Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  It’s not a quiet process. If there’s anyone nearby, there’s no doubt they’ve heard my assault on the chicken door. Someone could be waiting for me on the other side. I pick up a split piece of siding to keep with me in case I need to defend myself.

  When the opening is large enough to accommodate me, I go to my hands and knees and slither through. I find myself in an aviary constructed of chicken wire, steel T-posts and a few four-by-four wood braces. It’s just high enough for me to stand upright. I wish for wire cutters as I walk the perimeter. Relief leaps through me when I realize the wire is attached to the structure with only a few fencing staples. I try yanking it with my hands but the effort is unsuccessful, so I throw my shoulder against it. The chicken wire stretches and bends and then snaps away from the building. I work my way down to the bottom, peel back the wire and slide through.

  Free of the coop, I dart around to the other side of the building. Though the moon is obscured by clouds and the shadows of the trees, there’s enough light for me to make out the track marks of the snowmobiles. They went in the opposite direction from where we came in. Taking off at a run, I retrace the tracks back toward the trailer.

  CHAPTER 17

  By the time I arrive back at the trailer, I’m in bad shape. I’m no longer shivering. The cold burns my lungs. My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts. I can’t hear anything over the roar of blood in my ears. At some point, I dropped the piece of wood. Someone could sneak up on me and I wouldn’t hear them approach. I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

  I stagger like a drunk as I round the end of the trailer, and for a crazy instant, I can’t remember where the door is. Then I see the stairs and lurch toward the deck. At the foot of the steps, I stumble and go to my knees. All I can think about is getting inside. I’m not sure I can stand, so I climb the steps on my hands and knees. Gripping the doorknob, I pull myself to my feet and open the door.

  I totter to the bedroom, fall to my knees and pull my .22 from beneath the mattress. I know my phone is there, too, but in my confused state I can’t find it. Gripping the .22 with both hands, I leave the bedroom, keeping my eyes on the windows as I walk back to the living room. I stand there a moment, my head swimming, trying to decide what to do next. I’m aware that I’m experiencing the initial stage of hypothermia, but the knowledge doesn’t help.

  I can’t remember if I locked the door, so I go to it, twist the lock. I head to the kitchen, drag a chair to the door and wedge it beneath the knob. Dizziness presses down on me when I straighten and I have to lean against the bar. The shivers are starting to return. I make my way back to the kitchen, fill the kettle with water and light all four burners. I don’t set down my revolver, instead warming one hand at a time over the flame, knowing it’s going to be painful when the feeling returns.

  I find a mug and a teabag and pour hot water. I sip the tea without tasting, trying to get the hydration and warmth into my body. My hand is shaking so violently some of it sloshes over the side of the cup. I go to the table and sit. I’m nauseous and hungry at once. My hands and feet ache. The skin on my face and my ears burn and for the first time I worry about frostbite. As bad as it is, though, my mind is beginning to clear. By the time I pour a second cup of tea, I feel steady enough to call Suggs.

  “Yeah?” he answers in a sleep-rough voice.

  I have no idea what time it is. “It’s Burkholder.”

  “Chief, what the—Is everything okay?”

  “No.”

  I hear rustling on the other end. “What’s going on?” he says, urgency and concern sharp in his voice.

  “A couple of guys on snowmobiles broke into the trailer. Caught me sleeping. I couldn’t get to my phone or weapon and they hauled me away, locked me in a fucking chicken coop.”

  “What? Kate, what the hell? Who?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was the same men I saw with those women night before last.”

  “You get names? Description?”

  “No. Dan, they wore ski masks. All I know is that they’re young. Early twenties maybe. And Amish.”

  “Shit. Are you okay?”

  “I barely made it back to the trailer. Those sons of bitches left me in that coop to freeze to death.”

  “How long ago?”

  I look at the clock on the stove. “Two hours.”

  “Look, Kate, you’re slurring words. Unless you’ve been hitting the booze, you’re probably hypothermic. I’m going to get an ambulance—”

  “No,” I cut in. “I’m fine now. I just need to get warm.”

  “You sure you don’t need to get yourself checked out? I can be there in ten minutes and take you to the ER myself. No one will be the wiser.”

  “Sheriff, I’m okay. I made hot tea. I’m on my second cup. Going to bundle up in a minute, get my core temp back up. I thought you should know what happened.”

  “Hell yes I should know!” He snaps the words and I sense him reeling in his temper, trying to be patient with me. “I’m glad you’re okay. How did they gain entry?”

  “I don’t know. The door was locked.”

  A beat of silence as he mulls that bit of information. “Is it possible they have a key?”

  “If the landlady rents to the Amish and doesn’t change the locks between tenants … it’s possible.”

  “I use a locksmith here in Roaring Springs. I can get him out there first light.”

  “I know this sounds paranoid, but if someone’s watching the trailer … might be better if I change it myself.”

  “What about tonight? What if they come back?”

  “It’ll be the last time they walk into someone’s home uninvited.”

  He makes a sound of discomfort. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m warming up. Hands and feet hurt.”

  “I meant what I said before, Kate. If you want to end this, just say the word. We’ll get you out pronto. No problem. Do you understand?”

  The prospect of going home tantalizes me. My mind flashes to my big farmhouse kitchen. The ever-present smells of coffee and potpourri. Tomasetti singing off-key in the shower. The police station with my cramped little office and beat-up desk. At this moment, they’re the most comforting images in the world.

  The cop inside me rejects any notion of comfort. I need to finish this assignment, especially now that someone has made it personal. Maybe it’s my ego talking; a reflection of my anger at being bested and hurt, but there’s no way I can walk away. I need to know who tried to kill me tonight and why. I have a feeling once I do, I’ll know what happened to Rachel Esh.

  “I’m going to finish this,” I tell him.

  “I appreciate that, Kate. I really do. But the last thing anyone wants is for you to put yourself at risk. You’ve gone above and beyond already.” He pauses. “I don’t have to tell you that what happened to you tonight could have turned out a hell of a lot worse.”

  “I know exactly what could’ve happened. I won’t let my guard down again.”

  “All right.” He shifts gears. “Any idea why these two men would risk getting into trouble with the law to lock you in a chicken coop? What could they hope to gain?”

  “Since they believe I’m Amish, they’re betting I won’t go to the police. Most Amish—particularly the Old Order and Swartzentruber—would rather handle things on their own than involve outsiders.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that. I’ve seen it. But why do it at all?”

  “To send me a message. Intimidate me.” I repeat what one of the men told me. This is what we do to nosy Amish women. “It’s interesting that he used the word ‘we.’”

  “That confirms it’s a concerted effort. That there are others involved.”

  “I’ve been asking a lot of questions. Too many, probably.”

  “Someone noticed.”

  I consider that a moment. “Dan, had I died in that coop—and I was, indeed, an Amish widow from another state—my death probably would have gone unnoticed and unrepor
ted.”

  “That’ll put a chill in your damn spine.” He heaves another sigh. “I guess it’s safe to say you’ve officially pissed off Schrock.”

  “I turned down his advances. Maybe that ruffled his ego.”

  “Do you think he made you as a cop?”

  “No. He thinks I don’t know my place.”

  “Or whoever you’ve been talking to went to Schrock or mentioned it to someone who did. Any ideas? The woman at the quilt shop?”

  “I can’t see her going to Schrock.” I take a long swig of tea. “Dan, I’ve talked to a lot of people since I arrived. It could have been any of them.” I sigh. “Guess I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought.”

  “That son of a bitch is using some pretty heavy-handed intimidation tactics. If he’s responsible for half the shit that’s going on, he’s dangerous as hell.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “It goes against my better judgment to leave you in there.”

  “Dan, I’m just now getting to the meat of this. Just a few more days. I’ll be careful.”

  Suggs groans. “Something like this happens again and you’re out. You got that?”

  “I got it.” I choose my next words carefully. “Would you do me a favor and not mention this to Tomasetti?”

  “Oh boy,” he mutters. “Are you two…”

  “Um … well…”

  “I have no reason to mention any of this to Tomasetti. But I have to keep Betancourt up to speed.”

  “I’d appreciate it if the two you kept it between you.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he says.

  “Thanks, Dan.”

  “If I were you, I’d start sleeping with that thirty-eight under my pillow,” the sheriff tells me.

  “I plan to,” I reply. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Night, Chief.”

  * * *

  Fear and sleep make incompatible bedfellows. Throw post-hypothermic exhaustion into the mix and you have a long and excruciating night. To make matters worse, I bedded down on the sofa. I couldn’t bear the thought of someone breaking in and not hearing them from the back bedroom. When I finally dozed off at five A.M., I had my .38 in my hand, the hammer back and my cell in the other.

  Lucky for everyone involved, the men never showed.

  I woke a couple hours later, clearheaded and fully recovered from my ordeal in the chicken coop. At some point during the night, it occurred to me that if the men had wanted to kill me, they could have done so. I don’t believe that was their intent, though if I had succumbed to the cold they wouldn’t have been too broken up about it.

  Interestingly, I didn’t see a firearm on either man. Often when a criminal is armed and wants control of his victim, he will brandish a weapon. I’m not convinced they were armed, which is telling.

  I’m working on my second cup of coffee when I notice the chafing and bruising on my wrists from the tape. A small blister is beginning to rise on the pad of my left ring finger, probably from frostbite. I’ll need to keep an eye on it in the coming days and watch for any sign of tissue loss or infection. I dress for the day, adding an extra layer for warmth, and at seven-thirty I leave the trailer and take the scooter bike to the farm store for a new lock.

  The Roaring Springs Feed Store is about twenty minutes away. I arrive just as the cashiers are opening their registers. Grabbing a shopping cart, I head for hardware. I grab two commercial-duty bolt locks and the tools I’ll need to install them. On impulse, I add a couple of heavy-duty, zinc-plated barrel bolt locks. Then I’m off to sporting goods. There, I’m quickly reminded that stun guns are illegal in the state of New York. It takes me less than a minute to locate the pepper spray. I choose a compact canister filled with the highest percentage of oleoresin capsicum. The label boasts twenty-five bursts with minimal blowback and it’s made in the U.S.A. If my attackers return, I’ll be ready.

  Back at the trailer, I set to work. Installing a bolt lock isn’t rocket science and I’m relatively handy—or so I’d imagined. The job isn’t as easy as I anticipated. The lack of power tools doesn’t help and a chore that would have taken a locksmith an hour ends up taking me close to three. The locks aren’t quite straight and the jamb is nicked. But the trailer is secure.

  * * *

  I fix hot soup from a can for lunch. As I eat, I pull out my phone, call up Google and retrieve an address for Abe and Mary Gingerich. It’s not far. I’ll stop by under the guise of thanking them for driving me to worship on Sunday and see if I can get Mary to open up about the bruise on her face.

  The afternoon has turned colder with a brisk wind whipping down from the north. Dark clouds roil above the tree line to my left, prompting me to push the scooter bike faster as I head west. It takes me just ten minutes reach their small farm.

  It’s a single-story stone house with asphalt shingles and a big chimney that’s puffing smoke. A swaybacked outbuilding that had once been a detached garage is being used to house goats. A greenhouse in the side yard is missing half its panes and falling to ruin. Beyond, I see the raised landscape timbers of a garden. No shutters on the house. No clay pots left over from summer. No adornment of any kind. The place is plain.

  I stop the bike in the gravel driveway, dismount and lean it against a bare-branched maple a few feet away. The wind cuts through my coat, its icy hands rushing up my skirt and down my collar. By the time I reach the front door, I’m shivering despite the physical exertion of the ride.

  The door opens and Mary Gingerich appears. “Kate?” Craning her neck, she looks past me as if to see if I’m alone. She doesn’t look pleased to see me. She has a full-fledged black eye now and I wonder: What kind of person assaults a middle-age Amish woman?

  The same kind that leaves fifteen-year-old girl out in the cold to die …

  “I thought I’d swing by to thank you and Abe for driving me to worship on Sunday,” I say.

  “No need to thank us.”

  “May I come in?” I add a shiver for effect.

  She offers a pained expression. She doesn’t want to invite me inside, but her good manners prevent her from refusing. “Come on.”

  The living room smells of woodsmoke and some kind of frying meat. It’s a small space with a worn oak floor covered with a braided rug. The furniture is minimal: plain brown sofa covered with a half dozen homemade throw pillows. Rocking chair draped with a blue-and-white afghan. An overstuffed chair and ottoman face a potbellied stove in the corner. The curtains are black.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your afternoon,” I tell her.

  “I was just frying up some schpeck for sandwiches.” Bacon. “Would you like to stay?”

  “I can’t, but thank you.”

  An awkward silence falls. The room is so quiet I can hear the bacon sizzling in the kitchen. Mary looks everywhere except at me.

  “Mary, I need to talk to you about something that happened.”

  Her gaze jerks to mine. In the depths of her eyes I see apprehension, maybe even fear.

  “Two men on snowmobiles came to my trailer last night,” I tell her. “They broke in while I was sleeping, tied me up and took me to a farm where I was locked in a chicken coop.”

  She makes all the appropriate noises, even manages to widen her eyes. But it’s a practiced response. She’s not surprised, and she’s not a very good liar. “But … why would they do such a thing?”

  “To harm me. Intimidate me.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Her gaze slinks away from mine. I wait, but she says nothing. It doesn’t escape me that she fails to ask if the men were Amish or what they looked like.

  I gesture to her black eye. “I thought you might be able to shed some light.”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “The men were Amish. Early twenties.” I pause, push harder. “I’m betting they’re the same men who gave you that shiner and put that mark on your neck.”

  Pressing her hand to her chest, she takes a step back. “Oh, Kate…”<
br />
  It’s the first honest reaction I’ve seen. It’s obvious she’s hiding something—maybe even protecting someone. But who? And why?

  “Who put those marks on your face?” I ask.

  A laugh squeezes from her throat. “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “I think those men came to you, too. I think they hurt you. And I think you’re afraid to talk about it because you’re afraid they’ll come back and do it again.”

  “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk. But her gaze drops to the floor as if she can’t lie and look me in the eye at the same time.

  “Who are they, Mary?” Tilting my head slightly, I make eye contact with her, refuse to release her gaze. “Why are they hurting people?”

  Her laugh is the high-pitched trill of a nervous bird. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nothing you say will leave this room,” I tell her. “You have my word.”

  A quiver moves through her, so minute I almost miss it. But I’m good at reading people, their thoughts, their emotions. She wants to open up. She wants to release the ugly truth trapped inside her. But this woman isn’t merely frightened. She’s terrified.

  “I nearly froze to death last night,” I tell her. “Those men are dangerous. They need to be stopped.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” she whispers. “No one can stop them. Just … live quietly and they’ll leave you alone.”

  “You live quietly and look what they did to you.”

  “You know nothing,” she hisses.

  I try a different tactic. “Maybe I should talk to the bishop.”

  “Do not speak of this to the bishop,” she says quickly.

  “Why? He won’t stand for that kind of behavior.”

  She starts to turn away, but I reach out and gently grasp her arm. “Mary, talk to me. Please.”

  “Leave this house. Now.”

  We both startle at the sound of Abe’s voice. I turn to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. He stares at me without expression, his eyes as lifeless as a mannequin’s.