Among the Wicked

by Linda Castillo

  “Schrock’s place is off Highway 30 near Constable.” Leaning closer, Suggs runs a stubby finger along the marked road. “You go north on Lucas Road and there’s a two track that’ll take you into the community.”

  “I looked at aerials last night and familiarized myself with the area.” A sleepless night spent studying and memorizing maps.

  Suggs nods. “That whole area to the north is a jigsaw puzzle of dirt roads and two tracks with a couple of good size creeks and ravines.”

  “There are some other players involved.” Betancourt nods at Suggs.

  The sheriff slides a second sheet of paper toward me. “This is everything I could find on the family Rachel Esh was living with when she died.”

  The information is sparse. Abe and Mary Gingerich. Forty-six and forty-three, respectively. They live in a house outside Roaring Springs, not far from Schrock’s land. Four children are grown and out of the house. Special needs girl still at home. Fifteen-year-old Anna. Abe’s occupation is listed as a farmer. Mary works part-time at a restaurant in town called The Dutch Kitchen.

  I raise my gaze to Suggs. “Any idea why Rachel Esh was living with this couple instead of her parents?”

  “The Gingeriches told me she was staying with them to help with Anna, the special needs girl. That’s not the whole story. When I talked to her parents, Fannie and Samuel Esh, they let on that they were having some problems with her.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “They backtracked, but I got the impression she was acting out somehow. I tried, but couldn’t get much more out of them.”

  “I’ll try to make contact with them, but it might be tough with them grieving.”

  “They live on a farm six miles south of the settlement.” Another sheet of paper comes my way. “Address is there, along with some info on her best friend.”

  The information on the best friend is sparse. Sixteen-year-old Marie Weaver. No photo. She works part-time at a mom-and-pop restaurant called Huston’s outside Roaring Springs.

  “Best friend might be a good source of information,” I say. “Have you talked to her?”

  “Girl’s a piece of work.” Suggs sighs tiredly. “I talked to all of them, Chief. No one knows shit about shit. Or else they’re not talking.”

  “What’s your gut tell you?”

  “Frankly, I can’t figure these people out. Here we are, trying to get to the bottom of a girl’s death, and yet getting anything out of them has been like pulling teeth.”

  I nod, not surprised. “Does Schrock have a girlfriend?”

  He shakes his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

  “That seems odd,” Betancourt says. “I mean, even for an Amish guy, right?”

  “Most Amish men are married with grown children by that age,” I tell them. “Most widowers remarry, so it’s an interesting detail.”

  We fall silent, then I look from man to man. “I suppose I should ask about my accommodations.”

  Betancourt glances at Suggs, but there’s something in his eyes, a look that tells me I’m not going to like what comes next.

  “We considered putting you up in the Sleepy Time Motel, but it didn’t seem quite right for an Amish woman,” Suggs tells me. “Especially since you’re supposedly going to be laying down roots.” He clears his throat. “I looked at several rentals, and frankly, we’re a little limited in Roaring Springs. I finally found a trailer home north of town.” He grimaces. “It’s fully furnished, including linens and dishes. The landlady, Brenda Bowman, keeps the place real clean. It’s not the Ritz, Chief, but the location is damn near perfect.”

  The word “trailer” roils uneasily in my gut, but I quickly remind myself it’s part of my cover and I’ll only be here for a short time.

  “Most important thing is that it’s just half a mile down the road from Schrock’s place,” Betancourt adds, “and close to town.”

  “Close to the scene where Rachel Esh’s body was found, too,” Suggs adds. “Bowman rents almost exclusively to the Amish. She’s no frills so you won’t have to jump through any hoops. First and last month’s rent.” He jerks his head toward Betancourt. “We’ll supply you with the cash.”

  “I’m sure you have a personal cell phone?” Betancourt asks.

  “I do.”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out a basic smartphone. “We got a backup for you. My cell number is programmed in. Same with Dan’s. And a direct line to the sheriff’s department. All on speed dial.” He nods at Suggs. “We’ll have our cells with us at all times while you’re here, day and night, and that includes when we’re in the shower.”

  “I’ll have to leave it on vibrate when I have it on my person,” I tell him.

  “Let’s check it now.” Suggs pulls out his own phone.

  I pick up the phone and set it to vibrate. The sheriff hits a button, and the phone vibrates soundlessly in my hand. “Good enough,” I tell them.

  “Can’t have it ringing while you’re at church.” Betancourt’s gaze meets mine. “You have your sidearm with you?”

  “Both of them.”

  “I’ll take care of any paperwork so we’re on the up and up with that,” Betancourt says. “Once we finish here and you’re dressed and ready to go, you’ll walk into the diner with your suitcase and box, and ask the waitress to use the phone.”

  “Dee Dee—the waitress—can be a little persnickety,” the sheriff tells me. “If she gives you any shit, I’ll be at the counter. I go in all the time for coffee. She knows me and I’ll make sure she lets you use the phone.”

  “Most phones have caller ID, and we thought it was better for Skelly’s Diner to come up,” Betancourt clarifies, “rather than your personal ID or anything to do with law enforcement.”

  “All this will get the rumor mill humming, by the way,” Suggs tells me. “We don’t get many new residents around here.”

  The grapevine is a powerful mode of communication in most Amish communities. Word of a new resident will travel fast.

  Suggs passes me a sheet of paper with two names and phone numbers, and a Roaring Springs address at the bottom. “The driver’s name is Marcella Jennings, but everyone calls her Marc. Drives a beat-up blue van and hauls the Amish around all the time. Everyone knows her, so she’s legit.”

  “Good,” I say.

  “You’ll also need to call the landlady and tell her you want to rent the trailer,” Suggs continues. “Just tell her you saw the ad in The Bridge; it says something about the trailer being Amish friendly.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Once you set a time to meet Bowman out at the trailer, call Marc. Tell her you need a ride from Skelly’s in Brushton to the trailer home.” He nods to the paper. “Address is there. Marc’ll pick you up and drive you out there for fifteen bucks.”

  The men fall silent. Now that we’ve touched on some of the details, I suspect the complexity of the assignment is hitting all of us.

  After a moment, I say, “I have some thoughts on how to insert myself if you want to hear them.”

  Both men look slightly relieved, as if they’re fresh out of ideas and unsure as to what else they can contribute from this point forward.

  “I brought some Amish quilts with me,” I tell them. “Baby quilts I picked up at a shop in Painters Mill. I can pass the work off as my own and sell them at one of the shops in town. It’ll be a good way to meet some of the Amish women.”

  “That’s good,” Betancourt says.

  “I think getting a job in town will be beneficial, too, especially in terms of meeting the Amish,” I tell them. “I cruised around the Internet last night and found several Amish-owned businesses that might suffice.” I glance down at my notes. “The Coffee Cup. The Calico Country Store. And The Dutch Kitchen restaurant.”

  Suggs nods vigorously. “The Coffee Cup closed last month. Used to be a dozen or more Amish-owned businesses, but most of them closed once Schrock got in there as bishop. Hated to see The Coffee
Cup go. I swear they made the best strawberry-rhubarb pie I’ve ever had.” He grins. “Don’t tell my wife I said that.”

  I smile back. “Attending worship will be one of the best ways for me to get to know people. Generally, the Amish will use someone’s home or farm and rotate every other week so hosting such a large event doesn’t become a hardship for any one person or family.”

  “I don’t think this community rotates Sunday worship,” Suggs replies. “I’m pretty sure Schrock preaches every Sunday out to his place.”

  “That’s unusual,” I say. “At his home?”

  “I went out there one Sunday morning to talk to him about the lack of reflective signage on his buggy,” the sheriff tells me. “There were fifty or sixty people in chairs out in his barn. He has a big potbellied stove in there.”

  I nod. “Do I have a form of transportation?”

  He offers a hangdog frown. “We considered setting you up with a horse and buggy, but we didn’t have the funds or the time or the right kind of place for you, frankly. There are no facilities for a horse at Bowman’s trailer.”

  “In Ohio,” I begin, “some of the Amish get around on bicycles or scooters. Would that be an option?”

  “We can definitely purchase either for you,” Suggs says. “Or you can pick up whatever you need and we’ll reimburse the cost. But Chief, I can tell you that this time of year there’s just too damn much snow for that to be practical.”

  My heart takes another dive. With several inches of snow on the ground and the temperature below freezing, I’m wondering about the physical logistics of getting around. The notion of trekking through miles of snow in a dress isn’t pleasant.

  “How far is Roaring Springs from the trailer home where I’ll be staying?”

  Suggs renders a pained look. “Half a mile south. Like I mentioned, Schrock’s place is half a mile straight north. So you’re pretty central, if that’s any consolation.”

  “We’re sorry, Chief Burkholder,” Betancourt says. “We know the lack of transportation may present a hardship, especially with the weather this time of year, but it’s the best we could do considering our budget and all those Amish rules.”

  I think about that a moment. “If there’s an Amish family living nearby, I may be able to arrange it so I can pay them to take me places. And there’s always the possibility of using a driver.” Still, there’s no doubt I’ll be spending a good bit of time marching through snow.

  “What can you tell me about the children in the settlement?” I ask.

  “The kids live with their families, of course,” Suggs replies. “Some of the families live on Schrock’s land. Others live in the general area, on small farms mostly. I think we’ve got two or three families living in town.”

  “Is there a school?”

  He nods. “It’s on Schrock’s property. Smallish white clapboard building a few hundred yards from the dirt road. One of the first buildings you come to when you drive in.”

  I pull out my notebook, scan my notes, then put it away. “I’ll be going by the name Kate Miller. I’m a widow. My husband, John, died of cancer nine months ago. I’m Swartzentruber, so I’m looking for a community with like beliefs. I’m from near Millersburg, but I’ll keep it vague, in case someone tries to check up on me. Since they have no reason to be suspicious, I don’t think they’ll go to the trouble. Back in Ohio, I found the Amish bishop too lenient. I heard about Eli Schrock from a cousin who’d heard about him from a friend. My parents are passed away.” I shrug. “That’s about it.”

  “Always best to keep things simple when you’re undercover,” Suggs says. “Good cover story.”

  Betancourt nods. “A few things to keep in mind, Chief Burkholder. In addition to information on the death of Rachel Esh, we’re looking for any indication of child abuse or neglect. You know what to look for.” He motions toward the phone. “It’s set up for photos.”

  I nod.

  “As we mentioned back in Painters Mill, local law enforcement also got wind of a rumor about people being held against their will. We got nothing concrete. Since these people are so damn secretive, you’ll just have to keep your ear to the ground.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  Betancourt holds my gaze. “We’re going to need you to report in at least once every twenty-four hours. More, if you can manage it. If you go past twenty-four hours, we’ll have no choice but to assume you’re in trouble.”

  Suggs interjects, “In which case, I’ll check on you at your home. If you’re not there, I’ll get my deputies involved. We’ll drive out to Schrock’s place and find an excuse to look around.”

  I nod. “All right.”

  Suggs and Betancourt exchange looks. “Is there anything else we can do for you to help you get started with all this, Chief Burkholder?” Betancourt asks.

  A uneasy silence echoes within the walls like curse words whispered by a child. I work to settle in my mind everything that’s been said, but the mission ahead is unwieldy, with far too many variables.

  “I think we’ve covered just about everything,” I say after a moment.

  Betancourt reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a plain white envelope. “Eight hundred bucks cash. It’ll get you into the trailer, buy your groceries, and keep you in petty cash for a while. Probably enough left to buy a bike over at the Walmart, if you need it.”

  I pocket the envelope without looking at the cash. “I think now would be a good time for me to get dressed.”

  Suggs rises. “I’ll grab your suitcase.”

  CHAPTER 6

  It’s been eighteen years since I last wore an Amish dress. Even after so much time, the memories and old resentments rise inside me as I pull the clothes from my suitcase. This particular dress is slightly large for my frame, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing when you’re packing heat. The fabric is heavy for winter warmth, and dark gray, which is acceptable by almost all church districts. I’d forgotten what a pain the pins are, and my fingers fumble helplessly as I secure the halsduch, or cape, over the bodice. I poke myself twice before getting everything into its proper place.

  I’ve chosen a thigh holster for the .22 mini Magnum. It’s black neoprene. I adjust it so the weapon rests on the side and slightly in front of my right thigh. I drop the cell phone into my pocket. Both items are accessible yet undetectable. For now, I’ll keep my .38 and extra ammo tucked into my suitcase.

  It takes me another five minutes to secure my hair in a bun, roll the sides upward, and tuck all of it into the white organdy kapp. The black winter bonnet fits over the kapp. Fully dressed, I stand before the mirror in the bathroom at the rear of the travel trailer, a little shocked by my appearance.

  “Hello, Kate Miller,” I whisper.

  Beyond the door, I hear Suggs and Betancourt talking. Waiting for me. Quickly, I fold my street clothes and cram everything into the canvas bag that will stay with my Explorer. A final glance in the mirror and I open the door.

  Betancourt is standing near the dining table and does a double take upon spotting me. “That’s quite a transformation.”

  A sense of self-consciousness steals over me. I feel vulnerable, and for the first time I realize how much of my identity is based on the uniform I wear and the badge that’s now stowed in the canvas bag I’ll be leaving behind.

  Suggs is at the sink, drinking coffee. He swallows hard when he sees me. “You certainly look the part, Chief Burkholder.” I give him points for trying not to stare, but he doesn’t quite manage. “A deputy is on the way to pick up your vehicle.”

  Betancourt crosses to me and extends his hand for a shake. “If you need anything, call, day or night.” He holds my gaze, doesn’t let go of my hand. “You’re going to do great.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He jerks his head at Suggs and then leaves.

  I blow out a breath, glance at the sheriff. “This feels weird as hell.”

  “I bet.” He grins. “Ready?”

  Plucking my
coat from the back of the chair, I put it on. I’ve removed the buttons and replaced them with safety pins, which take another minute to secure. “Let’s go.”

  My Amish clothes are squeezed into a single suitcase. I rolled the baby quilts to save space and fit them into the cardboard box. Tucking the box under my arm, I extend the suitcase handle and roll it to the door.

  Outside, the engine of Betancourt’s truck roars to life. Suggs opens the door for me. “Good luck, Chief Burkholder.”

  I look at him. My heart is pounding. I wonder if my face reveals the tension running like hot wires through my nerves. I force a smile. “Roger that,” I tell him, and go through the door.

  Snow falls from a sky the color of slate. I go down the steps with Suggs behind me. My Explorer is gone. The last link to my life. Behind me, I hear Suggs stowing the steps. I’m aware of the rumble of Betancourt’s vehicle as I make my way toward the diner, but I don’t look back. As I reach the front of the building, I see the travel trailer pull onto the road.

  There are two cars and an old pickup truck parked in front of the diner. A few cars pass on the highway, but the sound of the tires is muted by snow. Propping the box on my hip, I open the door. A blast of heat and the smell of eggs fried in grease greet me. The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” crackles over a bad sound system. Two men in brown coveralls and Ray’s Machine Shop caps sit at the counter. In an orange Naugahyde booth to my left, a woman and a little boy share a chocolate sundae. Behind the counter, a waitress in a blue uniform refills a ketchup bottle from a Sam’s Club–size container. When the door closes behind me, she looks up and frowns.

  I walk to the counter, my suitcase rolling beside me, and set the box on the nearest stool. “May I use your phone?” I ask, invoking the Pennsylvania Dutch inflection I’d fought so hard to eradicate.

  The waitress doesn’t acknowledge me. Taking her time, she sets down the condiment and screws on the lid. Behind me, I hear the door open. I glance over, see Suggs walk in and take a seat at the other end of the counter without looking at me. For a moment, I think the waitress is going to ignore my request, then she glances my way and rolls her eyes.