Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  “Ivvah-nemma!” Take over.

  Ben Bontrager’s voice rings out. No time to look. I keep going, sprint toward the tree line fifty yards away. I hear Loretta shout, but I don’t comprehend the words. I train my eyes on the woods ahead. Old-growth forest, thick with bramble.

  “Shtobba!” Stop!

  Ben’s voice, scant yards behind me. I pour on the speed, too fast. Praying I don’t trip. My balance off because I can’t use my hands.

  There’s a ditch at the edge of the woods. Too wide to hurdle. I plunge into a foot of muddy water, muscle through, charge up the other side. Then I’m in the trees, zigzagging between trunks as wide as a man’s shoulders. I hear the sound of breaking brush behind me. Another jet of adrenaline hits my muscles. A branch comes out of nowhere, punches my cheek, opens the skin. I duck, ignoring the pain, keep running.

  “Skid! Skid!” I know there’s no one around. I call out anyway. “Police Department! Help! Help me!”

  I know Bontrager is going to catch me. It’s inevitable. He’s faster, not hampered by bound hands. Still, it’s a shock when his fingers clamp around my arm. One moment I’m running full out, the next I’m being yanked backward with so much force that my feet leave the ground. I land on my backside and roll. I’m scrambling to my feet when Bontrager puts his boot on my back.

  “Get off me,” I snarl.

  He looks down at me, breaths labored. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I see stress etched into his every feature, and I know the fear of losing the child he’s raised from birth has sent him over the edge. Looking into his eyes, I see something else, even more unexpected. The regret of a man who knows he’s about to make a mistake that cannot be undone.

  “Please don’t do this,” I say.

  “Greeyah ruff.” Get up. There’s no rage or high passion in his voice—just the steel resolve of a man who expects complete submission.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say.

  Bending, he hauls me to my feet and shoves me toward the wagon. “Gay.” Go.

  When I don’t move fast enough, he shoves me in the direction of the wagon. “Keep walking.”

  We leave the cover of trees. I listen for a distant siren. The rumble of an engine. Where the hell is Skid?

  Ahead, I see Loretta standing near the wagon, looking around, her hands on her hips. “Dumla,” she says. Hurry.

  I slow, stalling, but Ben shoves me again.

  Only then do I recognize where we are. We’ve left the Bontrager property and entered adjacent land upon which a two-room Amish school once stood. I attended school here. A few years ago, a tornado leveled the structure. The only thing left is the decrepit foundation and stone chimney. Beyond, there’s a gravel two-track that continues on for another half mile or so, eventually opening onto County Road 60.

  Why the hell have they brought me here?

  “Bring her.” The Amish woman strides past the foundation to an area overrun with high grass and the spindly stalks of last year’s weeds.

  “Walk.” Ben shoves my shoulder again.

  I have no idea what they have planned or hope to accomplish. What are my options? Appeal to reason? Their Amish mores? Threaten them with the consequences of their actions? Losing custody of their daughter?

  Loretta stops next to the stump of a long-dead tree. I’ve been here before, I realize. The school outhouse once stood on this very spot. The only thing left is the pit, where the refuse was stored and removed.

  Uneasiness quivers in my gut at the sight of the pit. It’s about five feet deep with crumbling cinder-block walls choked with roots and tangled with weeds. A huge pile of freshly excavated dirt is next to the pit. Someone has recently taken a shovel to it, cleared out most of the debris and earth.

  “This is not the way we wanted to do this,” Loretta whispers.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I say. “It’ll only make things worse for you. For Fannie.”

  “You should have let things lie.” Ben says the words as if he didn’t hear me. “You’ve left us no choice. Whatever happens here today is between you and God.”

  I’d been working under the assumption that I’d be able to talk them out of whatever crazy scheme they’d hatched. For the first time it occurs to me they didn’t bring me here to convince me of their cause. I’m in danger. The ripple of fear that follows is so powerful that the ground trembles beneath my feet.

  “I know what we are about to do is a sin against God,” Ben says. “That we will go to hell for it. But I will not let them take Fannie.”

  My heart begins to pound. If I were to be pushed into the pit, I’m pretty sure I could eventually climb out, even with my wrists bound. In the back of my mind, I wonder if he’s going to pull out the .38 and kill me and then push all that dirt into the pit.…

  “You have brought the wrath of the Lord down upon yourself,” Loretta says. “You are eevil.” Evil. “You are a threat. Not only to us and our daughter’s life. But everything that is decent and good—”

  I launch myself toward the trees. Ben lunges so quickly, I don’t have time to brace. He shoves me with so much force that I fly sideways and plummet into the pit. I hit the ground so hard that the breath is knocked from my lungs.

  I roll, spit dirt, try to suck in a breath of air. I struggle to my knees, look up in time to see the shovel. I duck, avoid the blow, but it’s so close I feel the puff of air against my face.

  Holding the shovel like a bat, Ben swings again. Purpose etched into his features. Lips drawn back. I lunge sideways, but I’m not fast enough. The blade grazes the top of my head with enough force to open the skin. I feel the warm trickle of blood.

  “Don’t do this!” I shout. “Think of Fannie! She needs you!”

  Staying low, watching for the shovel, I look around for a way out. A place where the wall isn’t vertical. A foothold, a broken cinder block or root or jut of rebar. The pit is about five feet square, the muddy floor littered with dead vegetation and loose dirt.

  Ben jabs the shovel at me again. I’m far enough below him that I’m able to get out of the way and he misses again. I stumble to the opposite side of the pit, spot the jut of root. I rush to it, step up on it, press my shoulder against the wall to keep my balance. If I can find another foothold, I might be able to wriggle high enough to escape.…

  The shovel strikes the side of my head with so much force that I’m knocked off my perch. I hear the tink! of the blade strike my skull. The zing of pain down the side of my face. Then I’m falling into space and the darkness swallows me whole.

  CHAPTER 40

  Skid was well versed in all the ins and outs of police procedure. He’d had it drilled into his head since his first day at the academy a lifetime ago. He figured his finding the chief’s abandoned vehicle and .38 qualified as just cause to enter the premises sans a warrant. He didn’t bother knocking. It took him just a few minutes to ascertain there was no one in the house. He even went into the basement and attic. All to no avail.

  “House is clear,” he said into his shoulder mike. “You got an ETA on County?”

  “They’re ten-seven-six.”

  “Put out a BOLO for Ben and/or Loretta Bontrager’s buggy.” The request didn’t feel right, because he’d seen a buggy in the barn. Did Amish people have more than one?

  “Roger that.”

  “Something’s wonky here, Mona,” he said. “I’m going to look around.”

  “Pickles is ten-seven-six.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Skid left the house, jogged to the gravel area between the house and barn. There was a rusted steel gate next to the barn and a muddy two-track that ran toward the back of the property. He got into the cruiser, idled to the gate, and got out. Sure enough, marks in the dirt told him someone had recently opened the gate. On the other side were fresh horse tracks and the ruts of tires. He pushed open the gate. Back in the cruiser, he drove through.

  At the top of the hill, he hailed Pickles. “What’s your twenty, old man?”


  “I’m two minutes out.”

  “I’m headed to the rear of the Bontrager property. Do you know if you can get in through the back? There a gate back there?”

  “I think there’s an old two-track down where that old schoolhouse used to be. You want me to meet you back there?”

  Skid didn’t know about the old schoolhouse. In fact, he wasn’t counting on much help from Pickles. The guy might’ve been a good cop back in the day, but he was almost eighty now and sneaking a smoke every chance he got.

  “That’s affirm. Keep your eyes open, old man,” he said. “I’m pretty sure someone’s come back this way.”

  * * *

  I don’t remember falling or striking the ground. The next thing I become aware of is the press of damp earth against my cheek. Pain above my ear. The smell of dirt and decaying organic matter. I can’t move my arms.…

  I open my eyes to find myself staring at a wall of dirt and concrete block, dangling roots, and nondescript vegetation. I’m prone, the ground cold and wet beneath me. Raising my head, I look up to see Ben Bontrager slide a shovel into a pile of loose dirt.

  It’s a surreal scene. So strange that for a moment, I wonder if I blink, it’ll go away. A shovelful of earth clatters onto my back. I try to sit up, but I’m tied to something heavy. I twist my head, smell the creosote an instant before I recognize the railroad tie.

  A hot flare of panic courses through me as the hopelessness of the situation hits home. A railroad tie weighs about two hundred pounds; there’s no way I can move it. I’m lying in the base of a deep pit and from all indications Ben Bontrager is planning to bury me alive.

  “Loretta!” I look around for the Amish woman. “Don’t do this!”

  She looks down at me, then walks away without speaking, leaving my line of vision.

  “Help me!” I work at the wires binding my wrists, no longer noticing the pain. My feet aren’t bound, so I use the strength in my legs to try and disengage myself from the railroad tie. I dig my toes into the dirt. I grunt and scramble, like an animal snared in a trap. All to no avail.

  A torrent of earth rains down. It goes into my hair. Down my collar, into my eyes. I look up to see Ben upend a wheelbarrow. “Stop!” I scream.

  Blinking dirt from my eyes, I see Loretta come up beside him, pushing a second wheelbarrow. Ben usurps the handles and upends it.

  Dirt and small stones come down atop me. It gets into my mouth. This time, there’s so much, I feel the weight of it on my back.

  I struggle mindlessly against the bonds, twisting. Back and forth. Back and forth. I kick my legs, throwing off the dirt. I buck against the railroad tie, clods rolling off me. Another wheelbarrow full of dirt plummets. I suck in dust and begin to cough. Panic smolders inside me, but I tamp it down, knowing it will do nothing but hinder my efforts.

  Abruptly, I go still. I take a deep breath, release it slowly. I close my eyes. Grapple for a calm that isn’t there. I hear the rattle of the wheelbarrow. The hiss of the shovel penetrating earth. I focus on the wires at my wrists. Try to pinpoint the weak point. I go at it again. Ignoring the steel slicing my flesh.

  I remind myself Skid is on his way. He’s a good cop; he’ll find me. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath and scream at the top of my lungs. “Skid! I’m here! Help me! Help!”

  My cries echo against the walls of the pit. I quash another wave of panic. A payload of earth hits my back, the weight pressing me down. I kick my legs, twist to rid myself of it. But the railroad tie locks me down tight. The dirt stays, and I can’t help but wonder: How long before my face is covered? How long until I can’t breathe? How long until I’m completely buried and even if someone comes, they won’t find me?

  Another volley of dirt pours down, strikes my face. It goes into my left ear. My eyes. My nose. Grit in my mouth.

  Dear God.

  I lift my head. Spit mud. “Skid!”

  The wire on my wrists snaps. I twist my head around, look up to see Ben Bontrager. His back is to me. Loretta is nowhere in sight. I twist my hands and the remaining wire falls away.

  I lie still. Facedown. Listening. My mind racing. Even with my hands free, if I try to climb out, one of them will bludgeon me and force me back down. I don’t have much time. In the periphery of my vision, I see Ben move away, leaving my line of sight. No sign of Loretta, but I hear her speaking to him.

  I jump to my feet, look around wildly. For a foothold. A weapon. Anything I can use. A three-foot length of rebar lies on the ground. I snatch it up, spot the jut of a broken cinder block. Heart pounding, I set my boot on the cinder block and heave myself up.

  I hear the whoosh of air before I see the shovel. I glance left, see Ben swing it like a nine iron. But his angle is bad. I flatten myself against the earthen wall, feel the gust against the back of my head. I throw my leg over the top of the pit, scramble out. I roll, get to my knees, swing the rebar with all my might. Steel clangs against his shin with such force that I nearly lose my grip.

  A howl tears from his throat. He drops the shovel. Goes down on one knee. Face contorted. But his eyes are on me. Enraged and filled with intent as he rises.

  I scramble to my feet, kick his shovel away. Gripping the rebar with both hands, I swing it with all my might. The steel clocks him across the chest. He dances sideways, bends, snatches up the shovel, comes at me.

  “Drop it! Do it now!”

  Skid.

  I swivel, catch sight of my officer rushing toward us, weapon drawn, moving fast.

  Ben Bontrager swings the shovel at me. I pivot, reel backward. Trip on a clod of dirt. Lose my balance. I land on my backside.

  The shovel arcs 180 degrees. A heavy hitter smacking in a home run, inches above my head.

  “Drop it!” Skid screams. “Get your hands up! Now!”

  A dozen things happen at once. I see Loretta rush Skid from behind, shovel raised over her head. “Behind you!” I shout.

  Skid spins, fires once as the shovel comes down on his shoulder. The Amish woman drops. The shovel clatters to the ground. Cursing, Skid lowers his weapon, goes to his knees, injured.

  Ben Bontrager charges Skid. Shovel at the ready. Footfalls heavy and pounding. A roar pouring from his mouth.

  “Get on the ground! Show me your hands!” Pickles lumbers toward us. Ten yards away. An old man’s run. But his weapon is trained and steady on Bontrager. Authority rings in his voice. “Do not move or I will put you down! Do you understand me? Get the hell down!”

  For a moment, I think Bontrager isn’t going to comply. That he’s going to force Pickles to fire his weapon. But the Amish man’s stride falters. A couple of feet from his wife, he stops. He looks down at her. The shovel clatters to the ground. He goes to his knees and raises both hands.

  Pickles goes to him, works the handcuffs from the compartment on his belt. “Get down. On your face.” He sets his knee on the Amish man’s back. “Do not move.”

  Bontrager doesn’t resist. Doesn’t seem to care as Pickles snaps the cuffs onto his wrists and pats him down. The Amish man never takes his eyes off his wife.

  I get to my feet. My legs are still shaking as I cross to where Loretta lies. I’m aware of Skid standing a few feet away, speaking into his shoulder mike, requesting an ambulance. Of Pickles standing over Ben Bontrager.

  I kneel next to her. She’s lying on her side, one arm stretched over her head, the other bent with her hand pressed against her abdomen. I can see the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes open and blinking.

  “You’re going to be all right,” I tell her.

  Wincing, she shifts, rolls onto her back. “He shot me.”

  “I know,” I say. “Be still. An ambulance is on the way.”

  Her hand falls away from her abdomen as if she no longer has the strength to keep it there. I see a hole the size of my thumb in the fabric of her dress, just below her rib cage. Blood runs from the wound, soaking the fabric and pooling on the ground.

  “Here you go, Chief.”
/>   I look up to see Skid approach, his first aid kit in hand. He sets it on the ground, then passes me a sterile pack of gauze and a pair of disposable gloves.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  “Didn’t need that rotator cuff anyway.” But he manages a half smile.

  Snapping on the gloves, I turn my attention back to the injured woman. I open the gauze and press it firmly over the wound.

  Loretta squeezes her eyes closed against the pain. “It was me,” she whispers.

  Blood soaks quickly through the gauze. I look up at Skid. He nods, letting me know he’s listening, and he hands me a fresh wad. Saying nothing, I press it to the wound.

  “Rachael,” the Amish woman says. “She asked me to meet her at the motel. She’d been calling. I knew what she wanted.”

  “Fannie?” I ask.

  “She said she wanted to know her daughter. I didn’t believe her. Not for a moment. Rachael might’ve been curious, but she had no use for a twelve-year-old girl. Not with the kind of lifestyle she led. All she cared about was the money.”

  “What money?” I ask.

  “I paid her four thousand dollars. To stay away from us. Away from Painters Mill. It wasn’t enough. I knew it would never be enough. So I stopped her. To protect Fannie.”

  “How did you stop her?” I ask.

  Her face screws up, in pain from the gunshot wound—or anguish because of what she did. I don’t know. “I remember getting Fannie’s bat out of the buggy. I was just going to scare her, you know. Tell her to take the money. To go away and never come back.”

  Loretta begins to cry. “She was actually happy to see me. Can you imagine? And then I just … I don’t know what happened. I was so angry. I hit her and then she was on the floor. The bat was in my hand. It was as if the devil took over my body. He made me do ungodly things.”

  Skid hands me another wad of gauze and I put it to use. “How much does Ben know?” I ask.

  “He didn’t know any of it. Just that Fannie was adopted. He never questioned me. It all came out the night that deputy attacked me in the barn. I told him everything.”