I’m so taken aback by the news that for a moment I can’t find my voice. I wonder if in the aftermath of making off with the cash, Els and her boyfriend had some sort of falling out that turned physical.
“Does Fournier have a sheet?” I ask, referring to a criminal record.
“No, ma’am.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I ask.
“Upwards of nine-hundred thousand, according to Stahl.”
“That’s a lot of motivation.”
“Which is why we’re anxious to speak with them.”
“Is there a warrant for Els Tsechetter’s arrest?”
“For now we just want to talk to her.”
“Do you have any idea where I might find Mr. Stahl?”
A weighty silence and then, “We’re actually looking for him, too. He was supposed to come in this morning to meet with me, but Stahl was a no show. I sent a deputy out to the colony, but there was no one there. We’re kind of scratching our heads at this point.”
“Where does that leave the investigation?”
“Until we can find him, we’re sort of in a holding pattern.”
Another pause ensues, then he asks, “How did a chief of police from Painters Mill get involved in all of this?”
I give him the scant details of Els’s appearance. “We’re on our way to Coldwater now.”
He doesn’t mince words. “Do you want me to send someone to pick her up? Or do you want to bring her in?”
“Let me get a few things settled on my end and I’ll bring her to you.”
“Any idea when that might be?”
“Later this afternoon.”
“All right, Chief Burkholder. I appreciate your cooperation.”
My mind is reeling when I get back into the Explorer. I give Els a hard look. “You need to tell me what you know about the books you’re keeping for Leanard Stahl’s foundation.”
Her eyes widen, dart left and right, as if she’s suddenly realized she’s in danger. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your relationship to him?”
She swallows. “The name . . . Leanard. It’s so familiar. I know him and yet . . . I don’t see his face. I don’t know who he is.”
I deflect a rise of irritation. “Els, if I find out you’re lying to me, I will come down on you so hard you’ll wish you’d never set foot in Painters Mill. Are we clear?”
“I’m not a liar, Chief Burkholder. I wouldn’t do that to you or anyone else, especially after everything you’ve done for me.”
“Does the name Tyler Fournier mean anything to you?”
A quiver moves through her body. She whispers the name twice. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but she doesn’t utter a word.
Finally, she says, “He’s the one.”
“The one who hurt you?”
“The one I love.”
The words elicit a twist of dread in my gut. Did this young woman and her boyfriend steal money from some foundation? Is what happened to her back in Painters Mill the result of a struggle over the spoils?
“The Mercer County Sheriff’s Department is looking for both of you,” I say.
“But . . . why?”
“They suspect you of stealing funds from Leanard Stahl.”
“I may not remember my life, Chief Burkholder, but I know one thing about myself: I am not a thief.” She says the words with such conviction that I find myself wanting to believe her despite what I heard from Chief Deputy Light.
“One way or another—with or without your help—I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
“When that happens, you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
I pull back onto the highway without responding.
The village of Coldwater is a small farming community with a population of about 4500. Els stares out the window, studying the countryside as if certain all the things she so desperately needs to remember is about to come pouring back to her.
I entered the address of the colony into my GPS during a stop for gas. A few miles west of Coldwater proper, the female voice instructs me to make a right. The map indicates the colony is located on a barely there gravel track off of Siegrist-Jutte Road. Several miles down, I spot the construction entrance and a dirt lane that wends into a wooded area. A sign dangles from a steel cable stretched across the narrow drive: DANGER Construction Personnel Only.
“I know this place,” Els whispers. “I’ve been here.” She looks at me. “Can we go in?”
“It’s not locked.” I glance over at her. “The sheriff’s office knows we’re here, so we’re not trespassing . . . exactly.” I open the door. “Hang tight.”
Light rain falls from a sky the color of wet granite. The temperature has dropped twenty degrees since we left Berlin three hours ago. Fog drifts among the trees. Trying to avoid the deepest areas, I wade through mud and gravel to the cable and unclip one end. Back in the Explorer, I pull through and start down the lane.
A hundred yards in, the trees open to a large construction site. Four concrete slabs are laid out in a semicircle. Two are framed. The others are a tangle of plumbing pipes and rebar. To my left, a newish mobile home stares at us with blank eyes. A sign in the yard identifies it as the Coldwater Colony Construction Office.
“No vehicles,” I say. “No lights inside.”
“Looks deserted,” Els murmurs. “Where is everyone?”
“Weather, maybe.”
I continue down the road, negotiate a curve that takes us through a stand of tall, winter-dead trees. We pass a graveyard of construction equipment. An orange skid steer. A wheelbarrow. Piles of boards and cinder blocks lying in the mud. There’s a steel building in the back, some pens, and a chicken coop.
“I remember the chickens,” Els says quietly. “I used to feed them.” Wiping her hands on her dress, she gives a nervous laugh. “My palms are sweaty.”
Ahead, I see another mobile home. It’s surrounded by a picket fence with a freshly planted sapling off a newish deck. There’s a Ford F-150 pickup parked in the concrete driveway.
“This is the trailer where I lived,” Els says.
“Looks like you’ve got a visitor.” I pull up behind the truck, work my cell phone from my pocket, and call Dispatch.
Lois answers on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”
I give her my location. “I need a ten-twenty-eight.” I recite the license plate number. “Ten-twenty-nine.”
Els gives me a wide-eyed look. “What do those codes mean?”
“She’s going to give me the name of the person who owns that truck.” I don’t tell her the 10-29 was a check for warrants.
Lois comes back on the line. “Vehicle is registered to Tyler Fournier out of Minnesota.”
“Thanks, Lois.”
I shut down the engine. Beside me, Els stares at the mobile home as if expecting some fleshing-eating monster to emerge and attack us.
“Do you still have that key?” I hold out my hand and she presses the key into my palm.
“It’s going to fit,” she says.
“Stay put.” Then I’m out the door. Rain patters my face as I take the steps to the deck, open the storm door, and knock. I listen for footsteps or a radio or TV, but the interior is quiet and dark.
“Hello?” Calling out, I tap the door with my fob and identify myself. “Is anyone home?”
No answer.
I wait a full minute and then slide the key into the lock. The knob turns easily. I look back at Els, give her a sign to stay where she is, and then I go through the door. I’m standing in a tastefully furnished living room with wood grain laminate floors and modern furniture. The smells of heated air and candle wax mingles with the stink of garbage that should have been taken out days ago. There’s a decent size kitchen ahead and a dining area to my left. A darkened hall to my right.
“Hello?” I say. “Is anyone there?”
No response.
I cross the living room t
o the kitchen and look around. The door creaks behind me. I spin, startled, my hand falling to the .38 in my coat pocket, and I see Els enter. “I told you to stay in the car,” I snap.
She doesn’t respond; she can’t seem to stop looking at the interior, touching things. “This is my home,” she murmurs. “I’m sure of it.”
“Does anyone live here with you? Boyfriend?”
“We’re Hutterite, Chief Burkholder. The elders would never allow such a thing.”
In the back of my mind I think: Where there’s a will, there’s a way . . .
“I’m going to take a look around,” I say. “Stay behind me. Don’t touch anything.”
I traverse the dining and kitchen areas and push open a door, find myself looking into a bedroom that’s surprisingly large. I flip on the light. A full-size bed is draped with a hand-sewn quilt, colorful six-inch squares of corduroy, flannel, satin, and cotton. Not an Amish-style quilt, but the workmanship is superb. Another door opens to a bathroom with a window that looks out at the woods beyond.
I leave the bedroom, cross back through the kitchen and living room and head toward the hall that will take me to the other end of the mobile home. I hear Els behind me as I pass by a small bedroom. Like the rest of the trailer, it’s orderly and neat with a twin-size bed swathed with a quilt, and a night table. The bedroom at the end has been transformed into an office. There’s a faux-wood desk strewn with papers and files. I see an old-fashioned calculator and a landline phone. A four-drawer file cabinet squats in the corner, two of the drawers standing open.
I approach the desk, noticing the lamp’s shade is cockeyed. A closer look reveals a broken bulb. On the other side of the desk I find a desktop computer and monitor on the floor. The monitor’s screen has been shattered. A task chair has been toppled.
“What is this room?” I ask.
Els stands in the doorway, frozen in place. “This is where I work. I do the payroll. Pay the bills. Take care of the books for the foundation.”
I turn and look at her. “What do you know about the foundation?”
“The Anabaptist Brotherhood Foundation,” she murmurs. “Leanard started it years ago. It’s a non-profit dedicated to preserving the Hutterite traditions. He’s planning to open a historical library. A place where we can store documents, bibles, and books. Some of the bibles are old and so some of the facility needs to be climate controlled, which is expensive. It was such a good cause—”
She gasps upon spotting the computer. “But . . . what happened? My computer . . .”
I take in the crinkled blinds at the window, and I realize the place was either broken into and ransacked—or there was a struggle.
“Something happened here,” she says quietly.
Lifting the blind, I spy the broken pane; there’s no glass on the floor, which means it was probably smashed from the inside. “Any idea what?”
“Something bad,” she whispers.
Without saying anything else, she goes to the desk, runs her hand over the lamp, picks it up. She notices the broken bulb and her brows knit in confusion. Then she turns the lamp over so that the base is visible. That’s when I glimpse several long strands of hair and the reddish-black stain.
Sliding my mini-Maglite from my pocket, I set the beam on the stain and I almost can’t believe my eyes. “Looks like blood.”
I hear her quick intake of breath. Looking sick, she sets down the lamp, takes a step back. Her eyes meet mine. “He came in here,” she says quietly. “That last night. I was working. He was . . . angry.”
“Who?” I ask. “Tyler Fournier?”
Pain flashes in her eyes. “Not Tyler.”
“Then who?”
Without responding, she turns away and walks back out to the living room. I follow. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s remembering something that’s frightened her.
“Did Stahl do this?” I ask.
“I can’t imagine. Leanard is gentle and kind.” She presses her fingertips to her temples. “He wouldn’t.”
Someone did, I think, and I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve heard those words.
“Els, you said you’d had problems with a man in your life. If Stahl did this to you—”
“No, Chief Burkholder. This is . . . something else.” Lowering herself to the sofa, she leans forward and puts her face in her hands. “I just . . . it’s so confusing. My head . . . I just can’t remember. It was—” Her hands fall away from her face and she straightens. “Tyler isn’t Hutterite. We were going to get married, but the elders wouldn’t allow it. That’s one of the reasons they sent me here.”
“What does that have to do with what happened in your office?”
“I don’t know.”
I watch her, wondering if she’s convinced herself of something simply because she wants it to be true. Or if there’s something else going on that she simply hasn’t remembered.
The door swings open. I start, turn toward it, set my hand over my .38. Els jumps to her feet, takes a step back. A young man of about twenty steps inside, eyes the color of a deep lake flicking from me to Els, back to me.
“I’m a police officer,” I tell him. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He can’t seem to keep his eyes off of the young woman standing beside me. His expression softens as he takes in the sight of her. “Els, what happened? Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.” He starts toward her. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“Keep your distance.” I raise my left hand, set my right over my .38. “I need to see some ID. Right now. Slowly.”
He halts. “What’s going on?” Confusion clouds his expression. He looks at Els. “Why are the police here? Where have you been?”
I see Els in the periphery of my vision. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her quickened breaths.
“ID,” I tell him. “Now.”
Keeping his eyes on mine, he pulls out a wallet, slides out a driver’s license, and holds it out for me. “I’m Tyler Fournier.”
I cross to him, take it, and give it a hard look. Tyler Fournier. Saint Paul, Minnesota. I hand it back to him. “What are you doing here?”
A laugh breaks from his throat. “I’m here to see her.” He’s staring at Els again; he knows something is askew. “Els, why are you looking at me that way? As if you don’t know who I am?” His gaze drifts to mine. “What’s wrong with her?”
I fill in the blanks. “Els showed up at a farm in Painters Mill, Ohio. She was injured. Took a pretty severe blow to the head.”
“My God,” he says. “How did it happen? Did someone hurt her? Was she in an accident? What?”
Els finally speaks, “I couldn’t remember anything. Not even my name. I didn’t know where I was from or how any of it happened.”
He looks at her with a mix of astonishment and skepticism. “Are you okay now?”
“Thanks to Chief Burkholder.” She looks from me to Tyler. “Things are starting to come back to me.”
“What about me?” Uncertainty plays in his expression. “Do you know who I am?”
Letting out a cry of pure emotion, Els rushes past me and throws herself into his arms.
I call out her name. “Wait!”
Neither of them obeys my command; they don’t even seem to hear me. I step back, watch as she falls against him. The young man wraps his arms around her. She buries her face in his shoulder and starts to cry.
“I’ve missed you,” she chokes.
“Jesus, you’re shaking.” He looks at me, helplessly, as he strokes the back of her head. His hand freezes when he runs his palm over the laceration. “What the—” He extracts himself from her, eases her to arm’s length. “Your head. It’s cut . . . what the hell?” He looks at me, angry now. Protective. “Who did that to her?”
Els looks from Tyler to me. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
I watch the exchange, uneasy because I don’t know this young ma
n; I don’t know if he’s got an agenda or what he’s capable of. I don’t exactly know Els, either, though after spending so much time with her I don’t think she’s some hardened criminal. Even so, Chief Deputy Light’s words scroll through my brain.
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.
“You.” I point at Fournier. “Sit down and do not move.” I motion toward the sofa. “Do you understand?”
Looking bewildered and annoyed, he takes a seat. Els moves with him, lowers herself onto the cushion, and curls against him.
I fix Fournier with a hard stare. “Where were you night before last?”
“Home.” He says the word without hesitation. “I live in Castine. I left last night at midnight. Drove all night. Got here around noon today.”
“How did you know where to find her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She told me. Last time we talked.”
I look at Els and she nods.
“Why did you make the trip?” I ask Tyler.
“I don’t know if you’ve realized it or not, Chief Burkholder, but Els and I are in love. The problem is, not everyone is happy about it.”
I take the chair across from them. “Like who?”
“The elders,” Els says quietly. “Tyler isn’t Hutterite, you know.”
“That’s why they sent her here,” he says. “To keep her away from me.” He sets his hand over hers. “She loves them. Especially the old man.”
“Old man?” I ask.
“Leanard Stahl.” Pressing his mouth together as if he’s tasted something unpleasant, he looks from Els to me and back to Els. “He’s a controlling old goat. He knows Els loves him and he uses that to control her.”
“I’ve known Leanard since I was a child,” she says. “He’s like a father to me.”
Tyler looks at her as if she’s betrayed him. “Tell her the rest, Els.”
I watch her; wait for a response. The only thing reflected back at me is the guileless and troubled confusion of a young woman torn between loyalty and love. For a full minute the only sound comes from the patter of rain against the roof. The low rumble of thunder.
In Dark Company Page 4