by Jane Jensen
Back at my desk, I opened up the case file and looked at the photos of the creek on Grimlace Lane and of Jessica’s body in the barn. We’d gotten the file on Katie from Maryland, and there were pictures of her body in situ where it was found on Robert Island. She was naked, facedown, and bloated, her head turned to the side, eyes staring sightlessly.
I put Jessica and Katie side by side. Jessica had been taken through the creek by the killer on his way to dumping her in the Millers’ barn. Katie had been found in the Susquehanna River.
I stared for a moment, then went to the library and had the clerk pull out a book of detailed maps of the area. I signed it out and took it back to my desk. I found Grimlace Lane and Rockvale Creek. I followed the creek’s progression with my finger. It ran into another waterway, Pequea Creek. I followed Pequea Creek as it wound through the borough of Paradise, passed the southern tip of the city of Lancaster, and continued on through farmland.
It dumped out into the Susquehanna River at the little town of Pequea.
Thrumming with excitement, I carried the map book to Grady’s office and knocked. When I entered, Smith and Hernandez were there. I placed the open book on Grady’s desk with a solid thunk of intent.
“What?” he asked.
“Rockvale Creek. It has a direct line to the Susquehanna. I don’t think Katie was dumped in the river. I think she made her way there from Rockvale Creek.”
Grady started to argue on principle, then he shut his mouth. He looked at the map. Smith and Hernandez crowded around too.
Detective Jeff Smith was a real good old boy—fifties, pot-bellied, mentally sharp but physically lazy. At least that was my read. He was the type who I’d look up to find staring at me, but he rarely said more than two words to my face. Manuel Hernandez was still in his twenties and newly promoted to detective. He was quiet, polite, and very eager to please. He’d been in the Army for a few years and was very “Yes, sir. How high, sir?” I liked him. He had something to prove but he was humble about it, not arrogant, like so many of the young cops I’d known in New York. And he treated me with the same respect he gave everyone else.
I showed Grady where Rockvale Creek hit Pequea Creek and then on to the Susquehanna. Where Pequea Creek dumped into the Susquehanna looked like only fifty miles or so upriver from Robert Island. It felt obvious to me. I had the high you get when you finally find that important missing piece.
Katie and Jessica had both been killed at the same place—Grimlace Lane.
But Grady shook his head, his mouth squinched tight in doubt. “I dunno, Harris. That creek is relatively shallow. I mean, even when you were in standing in there, in the middle of it, it barely came up to your . . . um, crotch. And then there’s all that chicken-wire fencing up and around. She would have gotten caught on that, if not there, farther downstream. I don’t see how her body could have made it all the way to Pequea Creek, much less the Susquehanna. There are rocks and underpasses. . . . And she was en route for what, three or four days, and no one saw the body?”
As soon as he said it, I could see the truth of it. We’d walked up and down Rockvale Creek for a good ways looking for footprints that first day. And yeah, some of the areas downstream from the farms were even more shallow. In fact, I remember thinking that the killer would have had to really wrangle that body to get it very far.
“Hmm.” I rubbed my temple, feeling a little foolish. “It was October when Katie was killed. Is it higher then?”
Grady shrugged. “It’s highest in spring with the snowmelt. Unless—”
“Wait a minute,” Hernandez interrupted. “You said Katie was found October fourteenth of last year, right?”
It was nice to know he’d been paying close attention in the meeting.
“Yeah.”
He pulled out his phone and starting googling with a look of triumph. Even before he found it, my own memory was triggered. I’d moved back to Lancaster last August. And shortly thereafter—
Hernandez held out his phone. There was an image of the flooded Susquehanna. It was so high, treetops floated near the newly formed banks.
“October eighth. We got slammed by a couple of fading hurricanes in a row, remember? All the creeks and rivers around here went nuts.”
“If the creek had been really high—” Grady began.
“And the water’s running fast and muddy, and the weather is crap, so people aren’t out,” I added. “It’s possible no one would have seen a body.”
Grady stroked his chin. “Interesting theory. But how would we ever prove it?”
“We don’t have to prove it,” I said, folding my arms stubbornly. “We just have to know that it’s possible Katie was put in Rockvale Creek. If she was, that tells us the killer is even more closely linked to this area than we thought.”
For the first time I saw a shadow of an ugly doubt swimming in Grady’s eyes. “What the hell? I mean . . . why would the killer have dumped both Katie and Jessica there?”
“Once we figure that out,” I said, “we’ll know who killed them.”
CHAPTER 8
Pot of Gold
That night I dreamt I was drowning. I found myself in water so cold I wanted to gasp in shock, only there was no air. It was dark and I fought to find my way out with no sense of where I was or which way the surface was. I panicked, thinking clearly, I’m going to die. Then I sensed someone above me, out of the water, waiting. It was Ezra Beiler.
I woke up and sat on the edge of my bed, breathing hard. Putting my bare feet on the floor, wiggling my toes in the carpet, always grounded me, helped the nightmare fade. Nightmares were nothing new, but this one wasn’t my usual stock in horror—it wasn’t about Terry, it was about the case and . . . Ezra Beiler. I didn’t know what to make of that one.
I gave up on sleeping. As dawn broke, I was in my car on the way to Grimlace Lane with the metal detector in the backseat. I parked at the Millers’ and told Jacob, who was in the barn, that I’d be leaving my car there for a bit. I headed across the field toward the trees using the metal detector the whole way. Of course, the phone had been lost long before Jessica’s body had been carried across that field, but at this point I wasn’t sure how many similarities Katie’s and Jessica’s deaths shared. Honestly? I was shooting in the dark.
I found nothing in the field. It was damn freezing out, and by the time I got to the creek, my hands were cold on the metal detector’s handle even with my gloves. The creek was eerie today—either because of the lingering fear of my nightmare or the light wisp of fog that glided above the water like a sea serpent. The trees on either side, bare for the winter, were spindly and black, raising gnarled branches to the gray sky.
It was exactly the sort of place you’d expect to find a clue, if real life worked like a Hollywood film, which it doesn’t. I worked the metal detector up and down on this side of the creek. I found a coin and a very old, rusted horseshoe. I didn’t find Jessica’s cell phone.
I was just contemplating how unlikely the phone was to be here, and thus how stupid it would be to get my pants wet wading to the other side of the creek, when a voice startled me.
“Mornin’.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. That’s not something you want to be seen doing as a cop, much less as a homicide detective. My embarrassment only grew as I saw Ezra Beiler leaning over the fence to his property. I felt my face heat, which was quite a contrast from the glacial state my skin had taken on in the frigid air.
“What are you doing down here?” I went for suspicious and shrewd—it was a good cover for jumpy and scared of my own shadow.
Ezra looked unfazed. He tugged his hat down a bit. “Horse told me you were here.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Oh, really? Did he call me Detective Harris or Elizabeth? Just curious about how familiar mules are.”
A smile tugged at the side of his mouth. “Don’t recal
l him sayin’ either one. He just looked a bit too excited about getting his morning drink.”
“I see.”
I did see too. I saw a man slouching against a fence who looked way too damn gorgeous in a rustic, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of way. It hurt my stomach to look at him, the way tragedy hurt. It made me wish for things that I thought I’d given up dreaming about long ago and, tragically, that would never happen.
I grumbled in disgust at myself. “I’m working.”
“Uh-huh. Wanna check my land next? Maybe you can find me a pot of gold.”
I scowled. I’d rather find a cell phone or, barring that, a cup of coffee. “Yeah, I was planning on it. Have to go back and get my car first.”
“Nope. There’s a shortcut.” He tilted his head to the right in a “follow me” and walked up the bank toward the field on his side of the fence. I went up on mine. About midway up the property line there was a wooden step stool, five feet tall, perched over the fence. It was like a two-sided ladder with a seat at the top. I’d seen these before, that first day we were following the tracks, but I’d been mostly focused on the creek.
“Is this for Amish step aerobics?” I asked.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I passed the metal detector over the top of the fence to Ezra, then started up myself. Anything that would get me to coffee sooner—no mountain too high, etc. I should have stopped to get some on my drive out. I was a grumpy ass without caffeine, or maybe it was the nightmare.
Or maybe it’s wanting what you can never have.
I was distracted and not paying the best attention. My rubber boots were slick from the ice and mud of the creek. The combination was a disaster. As I swung my second leg over the fence and turned my body on the ladder, my anchoring foot slipped and I fell awkwardly down the wooden rungs.
It wasn’t far enough that I would have hurt myself too badly, maybe banged up my shins and hands on the rough wood of the ladder. But the damage was far worse that that, because Ezra caught me in his arms. There we were in the winter chill and weak morning light, in an empty field, my back pressed to his chest, only the wool of our coats between us, my feet tangled in the ladder so that my full weight was against him. Christ.
We froze. I was afraid to move. I was afraid I’d unbalance us both, and afraid too that the moment would end. Ezra just held on solidly, his forearms like the roots of a tree wrapped around my ribs. His breath was as hot as a furnace on my neck. I understood that if my hips had not been canted up, with my feet tangled in the ladder, my butt would have been to his groin, a fate that I was grateful to have escaped, if only because of the sheer embarrassment of it.
“Pull your right foot out slow,” he said, his voice rough and close to my ear.
Dear God.
I did as he suggested, pulling my boot out of the rung slowly and placing it on the ground. The other leg followed of its own accord, and then he was stepping back, letting me go. I looked at the ground and frowned, not sure how to look him in the eyes after that.
“Well. That was graceful. Sorry.”
“No harm done,” he said evenly. “I forgot you English were so ungainly.”
I huffed a laugh.
“Gonna put on some coffee. Come up to the house when you’re done.”
“Thanks. I’ll make an effort not to break a leg on the way there.” I retrieved the metal device from where he’d leaned it up against the fence and headed for the creek.
—
I had no luck in my search along Ezra’s creek bank, except that it gave me plenty of opportunity to cool off, both physically and mentally. Nothing had happened, after all, other than the fact that I’d slipped and he’d helped me out. There was no reason to be self-conscious—except for the way his arms had felt solid and strong around me and the way it had warmed me like a roaring fire. That truth was in my head and mine alone. I didn’t have to admit it to anyone.
And, I wanted some damn coffee.
I knocked on Ezra’s front door and he opened it with slight smile. “Pot of gold?”
“Not today. Anyhow, I thought you Amish were above avarice.”
“I just wanted the pot,” he deadpanned.
I laughed as I followed him into the kitchen, where he already had two cups and plates, jam and butter on the table.
He brought a pot of coffee and set it on a hot pad. “I’ll put the toast down.”
“Toast?”
“You have to try Martha’s preserves.”
Well, I wasn’t going to argue with that, especially since the little homemade jar on the table looked like blueberry, my favorite.
“How come you always make me coffee?” I asked.
“Seemed to like it the first time.”
Logical. “Guess I did.”
“If I made you some, would you ever not want it?”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Well, then.”
That settled, he brought back a plate of toasted bread, which I swore was a homemade whole grain. The butter was in a little crock—real, fresh butter. Dear Lord. Between that and the homemade blueberry jam, my mouth thought it had died and gone to heaven. I tried very hard not to groan. There were definitely perks to Ezra’s lifestyle.
“This is the best jam in the world,” I enthused with conviction and a full mouth.
“I like it well enough. We raise them—those—blueberries.”
I found it interesting that Ezra corrected himself around me. I wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t want me to think he was ignorant, or if it was something he was trying to do with his speech all the time, and if so, what the impetus for it was. Most Amish spoke both German and English, and English was not their priority. “Aren’t you eating?”
“Had breakfast a while ago already.”
“Hmmm.”
It was a bit weird that he would make me toast without planning to eat himself, but then the cop in me was a cynical bastard. I kept my mouth shut and ate. Homemade bread, fresh butter, and real blueberry preserves. I’d take those over tiramisu or crème brûlée—two of Terry’s favorites—any day. When I’d consumed enough to think about something else, I decided to put some purpose to my visit.
“Did you know Katie Yoder?”
He’d been watching me eat with a slightly amused tolerance, like a parent might a child, but at that his face went slack and his back tensed.
“I heard. It’s terrible news.”
“What did you hear exactly?”
He gave me a wary glance and looked down at his coffee. “Heard she was found dead down in Maryland. They’re plannin’ a service for her.”
“Is that all you heard?”
“Ja.” He looked at me with a slight frown, like he wanted to ask me what I meant, but he didn’t.
I considered telling him about Katie’s relationship to the dead girl who had been found next door, but I decided I’d better not. I had to keep my cop hat on or at least barely clinging to the back of my head, no matter how much I liked Ezra. I sighed.
“You knew Katie? What was she like?”
He titled his head to the side, considering. “Young. A bit foolish. More English than most.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just seemed that way to me. Katie Yoder . . . she didn’t have a modest way about her.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
He looked troubled. “Didn’t know her real well. I came up a few years before her. I was married already when Katie started going to the sing-alongs and such.”
“Hmmm.” I poured myself a bit more coffee. The fresh cream made me want to weep with pleasure, though it was probably going straight to my thighs.
“Did she have a reputation? Among the boys?”
Ezra stroked his bare chin, looking uncomfortable. “Maybe
so. I don’t listen to such gossip.”
“She was pretty?”
He nodded. “I’d say so. I’d say she thought so too, but I’m no judge.”
“Was she friends with Martha?”
Ezra looked at me sharply. “Not hardly. Martha . . . No.”
I wondering what he’d almost said. Didn’t like her? Was too godly for a girl like that? Hated her on sight? Was jealous? I didn’t ask, but apparently my cop stare worked on him too.
“Katie . . . was a little wild. Too wild for the likes of Martha,” he finally said with great reluctance. “I don’t care to speak ill of the dead. God rest her soul.”
“Okay.” I let him off the hook seeing as how he’d fed me coffee and blueberry jam and all. “What about the farmers’ market where Katie worked, in Paradise. Do you know it?”
“Ja.” He looked at me with sudden interest. “I was gonna take some rockers over to Hennie’s this morning. That farmers’ market is on the way. Want to go with?”
I had planned on checking out Katie’s employment today. “Yeah. I can follow you in my car.”
“Can ride in the buggy if you like.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“Okay.”
After all, I’d never ridden in a buggy, and it might be good for me to get a better feeling for Amish life. I still believed this case had more to do with being Amish than Grady wanted to believe. Immersion, it was called.
And I was in deep.
—
I got into the buggy next to Ezra. There was plenty of room on the hard bench, and I kept to my side, holding the door handle to remind myself to stay there. I was wearing my usual suit with a wool trench coat over it, my hair pulled back in its cop bun. I was glad I was at least dressed modestly, because it felt immodest to be there for some reason. The buggy was enclosed for the winter and the front window was a bit small. It smelled of leather and pine and Ezra inside. Two of his Trex rockers were carefully wedged in the back.
“S’posed to snow,” Ezra said as the mule pulled us out onto the lane.