In Dark Company

by Linda Castillo

  “You got all your things?” I ask.

  She frowns. “I’m wearing everything I own.”

  “Let me check with the nurses,” I tell her. “I think I have a safe place for you to stay until we can get this figured out.”

  * * *

  It’s been two years since I moved into the farmhouse with Tomasetti. Before, I lived in a modest little house on the outskirts of Painters Mill. I put it on the market, but when it didn’t sell quickly, our realtor recommended we update the kitchen and try again—an endeavor we’ve yet to tackle.

  I take a roundabout route to my old digs, cutting through a couple of different neighborhoods, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror in case some determined individual tries to follow.

  “You used to live here?” she asks as I pull into the garage.

  “Yep.” I see her looking out the back window and add, “No one followed us.”

  She nods, but doesn’t look too sure.

  I park and close the overhead door. “I still keep some linens here, so we should be comfortable for a couple of days.”

  Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands, uses her fingertips to wipe away tears. “Chief Burkholder, you didn’t have to do this. You don’t even know me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You can thank me by remembering your name.”

  She chokes out an emotion-laden laugh and we head inside.

  I always experience a rise of nostalgia when I return to my old home. It was the first house I ever purchased, and it represented a fresh start when I moved back to Painters Mill to become chief. I love living at the farm with Tomasetti, but this place will always be special.

  I find linens in the closet off the hall and unfold the sofa bed in the living room. Jane helps me with the sheets. “I’m not sure what to call you,” I tell her as I slide a pillow into a case.

  She shrugs. “The nurses called me Jane.”

  “Jane it is, then.” I snap open a blanket while she tucks the base beneath the mattress. “You’re welcome to take a shower. I might be able to drum up some soup if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m starving.” She smiles. “Thank you.”

  While Jane showers, I make up the bed in my former bedroom and then I call Tomasetti.

  “I heard about the incident at the hospital,” he says. “Any luck finding the suspect?”

  “No. Rasmussen has a couple of extra guys on patrol. I told Skid to stay alert.”

  “You decided against taking her to the shelter?”

  “In light of what happened at the hospital, I don’t want to take a chance of him showing up there.”

  He’s thoughtful for a moment and then he says, “I know you’ve got good instincts when it comes to judging people, but I’m obliged to ask, Kate. Are you sure she’s telling the truth about her memory?”

  “I had my doubts at first. Tomasetti, if I still did, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Good enough. Just do me a favor and keep your .38 handy tonight, will you?”

  “You bet.”

  * * *

  Jane and I bid each other good night at midnight. I lay awake in my old bedroom, the mystery of her identity and the unknown threat she faces weighing heavy on my mind. Storms and the first cold front of the season roll in a little after 1:00 A.M. with torrential rain and battering winds. Twice I get up to check out a noise; both times it’s nothing more than the sounds of an old house settling.

  I’ve just fallen into a fitful slumber when something sends me bolt upright. I listen, but I can’t hear much over the pound of rain and rumble of distant thunder. Lightning flickers as I rise. I reach for my .38 on the night table. The hairs at my nape stand up when I hear the sound again. A thump coming from the general direction of the living room. Shit.

  I sidle to the door. The hallway is silent and dark, so I take it to the doorway and peer into the living room. Dim light slants in through the window. The sound comes again. Banging coming from the kitchen. Someone trying to get in the back door?

  “Jane?” I whisper.

  No answer.

  I enter the living room, my .38 leading the way. I glance at the sofa bed. No one there. Where the hell is she?

  “Chief,” comes a whisper from across the room.

  I glance over to see her kneeling next to the chair. Hiding, I realize. “Someone’s out there,” she whispers and points toward the rear of the house.

  “Stay put.” I go to the kitchen doorway, peer around the jamb, expecting to see an open back door or a broken window. I see neither. Listening, I scan the room. There’s an eye-level pane set into the door. There’s no movement. Not even a shadow. I startle when something bumps the door.

  Staying low, I steal across the kitchen, go to the door, set my left hand on the knob, and yank it open. Gun in my right hand. Wind and rain lash my face. I glance left, see the porch light hanging down, swinging in the wind, tapping against the door.

  “What is it?”

  I turn to see Jane standing in the doorway, her face a pale oval in the diluted light from outside. “Just the porch light,” I tell her. “It must have come loose. The wind was blowing it against the door.”

  “Oh.”

  I flip on the light. We look at each other for a moment and then we both laugh. Nervous sounds that speak of released tension and relief.

  “Sorry to wake you,” she says.

  “Couldn’t sleep anyway.”

  “Me neither.”

  I glance at the wall clock to see it’s going on 5:00 A.M. “I have an idea that might help us identify you.”

  “I’m all ears,” she says.

  “In that case, I’ll make coffee.”

  * * *

  At 7:00 A.M., Jane and I are in the Explorer heading east on US-62 toward Berlin. During the sleepless hours of last night, it occurred to me that there’s one person who might be able to help identify Jane—via her clothes—and perhaps link her to a community.

  Twenty minutes later I pull onto the lot of the Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center. We pass by an old Amish-style schoolhouse and an iconic bank barn, and then I veer left and park in front of the main office. The establishment doesn’t open for business until nine, but I called the director earlier and explained the situation. Eager to help, he agreed to meet us.

  I look over at Jane. She’s staring at the low-slung building, her hands knotted in her lap. “Do you think he’s going to be able to tell us where I’m from?” she asks.

  “I think there’s a good possibility he’ll recognize your clothes. Hopefully, that will at least point us in the right direction.”

  I reach for the door handle, but she stops me.

  “Chief Burkholder, what if he tells me something I don’t want to hear? What if . . . I’m not a good person?”

  I give her a smile, hoping to reassure her. “After spending the last day or so with you, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

  Offering a grateful smile, she opens her door.

  The director greets us in the lobby. “Welcome to Behalt.”

  I met Mark Hochstetler a couple years ago when Tomasetti and I spent a Saturday afternoon here. He gave us an unforgettable tour of the cyclorama, which is a stunning floor-to-ceiling mural “in the round” that depicts the history of the Anabaptists. Their story begins with the first adult baptism in Zurich Switzerland in 1525 and follows the Anabaptist movement through centuries of persecution and martyrdom to modern day. The oil painting is a masterpiece that tells a powerful tale and an important history.

  This morning, Mark wears his Sunday best—black trousers with suspenders, a white shirt, black jacket and hat. A studious and soft-spoken man, he possesses a palpable deep and abiding love for his brethren, and a perspicacious sense of humor.

  “Good to see you again, Chief Burkholder,” he says as we shake hands.

  “I appreciate your making time to talk.”

  “It sounded important.”

  “History always is.” I in
troduce him to Jane and explain the situation without going into too much detail. “We’re hoping you’ll be able to tell us something about her based on her clothing.”

  He nods thoughtfully at Jane. “I noticed your dress when you walked in.” He looks around and then motions toward the door that will take us into the cyclorama. “This way.”

  I observe Jane as we enter the circular room. Her eyes widen as she takes in the breadth and scope of the mural. She walks along the wall awash with colorful depictions of the early Anabaptists, her face reflecting wonder and awe. Mark surveys her, too, and we share a moment of unspoken camaraderie.

  Jane turns to us, her face reflecting some of the same emotions I experienced when I saw the mural for the first time. “This is amazing.”

  “Even more so,” Mark says with a smile, “Because they are your ancestors.”

  Jane’s eyes flick to mine, then back to him. “How do you know that?”

  He motions toward her clothes. “The dress you’re wearing is called a dirndl. It’s Hutterite and is worn by all three denominations: Dariusleut, Lehrerleut, and Schmiedenleut.”

  Jane stares at him, her mouth partially open, eyes filled with a mix of astonishment and reverence. “I’m . . . Hutterer.”

  He nods. “I knew it the instant I saw you. But it was the tiechl that sealed the deal.”

  “My headscarf.” Jane whispers the words, tears filling her eyes. “How did I know that? What does all of this mean?”

  “The Hutterites, like the Amish and all Anabaptists, believe in adult baptism. What sets the Hutterites apart is their practice of living a community life.” He addresses Jane. “Do you speak Hutterisch?”

  “Yes.” Laughing, she slants a look at me. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  Shifting his attention to me, Mark gives me a knowing smile. “And you, Kate Burkholder, can only understand about half of what she says. Bet that drove you crazy.”

  I grin back at him and the three of us enjoy another moment. “Mark, we’re trying to find out where she’s from. Do you have any idea where we might start?”

  “Most of our Hutterer brethren are in Canada. The nearest colony is in Minnesota, I think.” He rubs his beard, mulling. “That said, I recall reading about a new Hutterite colony in the northwestern part of Ohio, near Coldwater.”

  “Do the Hutterites have anything similar to our Ohio Amish Directory?” I ask, referring to the eight-hundred-page tome that lists all the church districts and members for Holmes County and vicinity.

  “They have a website.” He starts toward the door. “Come in to my office and we’ll take a look.”

  I’m not exactly sure how Mark skates the use of the no-technology rules set forth by the church district, but his office is modern. He keeps a lantern on his desk, but there’s a relatively new-looking laptop right beside it. I know he’s taken some flak for it over the years, but as director of Behalt—and taking into consideration the enlightenment he bestows on both Amish and English alike—using the computer and Internet seem like minor transgressions.

  He slides behind his desk, taps a key, and begins to type. “Here’s the website.” He swivels the laptop so that Jane and I can see the screen. “You can search by colony, which I did. They are, indeed, building a new settlement in Coldwater, Ohio. No members or contact info listed on the website yet.”

  “There’s a mother colony,” Jane whispers.

  Mark arches a brow. “Let’s take a look.” A few keystrokes and he arrives at the Regions page, then he clicks on Ohio. “You are correct.”

  I’m aware of Jane standing beside me, craning her neck, staring at the screen with a combination of curiosity and trepidation. She’s gone silent, laser focus resonating in her stance.

  “What is a mother colony?” I ask.

  “When a colony gets too large, they move some of their members to start a new one.” He clicks again. “Here we go. Castine, Minnesota, about an hour east of Fargo.”

  Another tap and he sets his index finger against the screen. “This one lists the colony manager, the Prediger or preacher, the farm boss—the colony is farm based—and the witness brothers. The Zullbrieder, which basically means—”

  Jane cuts in. “The people who run the colony.”

  Mark smiles at her. “Exactly.”

  He reaches for a pad and scribbles a name and phone number on it. He slides it over to me and then looks at us over the tops of his glasses. “This might be a good place to start.”

  Jane doesn’t speak as we make our way back to the Explorer. Once we’re seated, she turns to me and the words begin to pour out of her. “I came to Ohio to help with the daughter colony,” she says.

  “You’re remembering,” I say.

  “Not all of it.” Her brows go together. “Big pieces of my life are missing. I know I was in Coldwater. But, Chief Burkholder, I wasn’t alone. There was a man.”

  “Does this man have a name?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “All I remember are the construction workers. Five or six men. They’re building the duplexes where all of us will live.” She pauses as if breathless, sets a trembling hand against her chest and chokes out a laugh. “It’s coming back to me. It’s coming back!”

  “Keep going.”

  “My name is Els.” She repeats the name as if liking the feel of it on her tongue. “It’s short for Elisabeth. I’m nineteen years old.” She turns her gaze to mine, presses her hand to her mouth, and laughs, emotion ringing in her voice. “I think I got into some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Her eyes widen. “There was a man in my life.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “I’m not sure. But I feel him.” She presses her hand to her chest. “Here. He’s kind and beautiful but . . . troubled.”

  I glance over at her. “Troubled?”

  “There was some kind of conflict between us.” Lowering her head, she pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Something important and serious. Another man, maybe.” She goes still and turns to me. “What kind of woman loves two men?”

  “Els, you know that could be relevant to what happened to you.”

  She looks down at her hands. “I know.”

  “Tell me about the second man.”

  “He’s . . . established. Successful. But . . . more of a father figure.” Her cheeks flush. “I love him, but not in the same way.”

  I nod. “He’s older?”

  “Yes.”

  I think of the final tumultuous years I spent as an Amish girl and I feel an odd sense of kinship with this young woman. “What were you doing in Painters Mill?”

  “All I remember is that the colony manager asked me to help with the daughter community in Coldwater. I think the preacher wanted to separate me from my boyfriend.”

  In the back of my mind, I wonder if what happened to her was the work of a jealous lover. Did her boyfriend become angry when she left him? Was he jealous of her relationship with the older man? Did he decide to do something about it?

  “Do you remember your boyfriend’s name?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, her brows pulling together. “All of those things I should know . . . it’s like a word that’s on the tip of my tongue. So close, but for the life of me I can’t pull them out of my brain.”

  “The good news is, you’re remembering,” I tell her.

  “Not fast enough.” Frustration furrows her forehead. “What do we do now?”

  “We’re three hours from Coldwater.”

  She sets her hand against her stomach, her expression a mosaic of hope and fear and dread. “Why does that scare me?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Pulling out my cell phone, I glance down at the slip of paper Mark gave me, and I dial the number.

  * * *

  We hit rain east of Upper Sandusky. We’ve just turned south toward Lima when a blanket of fog settles over the flat farmland, hovering like smoke in the low-lying are
as. We drive nearly blind through the Little Ottawa River basin. Though it’s still early afternoon, the light wanes until it feels more like dusk.

  Before leaving Berlin, I called colony manager Peter Decker in Castine, Minnesota, and obtained the physical address of the Coldwater settlement, the name of the manager, Leanard Stahl, and his phone number. I also asked Decker about Els. He informed me that her last name is Tsechetter. She’s a delightful young woman, he exclaimed, in good standing with the community, and is the bookkeeper for the colony manager, handling payroll for the construction workers charged with building the planned duplexes. I got the impression he has no idea she’d run into trouble in Painters Mill.

  Armed with new information, I asked my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, to run Stahl and Els through several law enforcement databases. There were no warrants, and neither Els nor Stahl has a criminal record. Sitting next to me, Els was stoic, but her relief was palpable.

  I called Leanard Stahl twice. Both were met with voice mail—a result that solidified my decision to drive to Coldwater. Hopefully, someone there will be able to fill in the blanks.

  As the miles fly by, Els talks, recounting every memory that comes to her. Some are mundane; she’s allergic to shrimp, loves gardening, and she’s never been married. Some of what she reveals is more pertinent. She lives in a mobile home and does most of the cooking and laundry for the construction crew.

  “I was homesick for Minnesota,” she tells me as we blow past Wapakoneta and head south. “I missed my boyfriend.”

  “What else?” I ask.

  She makes a sound of frustration. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  * * *

  Whenever a cop pokes around in another jurisdiction, it’s wise to give local law enforcement a heads-up. During a stop for gas, I call the Mercer County Sheriff’s office and am connected to Chief Deputy Dale Light.

  I identify myself and relay the basics of the situation.

  “We’re actively looking for Els Tsechetter,” the chief deputy tells me. “Leanard Stahl filed a complaint two days ago alleging Ms. Tsechetter cleaned out the account of his foundation and then took off with her boyfriend.” Paper rustles on the other end of the line. “Tyler Fournier.”