Movement at the barn door draws my attention. I glance over to see Yoder and Smucker emerge. Still wearing their snowsuits. No ski masks. The music blares. Even forty yards away, I can hear every note of Lynryd Skynyrd’s “Freebird.”
The two Amish men approach the newcomer. Friendlier now. A happy reunion. They talk for a few minutes, laughing and gesturing. Yoder pulls out the flask and presents it to the third man. He tips his head back and takes a long pull. The woman leans against the snowmobile a few yards away, arms crossed, watching them.
After a few minutes, the newcomer approaches her and offers the flask. The woman turns away. Laughter erupts from Smucker and Yoder. The third man stalks to the passenger, grasps her kapp at her nape and yanks her head back. The woman shoves him. The man stumbles back, but he doesn’t let go of her. Holding her head between his hands, he swings her around, takes her to the ground and climbs on top of her. The woman fights him, slapping at his face with both hands, but her efforts are ineffective. Pinning her arms with his knees, he presses his palm against her forehead, upends the flask, and pours into her mouth.
Disgust rises inside me, followed by a dark tide of dread because I know this isn’t going to end well. I’m going to have to intervene, which means I’m not going to be able to maintain my cover.
Is this is what someone wanted me to see?
A few feet away, Yoder circles the people on the ground like some referee, pointing and laughing every time the woman takes a shot at her attacker. Smucker stands near the fire pit, watching.
Pack mentality, I think. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, especially when it comes to young males and bad behavior. They egg each other on, emboldened by their peers, each taking it one step further.
I have no idea if the woman is here of her own accord or if she was brought against her will. Whatever the case, she’s being assaulted and the situation is getting ugly. I’m well aware that scenarios like this aren’t always as they appear. It never ceases to amaze me the kinds of behavior some women tolerate. How many times have I taken a domestic dispute call only to have the victim defend her abuser and somehow the police become the villains?
The man rises, looks over his shoulder at Smucker, and shouts. Still on the ground, the woman rolls away, scrambles to her feet, and runs. Yoder and the third man go after her. A dozen strides and Yoder tackles her to the ground. The other man falls to his knees beside them. Her scream raises the hair on my arms. The man draws back and punches her in the abdomen.
Never taking my eyes from them, I work pull out my phone and hit the speed dial for Suggs. Simultaneously, I jam my hand beneath my skirt, yank the .22 from its holster.
The sheriff answers with a gruff, “Yeah.”
“I’m on Schrock’s property,” I whisper. “The old barn a mile northwest of my trailer. Yoder and Smucker and a third unidentified male are assaulting a woman. I need backup.”
“I’ll get that deputy over there now. I’m heading out there, too. How far are you from the Schrock house?”
“Not sure. A mile maybe.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
The woman doesn’t have ten minutes. I watch as Smucker and the unidentified male drag her through the snow and into the barn. “Expedite,” I tell him. “Dan, I’m going to have to intervene—”
“Do what you gotta do. Be careful. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I drop the phone into my pocket, pull back the hammer on the .22. I hold my position until all of them have gone inside. Every sense on high alert, I leave the cover of the trees and approach the barn. I listen for voices, but the only thing I can hear is the music.
I reach the barn, sidle to the open door, and peer inside. The interior is large and well lit. A hard-packed dirt floor leads to a raised wooden floor at the rear. At its base, an aisle tees left and right. Wood steps lead to the loft. There’s no one in sight.
A few feet away from me, a horse-drawn disc harrow is shoved against the wall. I strain to hear anything that will tell me their location, but the music drowns out all other sound.
This is no ordinary barn. There are no farm animals. No feedbags or hay. It’s Amish owned and yet there’s electricity. It’s heated. The interior is clean and well used—no dust or cobwebs. The windows are intact—not a single broken pane. What is this place, and what’s it being used for?
Stepping inside, I walk toward the back and reach the place where the aisle tees left and right. I pause to listen, frustrated because I can’t hear shit. The aisle to my left is dark. I can just make out the fronts of old horse stalls. The aisle to my right is dimly lit. I see an open door and, beyond, three additional doors, all of which are closed. Shiny new padlocks hang from old-fashioned hinge hasps. All locks are engaged. At the end of the hall, a fifth door stands ajar. Bright light slants into the aisle. For the first time I hear voices and laughter over the music.
Moving quickly, I dash to the first door. It’s actually a narrow stairway that leads to an upper floor. I go to the second door and peer through the small diamond-shaped window. I see a cot. A water bottle atop a small table. A toilet and sink. Clothes scattered on the wood plank floor. It looks like a jail cell …
I go to the next window and the next. The three rooms are set up identically and similarly appointed. Who’s staying here and why are the doors locked from the outside? The possibilities send a chill up my spine.
Making sure the aisle is clear, I back away, never taking my eyes from the door at the end, expecting at any moment for someone to come through. All I have to do is get out and stay out of sight until Suggs’s deputy arrives. He should be here any time now. I take another step back. Too late, I spot the woman standing in the open doorway to my right. Adrenaline burns through my midsection. She’s looking at me as if I’m some dangerous animal that’s wandered in, looking for meat.
In an instant, I take in her appearance. My height. Twenty years old. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. Pretty. The thing that stands out most is the overt terror on her face.
I press my index finger to my lips. “I’m here to help you,” I whisper.
For an instant I think I’ve blown it; she’s doesn’t know English and she’s going to scream. I’ll be found out and all hell will break loose. Instead, she glances toward the room where the men are, then motions to the stairway behind her.
“Come with me.”
CHAPTER 22
I follow the woman up the stairs. At the top we go through a door and into a good-size room that had once been a hayloft. A small table and two chairs are set against the wall to my right. I see a bed in the corner. A large-screen TV. A space heater. A set of drawers. Farther, another door where I can just make out the white porcelain of a sink.
There’s no lock on the door. “Are we safe here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “The men will come soon,” she replies, not getting too close, watching me cautiously.
“I need to lock the door. Keep them out. How do you lock it?”
“I’m not allowed.”
Edgy with adrenaline, I stride to the table, pull out the chair, and wedge it beneath the doorknob. If someone tries to get in, it won’t keep them out. But it will buy me some time.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Alina,” she tells me. “Marchenko.”
I indicate the room and all of its contents. “What is this place?” I ask. “What’s going on here?”
“They brought me here. This is where I live.” She looks me up and down, taking in my Amish dress. “You are new?”
I have no idea what means by that. I go to the door and listen. No one there. Yet.
She follows me. “You are police?”
“No.” I try to tone down some of the intensity in my voice. It’s not easy because I’m scared. I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes up those steps.
The woman stares at the .22 in my hand. It’s scaring her, I realize; she looks like she’s about to bolt, so I lift my sk
irt and holster it. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
She nods.
“I need you to tell me what’s going on here.” I motion toward the door. “We don’t have much time.”
She nods. “This is where they keep us when we first come in from Canada.”
I can tell from her accent this woman isn’t Canadian. “Where are you from?”
“Odessa.”
“Odessa?”
“Ukraine. I’m … looking for a job. To start a new life. I have visa.” But her eyes flick down and to the right. She’s lying. At the moment, it doesn’t matter.
“Are you being held here against your will?” I ask.
“No, I just have to … you know, pay before I can go.” She shrugs. “If they find husband for me, that would be good because then he pay.”
“Who brought you here?”
“Ivan.”
“What’s his last name?”
“All I know is that he’s American and promised us he would take care of our papers. I meet him in Donetsk last year when the tanks rolled through. Everyone was afraid and he was promising some of the women new lives in Canada and the U.S. Wealthy husbands. Jobs. We got on the marriage list. A few weeks later they put me on the boat. Gave me the papers. Sofiya was supposed to be on the next boat, but she never came.”
I stare at her, trying to get my head around this new direction in the case. Her story raises more questions than it answers. I don’t know what to make of it; I’m not even sure I believe her. But if she’s telling the truth—if women are being smuggled into the U.S. from eastern Europe and “married off” for money—the situation is more explosive than anyone imagined.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Six weeks.”
“How many of you are here?”
“Five at first. But then two left.” She shrugs. “Husbands or jobs. I don’t know.”
“They were staying in the rooms downstairs?” I ask.
“I think they’re waiting for their papers.”
“Who else is involved? What are their names?”
“Jacob and Jonas.” She looks down at her hands. “They come here, to my room sometimes.”
“Who else?”
“The elder. I don’t know his name, but we call him Dido.” Her mouth twists into a parody of a smile. “It means grandfather in Ukrainian.”
I wonder if she’s talking about Eli Schrock. She’s young enough to think of him as an elder.…
Turning away, I pull out my cell and call Suggs. I’m at the door, listening for footsteps when he picks up.
“Eli Schrock, Jacob Yoder, and Jonas Smucker are smuggling people into the U.S. and Canada,” I say without preamble.
“What? Smuggling? Are you—”
“I’m at the old barn a mile or so from Schrock’s place. The deputy isn’t here yet. Dan, you need to get out here. I need help.”
“I’m at Schrock’s house now. No one’s answering the door. You okay?”
“For now.” I’m vaguely aware of the woman trying to get my attention. I hold up a finger, letting her know I need to finish my call. “Yoder and Smucker and another unidentified male are downstairs. I don’t know if they’re armed. If they find me here … I’m outnumbered.”
“Shit. Look, just … hang tight. Stay out of sight. Keep yourself safe. I’ll get someone over there pronto.”
“Roger that.”
I drop the phone into my coat pocket. When I turn back to the woman she raises her hands and backs away. “Nemaye politsiyi. Nemaye politsiyi!”
“Calm down and be quiet.” I snap the words as I go to the door, press my ear against it and listen for footsteps.
She follows me to the door. “The police are bad. They already know about us.”
“The police aren’t bad here—”
“Yes! He comes here, to my room, all the time!”
I turn to her, a chill scraping up my spine. “What? Which police?”
“The big man with red hair. He knows,” she whispers. “He looks the other way.”
Sheriff Dan Suggs is a large man with red hair. My intellect, my sense of loyalty, rejects the idea. Dan Suggs has been the consummate professional; he’s been helpful and accommodating, even protective. I don’t know how reliable this woman is; I don’t know if she’s victim or perpetrator or somewhere in between.
“He comes to my room,” she hisses. “He tells me safe passage isn’t free. That I have to pay. Believe me, he makes me pay.”
I stare at her, my heart pounding. Doubt is a punch between the eyes. Is it possible Suggs is involved? But if that’s the case, why in the name of God would he let the investigation go so far?
Using my cell, I go to the Franklin County Sheriff’s department website and pull up a photo of Sheriff Dan Suggs. “Is this him?”
She narrows her eyes, nods. “That’s him.”
If she’s telling the truth, backup isn’t coming. There is no deputy parked nearby. I’m on my own. If the men downstairs don’t already know I’m here, they will soon …
I hit the speed dial for Betancourt. He growls his last name. Sleeping. I don’t bother identifying myself. “I need backup. I’m at Schrock’s place. I need the state police. Expedite.”
“What’s going on? Where’s Suggs? Burkholder, he can get a deputy out there faster than—”
“Suggs is involved,” I say. “Whatever’s going on here in Roaring Springs, he’s part of it.”
“What?” he says crossly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Eli Schrock, Jonas Smucker, and Jacob Yoder are smuggling people through Canada into the U.S.”
“Human smuggling? For God’s sake, how do you know that? When did this come about?”
“Just now. I have a witness.”
The woman is standing a few feet away, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. I lower my voice. “She identified Suggs. There are people being held here, locked in rooms. Get someone out here now.”
“All right. I’m on it. You’re at Schrock’s place?”
“An old barn a mile north of the house. Hurry.”
He curses exorbitantly. “Where’s Suggs?”
“I don’t know. But he knows I’m here.”
“I’ll get him on the horn. Stay away from him until we get this straightened out.”
I start to respond but he hangs up.
Dropping my phone in my pocket, I look around for some way to secure the door. “Do you have any nails? Tools? Something we can use to jam the door?”
She rushes to the table beside her bed and comes back with a small package of half-inch brads, offers it to me.
“Too small.” I cross to the bed. It’s a full size. Heavy, but not so much that we can’t shove it against the door. It won’t keep anyone out, but it’ll slow them down.
“Help me move it,” I say to the woman.
We’re sliding the bed across the floor when a woman’s scream rends the air.
We stop and look at each other. “Who is that?” I ask.
“They brought her yesterday. The plain girl. They always … you know. The new ones.”
I go to the door, press my ear against it, listen. No sound of anyone approaching. No voices. I crack open the door and peer out. The stairwell is empty. I hear voices downstairs. Male laughter. The unknown female crying.
I turn my attention to the woman. “He’s assaulting her?”
She nods. “They won’t hurt her. She’s money to them.”
Another scream sounds. A hysterical outpouring of outrage, a visceral sound of pain. Her cries are met with ridicule.
It would be foolhardy for me to intervene. I’m outnumbered three to one—four to one if I include Suggs in the equation. I don’t know if the men are armed. I have no idea where Suggs is or how long it will be before real backup arrives. All of that said, there’s no way in hell I can do nothing while a vicious crime takes p
lace scant feet away.
I turn to Alina. “I want you to drag the bed over here and shove it against the door. Do you understand?”
She looks alarmed. “You can’t go down there. They’ll—”
“No, they won’t.” I step onto the landing, then look back at the woman. “Don’t let anyone in. The good police are on the way.”
* * *
Lifting my skirt, I unholster the .22 and start down the stairs. I wish for my .38. Not only does it have six shots, as opposed to five, it’s got a lot more stopping power.
At the base of the stairs, I peer around the corner into the main area. The barn door stands open, undisturbed. No movement. The same as I left it. I can hear the woman wailing over the blare of the music. One of the men is taunting her. I know better than to let that get inside my head or let my emotions get involved. But I know what that kind of violence does to a person, and I make an effort to dial it back.
I step into the hall and go right. Straight ahead, the door is still ajar. Pressing my back to the wall, I edge toward it, ducking at each window I pass in case someone’s locked inside and they start making noise. I reach the door. Using my fingers, I push it open a few inches and look inside.
Straight ahead I see a folding table. Playing cards, a bag of chips, and several beer bottles sit on top. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall to my right. A pornographic movie plays on the screen in vivid color. Music blares from a sleek sound system stacked on a shelf unit. A newish sofa, end table, and lamp. Clothes strewn on the floor. There are no weapons in sight.
I look left. I see a man on a bed. His back is bare, his lower half covered by a blanket. I can only see the side of his face. Black hair. Scruffy beard. The woman lies motionless beneath him. Bloodied lip. Misery on her face.
A door near the bed swings open. I slink back, but not before I see Jacob Yoder emerge from what looks like a bathroom. No need for me to be worried he’ll see me; his attention is riveted on the man and woman in the bed. He’s wearing trousers, unfastened and unzipped. No shirt. Wiry arms. Skinny white chest. His face is flushed.
Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel Page 24
