see Emma,” Ina says after a moment. “That’s all.”

  “Who else did he come here to see?”

  I watch them closely, their body language, facial expressions. Of the three, Neva looks the most apprehensive. I turn my full attention to her. “Neva?”

  She blinks rapidly, a prey animal being approached by a predator. “No one.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I ask.

  “Why are you being so pushy?” Ina snaps.

  “Because I think you know more than you’re telling me,” I snap back.

  Neva jumps into the fray. “You don’t know us. You don’t know anything about us.”

  “I know more than you think,” I tell her.

  “Like what?” she shoots back, defiant.

  “I know what it’s like to keep secrets,” I say quietly. “I know what it’s like to make a bad decision.” I look from girl to girl. “I know that sometimes we’re not who we think we are. We’re not who we want to be. We’re not the person others see when they look at us.”

  The three young women stare at me, eyes wide, expressions taken aback and wary.

  I don’t know if I’m getting through to them. If I’m helping or hindering my quest for information.

  “Daniel came into The Mercantile a few times,” Neva says quietly. “He’d always pretend that he was looking for something, some merchandise he seemed to need help with, but it wasn’t about the merchandise. It was about us.” She trades looks with the other girls. “All of us.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I’m debating the wisdom of pushing for more when the tinkle of keys draws my attention. I glance over to see Edna Lambright approach the café. I hadn’t heard her come in. She’s carrying a quilted tote bag on her shoulder. Two pies stacked one on top of the other in her hands.

  “Looks like you girls are having a productive morning.” She reaches the railing. Narrowed eyes flick from Neva to me and back to Neva. She holds out the two pies. “These custards need to be sliced, put on plates, and wrapped.”

  Neva rises so quickly, her chair screeches across the floor. I’m in the process of getting to my feet when she rushes to her mother and takes the pies. “Put them in the cooler?” she asks.

  “Ja.”

  “Thank you for the coffee,” I say to the girls.

  Chairs clatter as the girls rise. Quickly, they push in their chairs and scatter.

  Viola slants a look my way as she heads toward the rear of the store. “You’re welcome,” she mutters.

  And then they’re gone.

  Edna Lambright is standing at the railing, taking it all in, watching me. “What brings you here this morning?” she asks.

  “I’m trying to find out where this duplicate key was made.” I pull the key from the bag as I leave the café area. “Any chance it was made here at The Mercantile?”

  She lifts the reading glasses on the lanyard around her neck and shoves them onto her nose. “Looks brand-new,” she says as she squints at the key. “It’s possible we made it here, but there’s really no way to tell for sure.” She lowers the key. “Is that what you were talking to the girls about?”

  I take my time answering. “I was told Daniel Gingerich used to come in here.”

  “Lots of people come in here.” She looks down her nose at me. “All kinds of boys skulking around to get a look at those girls. They don’t think too much about it.”

  I stare at her, wondering how much she knows about Emma Miller. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m quite sure.” Her eyes latch onto mine. “We’re close, you know. All of us. My daughter tells me everything. Everything.” She hands me the key. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help.”

  I drop the key into the bag.

  Cocking her head, she looks at me over the top of her glasses. “This have something to do with the fire?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “How does that key play into all that?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to get it figured out soon.” I stuff the bag into my pocket. “Thanks again for the coffee.”

  * * *

  The police station is quiet on a weeknight at seven P.M. Skid left for patrol a couple hours ago and everyone except Jodie and me has gone home for the day. I’m sitting at my desk, photos and reports and notes from the Gingerich file spread out in front of me like some macabre collage.

  The thing that bothers me most about the case—aside from my victim being a violent sexual predator—is that it wasn’t some panicked response to danger or threat or physical harm, but a premeditated act of homicide. Whoever killed Gingerich conceived the idea. They thought it through. Prepared for it. Planned the timeline. Came up with contingency plans. And then they cold-bloodedly carried out an agonizing and gruesome execution.

  It’s still relatively early in the game, but the thought of this heinous crime going unsolved grates on my cop’s sensibilities. All I can do at this point is keep plugging away at it in the hope that something will break.

  I’m in the process of sliding my laptop into its case when my cell phone vibrates against my desk blotter. Expecting Tomasetti because I’m late—again—I snatch it up. “Hey.”

  “Chief Burkholder? It’s Edna Lambright.” Her tone is frantic and rushed, the words coming too fast. “It’s Neva. She’s … gone. I can’t find her. She left a … note.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Yes. She was … upset … all afternoon. She was quiet. Too quiet. Please. There’s something wrong.” Her voice is breathless, every syllable tumbling out in disarray.

  “How long has she been missing?” I ask.

  “I haven’t seen her since five or so. I found the note half an hour ago.”

  “What does the note say?”

  A brief hesitation and then: “It says she doesn’t want to be on this earth anymore.” She makes a sound, the squeak of some small animal with its leg caught in a trap. “I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself.”

  “Have you searched for her?”

  “Isaac checked the barn. He walked our whole property. I looked in the house, even the attic and root cellar. She’s not here.”

  “Is there some place she might’ve gone? A friend’s maybe?”

  “She’s close with Ina Yoder, of course. Little Viola. I’m in the car, on my way to the Yoders’ now.”

  “Is there any place else you can think of that she might’ve gone?”

  “Isaac is on his way to the Stutzman place. If I don’t find her at the Yoders’ … I don’t know. She might’ve gone to the shop.” She makes a strangled sound. “I’m scared, Chief Burkholder. She’s never done anything like this before. Neva is a … sensible girl. A good girl.”

  “Do you know what she’s upset about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. She barely said a word all day.”

  I pause, wondering if it has anythi
ng to do with my visit earlier, and ask, “Edna, do you think Neva is suicidal?”

  I hear a quick intake of breath on the other end and then a sob. “I don’t know. I just … the note scared me. Why would she write something like that?”

  “Do the Yoders have a phone?”

  “They’re not Beachy, so no. I’m just a few minutes from their farm.”

  “How long will it take Isaac to reach the Stutzmans’ place?”

  “Fifteen minutes in the buggy.”

  “I’ll send one of my officers over there now, save some time.”

  “Thank you. I’m so upset I can’t even think straight.”

  “Does Neva have a car, Edna? Or is she on foot?”

  “She has that old car Isaac gave her. I just can’t see her driving on a night like this. Raining cats and dogs…” A sob cuts her words short. “I just want to find her. Make sure she’s okay.”

  “What’s the make and model of the car?”

  “It’s white. A Ford Taurus. Old. Two thousand five, I think.”

  I’m not inordinately alarmed about Neva. Yet. She hasn’t been missing long—just a couple of hours. She isn’t a minor. But the note is worrisome.

  … she doesn’t want to be on this earth anymore …

  “Chief Burkholder, would you mind driving over to The Mercantile to see if she’s there?”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ll meet you there as soon as I talk to the Yoders. They’re only ten minutes from the shop.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  I hang up and call Skid with a quick summary of the situation. “She’s eighteen years old and might be on her way to the Yoder farm out on County Road Twenty-Four.”

  “I know the place,” he says. “I’ll swing by, do a welfare check.”

  “Thanks. I’m on my way over to The Mercantile. Keep me posted.”

  “You, too.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I let Jodie know where I’m going as I go through reception, and then I dash into the deluge. I run the Explorer twenty miles an hour over the speed limit and make it to The Mercantile in twelve minutes. As I pull into the front lot, my headlights play over the building’s facade, glint off the darkened windows. There are no cars in the lot. No lights inside.

  I pick up my radio. “I’m ten-twenty-three,” I say, to let Skid and dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.

  “You got eyes on her?” comes Skid’s voice.

  “Negative.” I have to raise my voice to be heard above the rain pounding the roof of my vehicle. “Are you at the Stutzmans’?”

  “ETA two minutes.”

  “Roger that.”

  I rack my mike and scan the front of the shop. The place is homey and inviting during the day, with hanging baskets and half whiskey barrels full of fall mums, pansies, and asparagus ferns. Tonight, surrounded by impenetrable darkness and the rain pouring down, it possesses a postapocalyptic feel.

  “Come on, Neva,” I whisper. “You’re too smart to do something like this. Where the hell are you?”

  Flipping the switch for my spotlight, I reach for the handle and shine it along the front of the building. I idle past, watching the shadows, keeping my eye on the doors and windows for movement or light. I reach the end of the building and peer into the side lot.

  Lightning flashes with blinding intensity. An instant later thunder cracks like cannon shot. I pull around to the side and creep toward the rear, where the old round barn is being renovated. The lot is vacant, ghostlike fingers of steam rising from the gravel.

  Hitting my high beams, I crank the wipers up a notch, lean forward, and squint to see through the rain-streaked windshield. The round barn is a huge structure, half of which is surrounded by scaffolding. It had once been white, but decades of weather extremes have stripped the paint and turned the tin roof shingles to rust. There’s a massive cupola at the peak. A small square window stares down at me like a dead, blank eye. It’s an interesting building, and even in the dark and through the driving rain, I can see the vision Edna Lambright and her husband must have for the place.

  The structure is built into a hillside. An orange skid loader lurks in the shadows where some of the foundation has crumbled. My beams illuminate a Dumpster full of refuse. A couple of five-gallon buckets stacked against the exterior wall. The place is deserted. No sign of Neva.

  I’m in the process of turning around to wait for Edna Lambright when I see a flicker of light near the front door. I run my spotlight over the facade, but there’s no one there; the door is closed. No light in the window. There’s no vehicle. No buggy. Still, I’m certain I saw a light. So where the hell did it come from?

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Resigned to getting wet, I shut down the engine, grab my Maglite, and hightail it to the door. My clothes are soaked when I reach for the knob. I’m half expecting to find it locked, but when I twist, the door creaks open. The interior is dark as a cave. The rain pounding the roof is deafening. The smells of wood and plaster waft out on a draft of damp air.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Neva? Are you here? It’s Kate Burkholder.”

  I listen, but no response comes. Stepping inside, I shine the beam around the interior. It’s a large area with a wood plank floor. The remnants of a dilapidated silo stand in the center. Several stanchions on a raised concrete slab are still recognizable. Two full-size stalls to my right. Curved stairs run along the wall to a second-level loft and down to the ground level. To my left I see a scaffolding set up against the wall where workers have been shoring up the overhead beams.

  “Neva Lambright!” I call out her name and identify myself again. “Can you come talk to me please!”

  I walk to the center of the space, run my beam along the floor. “Neva!”

  Ducking between the stall rails, I cross to the stanchions, and peer into the silo. The air smells of damp earth and rotting wood. The dirt floor is ten feet down. In the yellow beam of light, I see an antique milk can lying on its side. An old cot without a mattress. I startle when something darts across the floor. A field mouse.

  “Great,” I say on a sigh.

  Dust motes fly in the sphere of the beam when I shift the light, point it toward the stairs. They’re made of stone and oak planks. Original to the building, but they look solid enough to support my weight.

  I’m midway to the stairs when I notice a faint dome of light coming from a niche ahead. Moving quickly, I start toward it. My beam illuminates a small battery-powered lantern atop a wood crate. There’s a spiral-bound notebook next to a can of Diet Coke. A pen. A cell phone. A brown prescription bottle.

  … she doesn’t want to be on this earth anymore …

  “Oh, no,” I mutter, and then, “Neva! It’s Kate Burkholder! Come out here and talk to me.”

  The floor is covered with a drop cloth or tarp. The kind a painter might use. I’m midway to the alcove when a loud crack! sounds. The floor gives way beneath my feet. Then I’m falling into space.

  * * *

  I land hard, feet first, dust and debris flying. My knees buckle on impact. The ground isn’t level and I pitch left. Something sharp gouges my thigh. The tarp tangles around my legs. I fall sideways, land on my side, my shoulder and head slamming against the ground.

  I brown out for a second, unable to move, my brain like a cold engine, trying to fire. The breath has been knocked out of me, and I’m gasping like an asthmatic. I hear myself spit, realize my mouth is full of dirt. Pain in my right ankle. Searing heat in my thigh.

  Groaning, I roll onto my back, blink dust from my eyes. Darkness all around. Flashlight nowhere in sight. Rain pounding the roof above in a deafening roar.

  “Shit.” I choke out the word and spit again.

  Bad move, Burkholder, a little voice chides.

  I make an undignified sound that’s part curse word, part moan. I lie still, wait for my head to clear, taking physical stock, shifting my legs. Pain i
n my back, but not too bad. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, I think I’m okay.

  “Chief Burkholder?”

  Relief sweeps through me at the sound of Edna Lambright’s voice. I push myself to a sitting position. Dizziness swirls, but levels off. “Down here,” I call out.

  “I heard the ruckus. You’ve taken quite a fall. Are you all right?”

  A flashlight beam appears to my left. I glance over to see the Amish woman making her way down rickety steps. “Guess I should have taken the stairs,” I say, trying not to feel foolish.

  “I should have warned you about that floor. We’re having it replaced, you know. Are you hurt?” she asks as she reaches the ground level.

  “I’m fine.” Setting my hands on the ground, I get my legs under me, make it to my knees. “Any sign of Neva?”

  “No.” She blinds me with the flashlight beam. “She’s never done anything like this before.”

  I’m still shaken, my head reeling. “Can you get that light off me?” I say.

  “Sorry.” She reaches me and stops. “Let me help you.”

  Her light shifts. I can see the outline of her dress. Thick ankles, feet clad in sneakers that are muddy and wet. The bulk of her body. She’s fiddling with something in her right hand. I hear the rip-tear of Velcro. She bends toward me. Something hard is jabbed against my back.

  “What are you doing?” I bring up my right leg, set my foot against the ground, start to get up.

  A loud crack! snaps through the air. Pain explodes through my body. Every muscle contracts into a single, massive cramp. I stiffen. My balance leaves me. I fall sideways. Pain grinds throughout my body, seems to go on forever.

  The next thing I know I’m laid out on the ground. For an instant I think I’ve been shot. But I know that sound. Stun gun. Lingering tremors ripple through my muscles.

  Edna Lambright stands over me, looking down at me. No emotion on her face. Squatting, she reaches for me, yanks my radio from my belt. I try to stop her, but she hits my arm with the stunner, and another jolt zips from my shoulder to my fingers. My arm flops ineffectually to my side. I try to roll away, end up folding into a fetal position. She reaches for me again. I brace, but she flicks off the thumb snap, slides my .38 from its nest. I try to speak, but no words come. Instead, I do a quarter roll, flail uselessly.