Among the Wicked

by Linda Castillo

  I’m not easily shocked; in the years I’ve been in law enforcement, I’ve seen things I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t witnessed them with my own eyes. I’ve seen things I later wished I could erase from my brain. I’ve met more than my share of people who were violent or foaming-at-the-mouth crazy or both. Individuals whose minds are as putrid and dark as a rotting carcass.

  Eli Schrock is none of those things. He’s charismatic, with a gentle demeanor and kind eyes. He’s well spoken, outwardly religious, and caring to the point of discomfort. All of which makes him the most dangerous kind of criminal.

  This community into which I’ve been thrust isn’t merely an Amish settlement. Eli Schrock is no more an Amish bishop than I am. He’s taken something sacrosanct and twisted it to meet his own self-fulfilling and perverse needs.

  By the time I reach the trailer, my head is beginning to clear. I’m immensely relieved; as far as I know, he could have slipped me a dose of something nasty. Something fatal.

  I check for footprints around the trailer before going inside, but the snow is coming down too hard for the precaution to do much good. Shivering, I open the door and go directly to the sink, yank a glass from the cupboard and down a full glass of water. Working the phone from my pocket, I dial Suggs.

  “I just got back from Schrock’s place,” I tell him. “I think the son of a bitch drugged me.”

  “Drugged you? Kate, Jesus Christ.” His voice takes on an urgency I hadn’t heard before. “I’ll get an ambulance out there now. Get you to ER.”

  “That’ll draw too much attention. Dan, I’m not finished with this bastard.”

  “But—”

  “Can you pick me up?” Even as I say the words it occurs to me that someone could be watching. Frustrated, I smack my hand down on the counter. “Meet me at the Amish phone booth.”

  “Damn it, Chief. Are you sure you’re okay to do that?”

  “Make sure there’s no one around to see us.” I hear stress in my voice, make an effort to edge it down. “Don’t drive your official car.”

  He curses again. “I’ll be in my wife’s SUV. Be there as soon as I can. If you get into trouble, call.”

  * * *

  Three hours later I’m sitting on a gurney in the emergency department of Alice Hyde Hospital in Malone, my legs sticking out of a worn hospital gown that refuses to remain closed in the back. Upon my arrival—and thanks to Suggs’s position as sheriff—I was immediately wheeled into an exam cubicle and assessed by the on-call physician. Once my vitals were taken and deemed normal, three vials of blood were drawn. As a precautionary measure, I was given an intramuscular injection of Naloxone, which, I was informed, is a routine treatment for an opiate overdose. It’s a safe medication and has no side effects if, in fact, I did not ingest an opiate narcotic. The blood tox screen will tell all in a few days.

  “Knock, knock,” comes Suggs’s voice from the other side of the privacy curtain.

  I reach for the sheet lying across the head of the gurney, snap it open, and cover my legs. “I’m here.”

  The curtain is shoved aside and the sheriff peeks in. “How you feeling?” he asks.

  “I think they’re about to spring me.”

  “You gave me a hell of a scare,” he growls. “I guess it’s safe to say you don’t have any qualms about putting yourself in the line of fire.”

  “If you want the honey, you’ve got to poke the hive,” I return.

  “What did the doc say?”

  “Schrock may have dropped some type of opiate into the coffee he gave me. Doc says I probably didn’t ingest much. They sent my blood to the lab for a tox.”

  “Anything turns up and we’ll nail him to the wall with it.”

  “Felony assault might earn him a few years.” I look at Suggs. “I think he’s guilty of worse.”

  He cocks his head, curiosity sharp in his eyes. “So what happened?”

  I tell him about Yoder coming to my trailer with a summons from the bishop. “Initially, Schrock was on his best behavior. Once he gave me that coffee, the situation got strange. He began saying things an Amish bishop would never say. Had I been a civilian, there’s no doubt it would have culminated into something else.”

  He makes a sound low in his throat. “Fucking charlatan.”

  “Dan, this guy’s a predator. He’s preying on these people. He’s in a position of power and he’s using it to manipulate the people who believe in him.” I recall the sensation of his finger as he traced it over my palm and suppress a shiver. “He’s no bishop, and we’re not dealing with a typical Amish community.”

  “Look, Kate, I think this gig just got a hell of a lot more dicey. Maybe we ought to end it now. We’ll wait for the tox. Get a warrant. And we’ll settle for what we can get as far as charges—”

  “I want to finish this.”

  He releases a long sigh. “You’re sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “All right.” He pauses. “So what’s next?”

  “The same. I’ll keep talking to people. Keep digging. Sooner or later I’ll find someone who knows something and get them to talk to me.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “A car. Cable TV. A decent furnace.”

  His laugh is halfhearted, as if he knows I’m only partially kidding. We fall silent. Suggs is trying hard not to look at my gown, my bare feet sticking out from beneath the sheet. He isn’t quite succeeding.

  “Kate, you need to be careful,” he says. “I mean it. Especially with Schrock.”

  “You bet I will.” I tell him about the man who works in the kitchen at The Dutch Kitchen. “He was watching us. Eavesdropping. I think that’s why Mary Gingerich wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “That’s so far out there, I don’t even know what to say,” he snaps. “Fucking spies.” Shaking his head, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “You think someone’s watching your trailer?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think they’re suspicious of me.”

  Yet.

  The word hangs in the air, but neither of us acknowledges it.

  “You can’t walk home tonight,” he says. “Too far. Too cold.”

  “Since it’s late and you’re in a civilian vehicle, I think it would be okay for you to drop me at the Amish pay phone.”

  “I guess it’s a chance we’ll have to take.” But he looks worried as he scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I’ll be in the waiting area. Come get me when you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 15

  My encounter with Schrock haunts me through the night. When I’m not tossing and turning, I’m dreaming of being trapped inside that house with him, unable to escape, and when I reach for my sidearm it’s not there …

  I had every intention of calling Tomasetti to let him know what happened, but I couldn’t make myself pick up the phone. I know that’s not fair. Nor is it honest. He’s a strong man and I’m not giving him the credit he deserves. But telling him about a dangerous incident when I’m so far away didn’t feel like the right thing to do. I’m ever cognizant of the anguish he endured after the deaths of his wife and children. He doesn’t speak of it, but there are still nights when his demons come calling. Nights when he wakes in a cold sweat, shaking and choking back panic. I don’t want to add to that.

  I rise at dawn, take a hot shower, careful to leave my cell and .38 sitting on the edge of the tub. At nine, I pack my sewing supplies in a canvas bag and head into town.

  Though it’s a workday, downtown Roaring Springs is deserted. A leaden sky presses down with the weight of some massive boulder. As I make my way along Main Street, with its vacant storefronts and cracked sidewalks, a plastic bag catches in a whirlwind at the entrance to an alley. The scene is postapocalyptic and leaves me feeling isolated and alone.

  There are two cars and a pickup truck parked outside The Dutch Kitchen. I lean the scooter bike against a parking meter at the curb and head inside for coffee and hopefully some conversation with Mary Gingerich.


  A skinny man with shoulder-length hair and a scruffy beard nurses a cup of coffee at the counter. Two women dressed in jeans and sweatshirts are having breakfast in one of the booths. I feel their eyes on me as I start toward the counter. I don’t miss their not-so-covert comments about my clothes as I pass, and I try not to shake my head. I’ve just taken a seat on a stool when Mary comes through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen.

  “Looks like we might be in for some snow later,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Instead of responding, she turns her back, plunges her hands into soapy water and begins to wash coffee cups. “We get that a lot this time of year.”

  The sense that something is off—that something has changed since we last spoke—strikes me immediately. When Mary and I initially met, she was welcoming and friendly and open. Yesterday, and now this morning, she won’t so much as look me in the eye.

  “And Wei bischt du heit?” I ask. How are you today?

  “Busy.” She turns to me, her expression cool and unsmiling. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?

  “Just coffee,” I tell her.

  She sets a steaming cup in front of me, but she doesn’t linger. Something cold scrapes up my back when I notice the bruise below her left eye. Amish women do not wear makeup. Evidently, she made an exception and stopped by the drugstore for concealer; I can see where she tried to cover the bruise. I suspect her eye will be fully black by the end of the day. When she turns to refill the man’s cup, I notice an abrasion the size of a quarter glowing angry and red on the side of her neck.

  My first thought is that Abe hit her. But I’m a decent judge of character; I don’t think her husband is a wife beater. But if not Abe, then who? And why?

  When she passes by me again, I reach out and touch her arm. “Mary, are you okay?”

  She slants me a look. “I’m a klutz, is what I am. Ran into a cabinet door last night.”

  Watching her closely, I sip the coffee without tasting it, hoping I’m wrong, knowing I’m not. “Cabinet door must have been pretty angry.”

  She laughs self-consciously, her hand fluttering to the abrasion on her neck. “Well, that’s just crazy talk.”

  I lower my voice. “Who did that to you?”

  Her eyes dart left. I glance over her shoulder to see the Amish man staring at us through the serving window between the counter area and the kitchen in the rear.

  I let my gaze slide away from his and address Mary loudly enough for him to hear. “I’m willing to bus tables. Or wash dishes if that’s what you need.”

  She blinks, then I see her shoulders relax. “You’ll have to come back when the owner’s here.”

  “Can I fill out an application?” I ask.

  Gathering herself, she turns to the man watching us. “Do you know when Mr. Pelletier will be here?”

  He shrugs. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

  Nodding, she turns her attention back to me. “You’ll have to come back then.”

  I bring the cup to my mouth. “Come to my trailer when you get off,” I whisper.

  “Can’t.” Using the damp towel clutched in her hand, she wipes the counter. “They’ll know.”

  “Who?”

  Wiping vigorously, she shakes her head. “Can’t talk about it,” she says. “Please, just leave.”

  “I can help you.”

  “No one can help,” she whispers. “No one.”

  * * *

  On the short ride to The Calico Country Store, Mary Gingerich’s words replay uneasily in my head. They’ll know. Who the hell was she talking about? Schrock? His followers? The man in the kitchen? I think about the marks on her face and neck. Who would do such a thing, and why? Is physical violence somehow part of this community? If so, to what end? Does it have something to do with Rachel Esh? She had been living with the Gingeriches at the time of her death.

  It’s nearly ten A.M. when I reach The Calico Country Store. The cowbell on the door jingles merrily when I enter. I’m greeted by the aromas of cinnamon bread and cardamom. It’s a pleasant, homey space that beckons one to leave her problems at the door and come in for a decadent snack, a bit of shopping, and some harmless gossip.

  There are no customers in the store this morning. A Mennonite girl stands behind the cash register, reading an inspirational romance novel. She glances up at the sound of the bell and smiles.

  “Hi,” I greet her. “Is Laura around?”

  The girl points toward the rear of the store. “She’s at the sewing table with the other women.”

  “Danki.”

  Midway there, the sound of laughter reaches me. I round the corner to find Laura and three other Amish women sitting at the table in a “sewing circle,” drinking coffee. Spread out before them is a gorgeous tulip basket pattern quilt. Hefting my sewing bag higher on my shoulder, I approach.

  “Wie geth’s alleweil?” I call out to them. How goes it now?

  “Ah, Kate!” Laura tosses a grin at me, her eyes flicking to the bag at my side. “Glad you could make it. I see you brought your work with you.”

  “I’m just finishing up a couple of potholders. For my niece’s hope chest.”

  “We’ve plenty of room if you’d like to join us.” Laura introduces me to the three women as she clears a place at the end of the table. Wearing a dark gray dress and black winter bonnet, Ada is in her mid-fifties with a round face and a figure to match. Naomi is the elder of the group. She’s tall and lean with black hair gone to salt and pepper, dark eyes, and nineteen grandchildren. Lena is forty-two with dishwater-blond hair, a pretty girl-next-door face, and a surprise baby on the way. She and her husband live in a house not far from Eli Schrock’s land.

  “Rebecca isn’t here yet,” Laura says to no one in particular.

  “Missed last week, too,” Ada says as she pushes her needle through fabric.

  Naomi glances toward the door as if expecting her to come through it at any moment. “Odd for her to miss two weeks in a row.”

  Laura addresses me. “The five of us meet every few days to catch up on our sewing.”

  “Catch up on our gossip, more like,” Ada puts in.

  Using her front teeth, Naomi severs a thread. “There’s plenty to be had.”

  “Es waarken maulvoll gat,” Lena comments. There’s nothing good about that.

  “I suppose that depends on who’s the topic of the day.” Laura motions toward the quilt spread out on the table. “Been working on this one for a couple of weeks now.”

  “The thing would be finished if you girls spent more time sewing and less talking,” Ada huffs.

  I like Ada immediately; she’s opinionated, with a spicy personality, and reminds me of my grandmother, who baked the best dry molasses cookies in the world—and was well known for taking you down a notch when you needed it. Ada may be a scant inch short of five feet tall, but she commands respect, and if you’re smart, you’ll give it to her.

  Setting my bag on the floor next to a vacant chair, I pull out my supplies. Spool of thread. Pincushion. Thimble. One of the potholders I’d started. I spy scissors on the table, so I leave mine in the bag. I feel awkward and inept as I run the thread through the eye of the needle, but my hands are steady and I remind myself that even though it’s been a while since I stitched, I’ve been practicing. I spent many an evening as a girl, needle and thread in hand, under the watchful eye of my mamm. I hope the memory comes back with enough steam for me to pull this off.

  “We’re having siess kaffi if you’d like some, Kate,” Laura says without looking up from her work.

  “I love sweet coffee.” I’m about to get up to pour myself a cup when the Mennonite girl who’d been manning the counter brings one to me. “Danki.”

  The coffee is strong and sweet, with just the right amount of milk. One sip and a hundred memories rush through me. I was sixteen years old the last time I had sweet coffee. My mamm took my sister, Sarah, and me to a neighbor’s farm to see a new baby who
had come into the world three weeks ahead of schedule. All the local Amish women had gathered, helping the new mother with her chores—cleaning and laundry—even putting up the tomatoes she’d been canning. Most brought a dish. I wasn’t into socializing with my elders back then, but I recall there was such cooperation among the women, a lot of laughter—some of it at the expense of the men, most of whom were in the barn smoking cigarettes. And there was such love for that new baby. As angry and unhappy as I’d been back then, I remember laughing because they passed him around for so long that he fell asleep, and even then they didn’t put him down.

  “Has anyone heard from Fannie?” Lena asks of no one in particular.

  “Not since I took them over that strawberry-rhubarb pie last week,” Ada says. “Poor thing is trying to be brave, but she just sits at the kitchen table crying all day.”

  “They weren’t at worship on Sunday,” Naomi comments.

  “Seems like that would have brought them some comfort,” Lena puts in.

  Laura gives me a somber look. “Fannie and Samuel are the ones who lost their daughter, Rachel.”

  “There was a story in The Bridge.” I feign a shudder. “Such a terrible thing.

  “And they’re such nice people,” Ada says.

  I keep my eyes on my stitching. “I’ve not met them yet.”

  “I was thinking about taking them a chicken casserole,” Laura says. “Maybe we can go together.”

  “I’d like that,” I tell her.

  No one speaks for several minutes, as if in reverence to the grieving couple and their recently deceased daughter. Meeting Fannie and Samuel Esh is high on my list of goals, but I know that with them still grieving—and me being an outsider—it will require delicacy and tact.

  I’ve just sunk the needle into my index finger when Laura breaks the silence with a more upbeat topic. “I heard Viola Beachy had her baby,” she announces with some flourish.

  The women continue with their work, but sit up a little bit straighter. A new baby is momentous news among the Amish, especially the women. “Boy or girl?” Lena asks, pressing her hand protectively against her own protruding belly.