Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  “Boy. Big, too. Nearly nine pounds,” Naomi puts in.

  Ada snips a thread with the scissors. “I’ll take her and David a couple of my potpies tomorrow.”

  “They’ll appreciate that,” Naomi says with a nod.

  I look at Lena. “When is your little one due?”

  “Another month or so,” she tells me. “Our fourth.”

  “Only four.” Ada tuts. “You and Reuben had best get busy.”

  “One at a time,” Lena snaps good-naturedly.

  Chuckles break out around the table. I join in, hoping the women don’t notice that my stitches aren’t quite straight and not as evenly spaced as they should be. But the fabric I’m working with is pretty and the thread is a similar color, and hopefully won’t be too closely inspected.

  A few minutes later, Ada sighs. “The quilt is going to be a pretty one.”

  “Warm, too,” Laura puts in.

  “Are you going to sell it?” I ask.

  She grins. “Haven’t decided.”

  I don’t know if it’s the part of me that’s still Amish—that will always be Amish—or nostalgia, but for the first time since arriving in Roaring Springs, I’m relaxed. I like these women; I’m comfortable with them. And it occurs to me how good it feels to belong. How easy it would be to slip back into the rhythm of the old ways. At this moment, Chief of Police Kate Burkholder is a distant memory, like someone I knew a long time ago. This afternoon, I am Kate Miller. An Amish widow trying a little too hard to fit in, make new friends, and start fresh.

  The cowbell mounted on the door jingles. All eyes sweep toward the front of the store. The lights have been dimmed in the front section, but I see the silhouette of an Amish woman as she brushes snow from her shoulders and starts toward us.

  “Hi, Rebecca,” Lena calls out.

  Naomi looks up and smiles. “Nau is awwer bsll zert.” Now it’s about time.

  “Sorry I’m late.” The woman—Rebecca—approaches the table.

  Laura starts to rise. “We’ve got siess kaffi.”

  “Sit. I’ll get it.” She reaches us, looking harried and stressed out. I guess her to be around fifty years of age, with a pleasant face, rosy cheeks, and eyes as green as a springtime hayfield. She’s generously built, tall, and solid looking. Her maroon dress falls nearly to her ankles. Red hair peeks out from beneath a black winter bonnet. A quilted sewing bag is slung over her shoulder. Her eyes take in the group, lingering on me.

  “You’re the widow from Ohio,” she says. “Welcome.”

  I offer a smile and introduce myself.

  Setting her bag on the floor, Rebecca pulls out a chair and sinks into it. I’m trying not to stare, but her body language seems odd. Her movements are tentative and jerky. She digs into her sewing bag, but doesn’t remove anything. Ada has stopped sewing, her attention fastened on the newcomer. The other women have fallen silent.

  Rising, Laura goes to the front of the store. Out of the corner of my eye I see her grab a mug and pour coffee. Back at the table, she sets it in front of Rebecca and reclaims her chair. “There you go.”

  Rebecca mutters a thank-you.

  “I heard that Esther girl had her baby this morning.” The words are spoken by Ada and in a tone reserved for unpleasant topics.

  “Esther?” Naomi’s hands still.

  Ada clucks her mouth in disapproval. “The maulgrischt out at the farm.” Maulgrischt means “pretend Christian” in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Girl or boy?” Lena asks.

  “Boy,” Laura tells her.

  Naomi sets down the section of fabric she’s working on. “How old is she, anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” Laura says. “Or so she claims.”

  “I heard she’s not married. Never been married.” Lena looks from woman to woman. “Is that true?”

  “It’s wrong, is what it is,” Ada grumbles.

  Laura nods. “You mean her not having a husband?”

  Ada gives her a canny look. “I mean all of it. Living out there with the bishop like she is, and him allowing it.”

  I listen with interest as the women discuss the mysterious young woman living with Schrock. But some of my attention remains focused on Rebecca. I can’t pin it down, but there’s something going on with her. Tension seems to radiate from her. Is it stress? Anxiety? Fear?

  “Bishop Schrock wouldn’t…” Lena struggles to finish the sentence. “You know. He wouldn’t. He’s the bishop.”

  Ada frowns. “He’s a man, is what he is.”

  “He saved her life,” Lena says emphatically. “He saved her soul from the devil.”

  “Saved something for himself, more likely.” Rebecca spits the words as if they burn the inside of her mouth.

  Lena gapes at her, offended. “He took her in when she had nowhere to go. He gave her proper clothing. Taught her the Amish ways and the word of God.”

  Rebecca doesn’t back down. “Or maybe she’s the one teaching him a thing or two.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Lena hisses.

  Naomi reaches across the table and pats Lena’s hand. “No one knows any such thing for sure.”

  Laura concentrates on her stitching. “And who are we to judge?”

  “Rebecca, how’s the—” Across from me, Ada gasps, dropping the section of quilt she’d been working on. “Oh no. Oh no.”

  All eyes fly to Rebecca. For the first time I notice the bandage covering the outside portion of her left hand. Oddly, she’d been trying to hide it. Upon closer inspection I discern the shape of her hand and realize her pinky finger is missing.

  No group of people knows better than the Amish that farming can be a dangerous profession. Accidents are commonplace, even for the women who often help their husbands in the barn and fields. I’m not surprised by the sight of the missing digit. What I am surprised by is the reaction of the women. Surely this isn’t the first time they’ve seen the result of a mishap that claimed a finger. Yes, those kinds of accidents are traumatic, but why the shock? And why would Rebecca try to conceal it? That’s when it strikes me that no one has asked her what happened.

  They already know, a little voice whispers in my ear.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I look down at the potholder in my hands, slide the needle into the fabric, and tug it through. “What happened?” I ask matter-of-factly.

  Naomi stares at the bandage, her mouth open and trembling. Lena leans back in her chair, blinking. Laura looks down at her sewing, but her hands seem to be frozen in place. The room falls silent.

  Shifting uncomfortably, Rebecca lowers her hand so it’s out of sight. “It was such a fool thing.” Her eyes flick to the door, then back to me. In the instant our eyes meet, I see fear in their depths. “I caught it in the meat grinder when I was making sausage.”

  The rise of tension is palpable. Eyes are averted. The women turn their attention back to their sewing, stitching faster, but not all hands are steady.

  “How awful,” I hear myself say. “Did you go to the doctor?”

  “Levi took me to the hospital.” She forces a laugh, but it’s a loud, unnatural sound. “I don’t think I’m going to be much help with this quilt.”

  * * *

  Late afternoon ushers in a lowering sky with fog and another round of snow. By the time five o’clock rolls around, only Laura and I remain and the shop is empty of customers. Earlier, she taught me how to use the old-fashioned cash register. In the last hour, I’ve rung up only two sales.

  “Might as well close up.” Laura joins me at the register, lays a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and slides it over to me. “That’s all I can afford to pay you.”

  “I can’t take your money.” I slide it back to her. “I didn’t earn it.”

  “You’ve manned the register most of the afternoon.”

  “I spent most of the afternoon drinking sweet coffee and eating your cookies.”

  “Kate—”

  “No.”

  She softens. “I wish
the customers would come back. I love this shop. The people who used to come in.” She lowers her voice. “Just between us, I even like the tourists.”

  I chuckle. “I won’t tell.”

  “I’m going to miss this place when I walk out for the last time.” She drops a short stack of bills into a cash bag and zips it.

  I wipe the counter, trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Rebecca. “I like your friends.”

  “They’re like sisters to me,” she replies. “Some days I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  “Terrible about Rebecca’s finger,” I say easily. “My grossdaddi lost two in the corn thrasher when I was a kid. Never slowed him down, though.”

  Laura slides cookies from the plate into a container, concentrating a little too hard on the task. “It happens.”

  We work in silence for several minutes. “Ada and Rebecca were pretty tough on Bishop Schrock,” I say, trying to land on a subject that will keep her talking.

  “They’ve got their reasons.”

  I glance at her, trying to decipher the meaning, but her face gives me nothing. “Did something happen between them and the bishop?”

  “Not Ada,” she tells me. “Rebecca.”

  In my mind’s eye I see her bandaged hand; I recall the reactions of the other women, and I know there’s something there. Something important. I hope Laura trusts me enough to tell me what it is.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Without replying, she walks to the front door and throws the deadbolt. Glancing through the plate glass window at the darkened street beyond, she lowers the blinds. Once they’re closed tightly, she lifts a slat with her finger and peers out at the street. Finally, she leaves the window and ushers me to a table at the rear of the shop.

  “What I’m about to tell you…” she says in a low voice. “Probably best if you don’t repeat it.”

  I offer a concerned, sympathetic look. “Of course.”

  “I’m a firm believer that there are some things best left unsaid. Some things most people are better off not knowing. I don’t want to burden you, but I think you’re a strong woman and I’d like your perspective.” She lets out a long breath. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to get this off my chest for some time.”

  Reaching across the table, I squeeze her hand. “What is it, Laura?”

  “Rebecca and I have been friends for a lot of years. We’ve had babies at the same time, husband troubles, and we’ve eaten more than our share of fattening cookies.” Smiling wistfully, she looks down at the cookie in her hand. “Last summer, she came to me, crying. Kate, the story she told me … I didn’t know what to make of it.” Shaking her head, she lets the words trail. “I didn’t want to believe it, but let me tell you: It sent a knife through my heart.”

  “What happened?”

  A gust of wind rattles the windows. Laura startles, her eyes jerking to the door. She covers her reaction with a laugh, but for the first time she looks frightened.

  “Rebecca told me that two of her granddaughters, just thirteen and fourteen years old, and her sixteen-year-old grandson were taken in and ‘counseled’ by Bishop Schrock. The children spent four nights at the bishop’s farmhouse.” She looks down at the tabletop. “She said the two girls weren’t the same when they came out. They wouldn’t talk about it; wouldn’t tell anyone what went on. Rebecca claims the bishop turned them against her.”

  “Turned them against her how?” I ask.

  “Evidently, the girls wanted nothing to do with her. Wouldn’t speak to her or visit with her and Levi, her husband. Rebecca blames the bishop. Says he took them from her. She’s bitter, and that’s not the Amish way.” She shudders. “Some of the things she says about the bishop … Terrible things.”

  “Like what?”

  She shakes her head, letting me know she won’t repeat them.

  “What do you think happened to the girls?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I know how it must look to an outsider. Like the bishop overstepped. But in his defense, those girls had become prideful. I could see a … wildness in them. And Little Andy, with the drinking and smoking. There’s no doubt those kids were heading down the wrong road.” She shakes her head. “There’s so much temptation in the world for the young people these days.”

  “That much is true,” I say.

  “Kate, I’ve seen the bishop with the youngsters. He’s good with them.” But it doesn’t elude me that she says the words as if she’s not only trying to convince me, but herself. “Some might say he’s too firm. But I think he’s seen the devil at work and he knows the power of evil. I think he saw the direction they were going and somehow talked all that temptation right out of their heads.”

  I stare at her, my mind reeling with the knowledge that Schrock is a predatory son of a bitch. After what he did to me, the thought of what might have happened to two innocent Amish girls twists my gut into knots.

  “Rebecca wants to leave Roaring Springs,” she tells me. “She wants to go back to her old church district in Ohio. The bishop asked her and Levi to stay, but I don’t think they will. Honestly, I don’t blame her. With her grandchildren and children gone.”

  “They left?”

  “Rebecca’s son and daughter-in-law, Big Andy and Irene, packed up and left in the middle of the night shortly after it happened. Took the girls with them. Left without a word. Didn’t even tell Rebecca. Poor woman didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye.”

  I put the names to memory so Suggs can run them through the various law enforcement databases. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering how Rebecca’s missing digit fits into all this.

  “Where did they go?” I ask.

  “Shipshewana, Indiana, I think.”

  “What about the grandson?” I ask.

  Though the shop is locked down tight, the blinds pulled, her eyes flick toward the front of the store, as if she’s expecting someone to come through the door. I find my own gaze following hers, the hairs at my nape standing on end.

  “Little Andy never came back,” she whispers.

  “What? But … where did he go?”

  “Evidently, the bishop sent the boy to another church district in Missouri to help an elderly couple whose family was killed in a buggy accident.”

  Suspicion creeps over me, as cold and hard as January ice spreading over the surface of a pond. “Without speaking to his parents? I mean, did the boy want to go? Did he volunteer?”

  “No one knows. And no one’s talking.”

  “Did Rebecca confront the bishop?” I ask.

  “She’s not one to take things sitting down.” The smile that follows is humorless and tight. “She’s a strong-willed woman and isn’t afraid to speak her mind. I don’t know everything that was said, but there’s bad blood between them now.”

  Around us the shop is eerily silent. The only sound is the occasional hiss of tires on Main Street. The rattle of heat coming from the vent overhead.

  “Laura,” I whisper, “did the bishop do something bad to the children?”

  The words hover, like the smell of something long dead that neither of us wants to acknowledge. She stares at me, anguish and fear etched into her features. “I can’t imagine, Kate. I mean, he’s the bishop.”

  “He’s a mortal man,” I tell her. “A human being with weaknesses just like the rest of us. Maybe more, from what I’ve heard.”

  “I think I’ve said enough.”

  She starts to rise, but I reach out and set my hand on her arm. “Laura, did the bishop have something to do with what happened to Rebecca’s hand?”

  Pulling her arm away, she rises so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the floor. Without looking at me, she shoves it against the table. The shop no longer feels homey or cozy or even comfortable. It feels like a dangerous place that’s exposed and watched.

  “I can’t.” Turning away, she walks to the counter.

  I rise and follow. “Did someone hurt Rebecca?”

&
nbsp; “I shouldn’t have told you any of this. I shouldn’t be burdening you with my worries.”

  “I’m glad you did.” When she says nothing, I add, “That’s what friends are for.”

  When she turns to face me, she’s pulled herself together. Her eyes are cool when they meet mine. “I think it’s time you went home, Kate.”

  “But what about—”

  She cuts me off. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Everything I learned from Laura Hershberger and the other women at the quilt shop churns in my brain as I take the scooter bike back to the trailer. Bishops don’t take teenage girls into their home to “counsel.” They don’t send teenaged boys away without the blessing of the children’s parents. Families don’t flee their homes in the middle of the night.

  Unless they’re frightened of something. Or someone.

  What really happened to Rebecca and her family? All I can do at this point is continue to ask questions. Keep digging. In the interim, I’ll pass along the information to Suggs so he can run the names. Hopefully, he’ll be able to locate them and find out what happened.

  It’s nearly dark by the time I arrive at the trailer. While soup heats on the stove, I call Suggs and recap my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “The grandson never came back. Allegedly, he was sent to Missouri to help an elderly couple after their family was killed in a buggy accident.”

  “That’s checkable. I’ll get with the highway patrol down there and see if they can get me stats on fatality accidents involving buggies. And of course I’ll run their names.”

  “While you’re at it run the parents and the two girls, too, will you? Last name Beiler.” I spell it for him. “I don’t know the girls’ first names, but I’ll work on it.”

  “All right.” He sighs. “Damn, this whole thing stinks. Kids disappearing. Entire families running in the middle of the night.” He goes silent and then asks, “You been able to get a look at any of the kids around there?”

  “I saw a few at worship on Sunday. No visible signs of physical abuse. Most were bundled up, but no odd behavior or marked up faces.”