Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  I’ve stepped into the shoes of the woman I might have been had fate not intervened in and changed everything. While there were plenty of things I hated about being Amish, there were just as many aspects of the plain life I loved—and that I missed desperately when I left. This week has illuminated the truth: that I’ve not fully come to terms.

  It’s one A.M. and I’m on the sofa, huddled beneath a blanket in a futile attempt to stay warm. On the table in front of me is a mug of tepid tea, my .38 revolver, my .22 mini Mag, the pepper spray, and my cell. What a collection. If my mood wasn’t so dark, I might’ve laughed.

  I want to call Tomasetti, but I know he’s probably sleeping. I should be, too; tomorrow promises to be a busy, stressful day, and I need to be on my toes. I tell myself I don’t want to wake him. But I’m honest enough to admit that’s not the only reason I haven’t picked up the phone. I know if I tell him about the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler, he’ll ask me to call it quits. Ending this assignment would probably be the prudent thing to do at this point. The problem is, I’m not always a prudent person, particularly when it comes to my job.

  I don’t want to walk away from this. Not when there’s a dead teenage girl, an entire family missing, and now a middle-aged Amish couple gone, too. Maybe it’s my ego talking, the part of me that likes to win no holds barred, but I know in my gut that if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s me. The problem is convincing the man I love to support a decision that’s as flawed as I am.

  Tomasetti knows me. He knows how my mind works. He knows, better than anyone, that I’m driven and imperfect. That sometimes I try too hard and can be a sore loser. He knows that when I sink my teeth into a case, I can’t let it go, sometimes to my own detriment. He understands all those things. And yet he loves me anyway.

  I pick up my phone and speed dial his cell because I know he keeps it on the night table beside our bed. He picks up on the second ring. “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  I hear rustling on the other end and I picture him sitting up, leaning over to flip on the lamp. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.” My first lie.

  “Okay.”

  I’m gripping the phone hard. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. The wind tearing around the trailer outside. A piece of the skirting flapping. “I miss you,” I tell him.

  “You, too.” Another pause. I sense his mind working. He’s trying to figure out why I’ve called him so late.

  “Everything’s not so great,” I say.

  “Maybe you should tell me what’s going on.”

  “I will, but I need you to shut up and listen without interrupting.”

  A moment’s hesitation and then, “All right.”

  Taking a deep breath, I lay out everything, good and bad—the two men, the chicken coop incident, my encounter with Schrock, and the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler. “Tomasetti, Schrock isn’t an Amish bishop. For him, this has nothing to do with religion. He’s running a cult. He’s taking advantage of these people, deceiving them, controlling them through intimidation, threats and physical violence.”

  “Are you on his radar?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He makes a sound low in his throat. He’s got a pretty good bullshit detector, and he’s not buying it. If he knew what Schrock had done, he’d blow his stack …

  “Goddamn it, Kate.”

  “Don’t ask me to quit.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Kate—”

  “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you when it comes to my job. I’m tired of lying because I can’t tell the truth. I’m tired of hiding things from you. Keeping things from you because you can’t handle it. It’s … stupid and dishonest and I need for us to be honest. I need you. I need to be able to talk to you.”

  “You can talk to me,” he growls. “You know that.”

  “How can I when you worry? When I know it hurts you? I know what it does to you and I hate it.”

  The silence that ensues is thick with tension. It’s so quiet I can hear his breathing. The wind pressing against the windows.

  “Look, Kate, I’m going to be honest with you,” he says tightly.”I don’t like you being up there on your own. You have no backup. No transportation. Very little in the way of communication. You can dress that up however you like, but it’s a dangerous situation. If something goes wrong—”

  “It already has,” I cut in. “A lot of things have gone wrong. In case you weren’t listening, I handled it. I’m okay.”

  He makes a sound of frustration. “You’re not bulletproof.”

  “I’m a cop, and I’m doing my job. Maybe you should have a little more faith in my capabilities—”

  “Being a good cop isn’t always enough.”

  We fall silent. Closing my eyes, I wish we could reconcile this moldering pool of fear and worry that’s plagued us nearly from the start of our relationship.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “Being a good cop, being careful and following the rules isn’t always enough. Cops still get hurt. Sometimes they die. Welcome to law enforcement.”

  He makes a sound of annoyance.

  I don’t stop. “I know you’re worried about me and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t stop being a cop. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”

  “I get it,” he growls.

  “I don’t think you do. Tomasetti, it’s not going to change. If we’re going to get past this, you have to trust me. You have to trust my judgment and my abilities.”

  “I do. All of that.”

  “Then show me. Have faith in me. Let me know you have my back on this.”

  “I’ve got your back. Always. You know that.”

  “I’m afraid,” I whisper. “I haven’t been able to tell you that. This has been difficult and you’re part of that. I need to be able to talk to you and know you’re not going to lay into me and add yet another layer of turmoil to this pile of chaos I’m trying to work through.”

  After an interminable silence, he whispers my name, softly and with affection. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. “I needed to hear that. I needed to hear your voice.”

  “Usually, that’s the one thing people don’t want to hear.”

  I laugh. He doesn’t join me, but it clears some of the tension.

  “So what do Suggs and Betancourt have to say about all this?” he asks after a moment.

  “They want me to hang tight.”

  “I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.”

  “I’ll be checking in twice a day from here on.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’m getting close to some of these people. Decent Amish people who need to be able to live their lives without the threat of violence. Sooner or later, someone is going to talk to me, and Schrock is going to take a fall.”

  He takes a deep breath. “At the risk of sounding like an overbearing son of a bitch … you know some of these cults can be dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “When I was with the Cleveland Division of Police, I worked a homicide case involving a cult.”

  “Tell me.”

  “These cult leaders prey on people looking for something. The lost. The vulnerable. They offer security and friendship and a place to belong. They give people what they think they need. Tell them what they need to hear. Once they’re in, they’re isolated, indoctrinated, and brainwashed, and then it’s all about dominance and power. Most of the time it’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave.”

  I think about Rebecca and Levi Beiler lying dead on the floor. I think of Abe Gingerich’s missing finger and the time I spent in the chicken coop, and I shiver.

  “Are you sleeping?” he asks.

  “I’ll sleep better tonight.”

  “So … we’re good?”

  “We’re good.” A sense of warmth pours over me.
“I just … I wanted you to know what was going on. I want you to know I’m being careful and Suggs and Betancourt are on top of things.”

  “Be safe,” he says.

  “I will. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

  “I love you,” he tells me.

  “Same goes.”

  The lines goes dead.

  When the tears come, I don’t bother to wipe them away.

  * * *

  I’m jogged awake by the sound of pounding. Adrenaline burns like mercury through my midsection as I swivel from the bed and set my feet on the floor. I reach down, grab the .38 off the table next to my bed. Cram the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants. The .22 and pepper spray in the other. Pounding sounds again, hard enough to shake the door. Sons of bitches, I think. Then I’m moving down the hall, my revolver leading the way, my temper bringing up the rear.

  I step into the living room, sidle right toward the window and lift the curtain half an inch with my finger. In the meager light of a hazy half moon, I see a figure standing on the deck, a couple of feet from the door. Not the men I’d expected, but a diminutive female silhouette. It could be a trap; they could have anticipated my being prepared and sent a decoy.

  Silently, I walk to the door, lower the .38 to my side. “Who’s there?” I call out.

  “Your favorite Amish girl.”

  Marie Weaver. “You alone?”

  “Just me and the coyotes.”

  Pulling the chair from beneath the knob, I disengage the bolt lock, twist the knob, and open the door a few inches. “You’d better not be lying to me,” I say, my eyes sweeping the area behind her and around the trailer. There’s no one there.

  “You’re kind of paranoid, aren’t you?” She looks intrigued by my fulsome caution.

  “Shut up and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Sheesh.” Sighing, she yanks her hands from her pockets. “What do you think I’m going to do? Rob you?”

  “Or worse.” I give her a hard look. “What do you want?”

  Cocking her head, she looks at me a little more closely. “You don’t act like a normal Amish woman.”

  I motion toward her clothes. “Same goes.”

  She’s shivering beneath a Walmart puffy coat. No hat. No gloves or scarf. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold. Why is she here?

  “You want to come in for a minute?” I ask, calming down.

  “I didn’t come here to stand on your porch and freeze my ass off.”

  Taking a final look beyond her, I step back. I smell cigarette smoke and strawberry shampoo as she pushes past me. I motion toward the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

  Frowning, she obeys. I’ve still got my hand on the butt of the .38 in my sweatpants’ pocket, out of sight. Not a good place for it, so I take a few steps back and snag my coat off the sofa where I left it. Placing the revolver on the sofa, I slide into the coat, then put the gun in my pocket.

  Crossing to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, I pick up a book of matches and light the lantern. I go to the kitchen and put a match to the lantern on the kitchen table, turning up the wick for maximum light. Keeping one eye on the girl, I check the clock on the wall. Three A.M.

  She looks like a kid sitting there, shivering, probably half lit on beer, her leg jiggling a hundred miles an hour. Tufts of hair stick out of her kapp. She’s got dirty hands. I remind myself this girl is only sixteen years old. Troubled. Vulnerable. The perfect victim for a cult.

  “You want something hot to drink?” I ask. “To warm up?”

  “Some whiskey would hit the spot.”

  “Fresh out.” I go to the stove, run water into the kettle for two cups, and set it over the flame. “What are you doing out so late all by yourself?”

  She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Just hanging.”

  “With who?”

  “No one in particular.”

  “Uh huh.” I snag two mugs from the cupboard, set them on the counter. “Your parents know you’re out?”

  “No.”

  She lifts her hand, picks at a hangnail. Her fingernails are painted green and chipped at the tips. For the first time I notice she’s wearing jeans. A red sweater. A cheap pair of boots that don’t look very warm. The hems of her pants are wet. She’s been out in the cold and snow for quite some time.

  The kettle begins to whistle, so I pour water over teabags, set one of the mugs in front of her, and, carrying my own mug, take the chair across from her.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

  The girl is shivering so hard she spills a little bit of her tea on the table and, without apologizing for the spill, slurps loudly.

  My curiosity grows while I wait, but I opt to give her a few minutes before questioning her.

  “I think they killed her,” she whispers without looking at me.

  My heart bumps hard against my chest. I know to whom she’s referring, but I ask anyway. “Rachel Esh?”

  She nods. “She was my best friend. She didn’t deserve what happened. I miss her.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m scared because I think they want me gone, too.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Schrock. The people he surrounds himself with.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “We have all night.”

  She digs into her pocket. Simultaneously, I reach into mine, set my hand on the pistol. Marie pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lights up without asking permission. I consider taking it away from her and tossing it out, but I want her talking so I let her light up.

  “Rachel was staying with Schrock when she died,” she says after a moment.

  “I thought she was living with Mary and Abe Gingerich.”

  She looks away, then back at me. “Her parents didn’t like her wild ways. They were afraid she was on the fast track to hell. You know, the drinking and staying out.” Her mouth twists, but she doesn’t quite manage a smile. “They didn’t like me. Mary Gingerich stepped up to help.” She shrugs. “It didn’t work out there, either. Someone told the bishop. He took Rachel in to counsel.”

  Counsel. Something goes tight in my chest. How I’ve grown to hate that word.

  “How long had she been living with Schrock?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “What makes you think he had something to do with her death?”

  “I just … Everyone thinks Schrock is some kind of fucking messiah or something. He’s not. He’s…” She sighs, frustrated because she can’t seem to find the words. “Rachel was my first friend here in Roaring Springs. We’ve known each other since we were ten years old. When we were twelve, Schrock started … paying attention to us.”

  “Paying attention to you how?”

  “He started inviting us to his house. For hot chocolate or pie. He gave us chores in his barn, mucking stalls or whatnot, and paid us. He let us ride his horses. We got to see the new filly born. Stuff like that. You know, innocent like. I mean, he’d preach sometimes. Read the bible. He was always quoting Jacob Ammann.”

  I know from my school days that Ammann was an Anabaptist leader from the mid-1700s and the namesake of the Amish religious movement.

  She pauses to blow on the tea and then sips. “Last summer, he invited Rachel to a party at the barn at the rear of his property.”

  “What kind of party?”

  Her mouth twists. “I wasn’t invited, but she told me about it. She said there was music and beer. Yoder and Smucker were there. Other people she didn’t know. I guess it got kind of wild, but Rachel thought it was exciting and fun. It was her first, but not her last.”

  Marie doesn’t notice when the ash on her cigarette falls to the tabletop. I wait.

  “Anyway, Schrock liked Rachel after that so she got invited again. And again. In the beginning, she was into it. She was part of it. She liked being included. I was always a little jealous.”

 
; “What happened?”

  Her brows knit. “After a few of those parties she stopped talking about it. Stopped telling me stuff. When I asked, she’d just bite my head off.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I dunno. But I knew it wasn’t good. She wasn’t happy.” She puffs absently on the cigarette. “A few days before she died, she was acting all weird, like she was going to tell me something. We were going to meet … like we did sometimes at night. She died before…”

  I sip the tea, give myself a moment to digest this sudden flood of information. “What do you think happened?”

  “The last time I saw her, we were drinking and she started talking about it. She told me she did things she wasn’t proud of and she started crying. I didn’t know what to say and all of a sudden those parties didn’t sound so great.”

  The words creep over me, like the stench of garbage left to rot in the sun. “Was Rachel there against her will?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I mean, not at first. But … the last couple of weeks she was different. Like it wasn’t fun for her anymore. She was stressed about something.”

  “Any idea what it was?”

  Marie shakes her head.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

  “She was tight with Jacob Yoder.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Her eyes flick away from mine and then back. “Maybe.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Not really. But Rachel wasn’t very good at keeping secrets. She was … honest and real. Didn’t play games. Didn’t lie like everyone else. I think she was involved with someone. I think that’s what she was going to tell me.”

  “I thought she was tight with Jacob Yoder.”

  She thinks about that for a moment. “It was a different kind of tight. I mean, Rachel and Jacob knew each other since they were kids. They played together and as they grew up they just sort of became girlfriend and boyfriend. Everyone always thought they’d get married. I know she loved him. But this … other guy just came in and swooped her off her feet.”

  “What guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I think about that in terms of motive. “Did she tell Jacob?”

  “Rachel didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t even officially break up with him. They stayed friends, but I think things changed between them. He wanted more; she wanted less. It happened quick. She stopped spending time with him. I think she was crazy for this other guy.”