Among the Wicked

by Linda Castillo

  “You think you know so much,” he says quietly. “You know nothing of the way things work here. Nothing.”

  “Then help me understand,” I say back. “Talk to me.”

  “Leave us alone.” He motions toward the door. “Go.”

  Uneasiness pricks the back of my neck when I notice the large bandage encompassing his right hand. The dime-size spot of blood.

  “What happened to your hand?” I ask.

  Mary turns away. A sob escapes her. Abe leaves his place at the doorway and moves closer.

  No one answers for the span of a full minute. I’m aware of the fire crackling. Sleet striking the window on the west side of the house. The steady thrum of my heart. That little voice in the back of my head warning me to tread carefully.

  “An accident,” the Amish man tells me. “In the workshop.”

  I look from Abe to Mary and back to Abe. “You’re lying.”

  Anger flashes in his eyes, but it’s laced with something else I can’t quite read. Fear? Panic? His face is such a jumble of emotions I can’t discern which.

  “You did this. You!” He looks down at his hand. “All the questions and sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Look at what you’ve stirred up. Look what you’ve done to us.”

  “Is this the way you want to live your lives? In fear?” I motion toward Mary. “Men coming into your home and hurting you?”

  “No!”

  “The people who did this need to be stopped.”

  “By you?” His smile verges on nasty. “What can you do?”

  “Not me,” I tell him. “The police.”

  “The English police.” He spits the words with disdain. “Stupid woman.” Abe stalks to the door, opens it using his uninjured hand. “Leave us. Now. Stay away from my wife. Stay away from me. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  Never taking my eyes from his, I cross to the door. Instead of going through it, I loosen his grip, close it, and turn to face him. “That isn’t the Amish way.”

  Abe narrows his eyes, cocks his head. “You don’t act like an Amish woman.”

  “I’m as Amish as you are,” I shoot back. “But I don’t tolerate violence. Evidently, you do.”

  He looks down at the floor.

  I wait.

  “They came here,” Mary says after a moment, “two nights ago.”

  “Who?”

  The couple exchanges a look. Mary turns away and crosses to the door, twists the knob lock. There’s no bolt lock.

  Abe sighs tiredly and looks away. “Can’t say.”

  “Were they on snowmobiles?” I ask.

  When he doesn’t answer, Mary turns to face me. “Ja.”

  “Why did they come here?”

  “To tell us to stay away from you,” she tells me. “You’re not one of us. You’re an outsider and not to be trusted.”

  For an instant, I wonder if my cover has been compromised. Uneasiness quivers in my gut. Then I realize she’s referring to the Amish edict of separation. “Because I’m from Ohio?” I ask. “Because I’m not a member of the church district? Or is it something else?”

  “You don’t know the rules here,” Abe says. “You don’t know how things are done.”

  “Exactly how are things done?” I send a pointed look toward his hand. The huge bandage. The blood soaking through. “What did they do to you?”

  The Amish man looks away. I’m about to try again when Mary speaks. When she does, her voice is so low I have to lean close to hear. “They cut off his finger.”

  A shudder rises in my chest, but I tamp it down. “Who?”

  “We think it was Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker,” she replies. “They were wearing ski masks, but I knew. We’ve known them since they were boys.”

  Abe jerks his head. “Yoder held me down. Smucker cut it off.”

  “With bolt cutters,” Mary adds. “There was nothing we could do.”

  A chill hovers at the base of my spine. “Why?”

  Mary turns from the door and gives me a hard look. “We’re to stay away from you.”

  “They didn’t do this on their own,” I say. “Someone told them to do it.”

  I give them time to respond, but neither speaks.

  “Was it Eli Schrock?” I ask.

  The couple stares at me as if I’ve said something blasphemous. “We can’t say,” Abe tells me.

  “Can’t or won’t?” I drill Mary with a hard look.

  Again, no response. Neither Abe nor Mary makes eye contact with me.

  “An Amish bishop would never hurt anyone,” I tell them. “Never.”

  Neither of them has anything to say about that.

  I lower my voice. “Do you know what happened to Rachel Esh?”

  Gasping, Mary puts her hand over her mouth, covers a sound of distress, of pain. I can’t help but notice her fingers are trembling.

  Her husband reaches for her, moving between us as if to shield her from my words, from me. “Do not speak ill of the bishop.” He’s so upset his voice quavers. “Leave us,” he orders. “I think it would be best if you didn’t come back.”

  * * *

  “Cut off his fucking finger? Are you shitting me?”

  Suggs’s voice is so loud I have to hold my cell away from my ear. “Just like the woman at the shop.”

  “Jesus. That’s … brutal.” He takes a moment as if to let the image I described to him earlier settle in his mind. “It’s enough for me to pick up Yoder and Smucker.”

  “They wore ski masks, Dan. A positive ID is iffy. And if the Gingeriches refuse to testify or if they make up some story about a workshop accident, you’ll get nothing and Schrock gets off scot-free.”

  Suggs utters a curse. “I know where this is going and I don’t fucking like it.”

  “If we want Schrock, we’re going to have to wait this out. Leave me in place until I can get something better.”

  “So let me get this straight, Chief. If our friendly neighborhood bishop decides a member of the church district has broken the rules or crossed him, he sics his goons Yoder and Smucker on them and cuts off their goddamn fingers?”

  “Unfortunately, I think that’s the gist of it.”

  “And now you’re on his radar.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I move on. “No one suspects me of anything. I’m an outsider. I’ve asked a few too many questions.”

  “You pissed off Schrock when you turned him down.”

  I scramble for a rebuff, but there’s nothing there. He’s right. “The situation here is a lot worse than we imagined. We’re talking physical assault on a regular basis. Probably sexual assault. Maybe even murder.”

  He makes a sound of disgust. “Kate, I want you out.”

  “If we walk away now, we end up with nothing,” I snap.

  “Shit.” Suggs sighs heavily. “Proof of something would be nice.”

  “I can get it. I just need more time.”

  “Kate, I know you can handle yourself. You proven it and then some. But I don’t like the idea of you being out there all alone with these crazy shits running around chopping off people’s fingers and doing God only knows what else.”

  “I’m being careful,” I tell him. “Especially after what’s happened. I know what I’m up against. I’ve secured the trailer. I’m armed.”

  “How much longer?”

  “A couple more days. Give me some time to poke around the rat hole. Sooner or later, something’s going to run out.”

  “Hopefully, it won’t be your luck.”

  “This isn’t about me. It’s about the death of a fifteen-year-old girl and a religious sect run amok. If we don’t stop them, more people will be hurt. Maybe even killed.”

  He’s thoughtful for a moment and then asks, “Knowing what you do now, what do you think happened to the Esh girl?”

  “She saw or heard something or maybe she simply knew too much. Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe Schrock wa
s supplying her with drugs. Maybe he was having sex with her. She got pregnant. She wanted out. He was afraid she’d go to the police so he murdered her.”

  “Powerful motive,” he says.

  I run with it. “Maybe the bishop told Smucker and Yoder to stop her. They accost her in the middle of the night, the same way they did me. Drag her out of bed. Take her into the woods. Maybe they didn’t intentionally kill her, but something happened and the situation spiraled out of control. Maybe she got away, ran into the woods and ended up dying of hypothermia.”

  “Viable,” he admits.

  I think about the female passengers on the snowmobiles. “What if there’s something else going on? Something … I don’t know, bigger? What if Rachel figured it out and became a threat?”

  “Something like what?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something going on. We have Amish men on snowmobiles. Foreign women being held against their will. Assault. Allegations of sexual abuse. Drugs. That’s not to mention the level of intimidation.”

  “That place is beginning to sound more like a damn cult than an Amish settlement,” he grumbles.

  It was an offhand statement. But something pings in my head at the usage of a word that hadn’t yet occurred to me. “You’re right,” I say slowly.

  “Oh, shit,” he mutters.

  “It fits.” I’m still trying to settle the word in my head. Cult. “If he’s controlling people through intimidation…” I think about Abe and Mary Gingerich. Laura Hershberger at The Calico Country Store. The ugly allegations against Schrock. “One of the things that struck me right away is the level of devotion to Schrock. Some of these people speak of him as if he’s God. And yet those same people are careful about what they say.”

  “They’re afraid of him.”

  I remind him of the Amish man in the kitchen at The Dutch Kitchen and for the first time Mary’s level of paranoia makes sense. “He was listening. Probably reporting back to Schrock. That’s why they cut off Abe’s finger.”

  “Kate, I’m no expert, but there’s a specific criteria used to identify cults. Let me get with Betancourt. See if we can get an expert involved.” He sighs unhappily. “So what’s next?”

  “I want to talk to Rachel’s best friend. Marie Weaver. So far she’s been pretty hostile. I want to try again. I think there’s something there. Mary Gingerich’s daughter told me Marie had been locked in the chicken coop.”

  “Weaver works at Huston’s Restaurant afternoons, so you might catch her there.” He rattles off an address.

  I write it down. “I’m going to approach Rebecca Beiler, too. She’s not happy with Schrock, so maybe she’ll open up or tell me what happened with her finger.”

  “She and her husband live on a dairy farm south of Roaring Springs.” Computer keys click and then he confirms the address I already have.

  “I’ve yet to meet the parents of Rachel Esh, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “They’re not real forthcoming.”

  “Interestingly, there’s a young woman living with Schrock. She just had a baby, so I don’t know how available she is. If I can get her alone, I’ll talk to her, too.”

  “I guess the bishop isn’t too concerned about appearances.”

  “He should be,” I tell him. “People are talking.”

  “What else?”

  I pause, wanting to get the words right because I’m afraid they may be met with resistance. “I want to talk to Schrock again.”

  “Kate … maybe you ought to steer clear for a while.”

  “When you’re Amish and there’s a problem, you go to the bishop. I’ve got good reason. I was accosted by two Amish men in the middle of the night. If I don’t take that to him, he’ll have reason to be suspicious.”

  “Chief…” A heavy sigh hisses over the line. “Look, I gotta be honest here. I don’t like the idea.”

  “All I have to do is tell him what happened. Quick in and out.” When he says nothing, I add, “You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “You need to coordinate the visit with me. That means call me before you go in. And you call me the minute you leave. You got that?”

  “I got it.”

  “In the interim, I’ll run Yoder and Smucker through some of the databases and see if anything pops.”

  “Thanks, Dan. I’ll keep pushing forward on my end.”

  “Don’t push too hard, Chief. Sounds to me like these sons of bitches are starting to push back.”

  CHAPTER 18

  That place is beginning to sound more like a damn cult than an Amish settlement …

  Suggs’s words ring hard in my ears as I disconnect. For a moment, I stand there trying to get my head around the notion—and the ramifications. My experience with cults is nil. In fact, I’ve not worked a single case that involved cult activity. My only knowledge stems from a workshop I attended during a statewide chiefs-of-police conference in Columbus a few years ago. One of the things that stuck with me in the course of that conference are the red flags law enforcement uses to identify a cult and differentiate it from a legitimate religious sect. At the moment, I can only recall two: Untoward secrecy. And coercion.

  It’s a chilling and disturbing possibility that changes everything. It’s the reason I haven’t been able to get my head around the case in terms of motive, means and operandi. A cult is the one scenario that makes all of the jagged pieces of the puzzle fall together.

  * * *

  Huston’s Restaurant is located on the east end of town, not far from the highway. A steely sky spits snow pellets as I park the scooter bike in a space that’s out of sight from the street. The restaurant is housed in an old Victorian home in a neighborhood that was once residential but rezoned for commercial businesses. The interior is warm and dark and smells of fried fish and onions. Lots of wood. Rustic fixtures. Windows covered with wooden shutters that let in little in the way of light. I walk directly to the counter where a young man of about twenty stands at the cash register looking bored. He doesn’t greet me.

  “I’d like a cheeseburger to go,” I tell him.

  He looks me up and down, taking in my dress, and smirks. “Would you like a buggy with that?” He barks out a laugh. More laughter comes from the kitchen behind him. “I mean, a drink?”

  Rolling my eyes, I dig a few bills from my pocket and set them on the counter. “Just the burger.”

  He makes change and then turns his back to me. I watch as he passes my order form through the window to the kitchen in the rear.

  “Is Marie around?” I ask.

  “Marie?” He looks at me a bit more closely, as if wondering why I’d want to speak with her. “I think she’s on break. Out back.”

  Nodding, I head for the door.

  I find her behind the restaurant, using the wood fencing surrounding the Dumpster to protect her from the wind. She’s bundled in a black puffy coat, a fuzzy scarf pulled over her kapp, smoking a cigarette.

  “Marie?” I call out as I approach.

  She turns. In the light from the street lamp, I see eyes laced with attitude just south of bad. Freckled nose and full lips the color of watermelon. At the moment those lips are twisted into a sour expression that’s part annoyance, part looking-for-a-fight and I might just do.

  “I’m Kate. We met at worship.” I stop a few feet from her, aware that she’s annoyed by my presence.

  “I remember. What do you want?”

  I smile, more amused than irritated by her rudeness. “I was getting some dinner and saw you out here smoking. I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “As you can see . .” She makes a sweeping gesture from herself to the restaurant. “I’m meeting all the right people and making all the right connections.”

  “Hey, it’s a job. More than what some people have.” Reaching into my coat, I pull out a five dollar bill and offer it to her. “Can I bum a smoke?”

  She offers a slow, appreciative grin.
“For five bucks?” Snapping up the bill, she digs a pack of Marlboro Reds from her coat pocket, shakes out two and passes them to me along with a lighter. “Knock your socks off.”

  “Thanks.” I drop one in my pocket, light the other, drawing in the smoke deeply. “Here’s to breaking the rules.”

  She looks at me with a little less disdain as I return the lighter to her and I realize my I’m-a-rule-breaker-too tactic is working. “No one comes out here?” I ask.

  “Too cold.”

  “Smoking was against the rules back at my church district in Ohio. The men and boys could get away with it, but not the women.”

  “That’s the Amish for you,” she mutters. “Equality for all.”

  “I’m assuming it’s against the rules here, too.”

  “What’s not against the rules here?” She rolls her eyes.

  “I hear the bishop doles out some pretty serious punishment.”

  She looks at the ground, blows out smoke. “I wouldn’t know.”

  We smoke in silence for a moment, then I ask. “I heard you got into trouble.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. In case you haven’t noticed, the Amish are a bunch of gossips.”

  “Anna Gingerich told me you got locked in a chicken coop.”

  “Anna’s a retard.” She sucks hard on the cigarette. “Makes up stories.”

  “My bishop in Ohio—” I pause to correct myself, making up the story as I go—scrambling to keep her talking, get her to trust me, like me, open up. “My former bishop in Ohio locked a man in a wood shed for two days once.”

  “What’d he do? Forget to wear his hat?”

  I hesitate, look away, then meet her gaze. “Someone saw him … you know, with a horse.”

  She tries to appear nonchalant, but doesn’t quite pull it off. Her eyes widen and she looks like she just bit into something sour. “That’s sick.”

  “Yes, it is.” I give a nod of satisfaction. “The bishop was hard on him, but he deserved it. He never did it again.” I look at her. “I can’t imagine what you might’ve done to warrant such a severe punishment.”

  “I sure didn’t fuck a horse.” She’s trying to shock me. When it doesn’t work she says, “You’re weird.”

  I inhale smoke, enjoying the nicotine buzz more than I should. “I’m just trying to understand how things are done.”