In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  I had their attention now. There were murmurs in the crowd, and then men began talking to each other in harsh German words.

  “Please!” I raised my voice to get their attention. “Please let me explain.”

  When they were quiet again, I explained about what Mark Hershberger had seen: the man feeding the family cow at the fence the day before the family fell ill. I explained about finding traces of the plant in the trough at Levi Fisher’s farm and the Troyers’, and the shoe prints found in the woods across the road from the Troyer farm.

  “We need your help. If anyone has seen any strangers lurking around their farms, parked cars in places where they shouldn’t be, or especially anyone trying to feed or pet your animals, please come talk to me after the service. Any description of the person we’re looking for will help. If you see someone suspicious in the future, it’s probably best not to try to detain them or let them know they’ve been seen. If someone in your family or neighborhood has a cell phone for work purposes, call me. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  I met the eyes of as many men as I could in the audience. They were definitely interested now, a few leaning forward and regarding me intently.

  “Also, until we’ve caught this person, I’d like to ask you to be extra vigilant with your cows. Don’t allow them to wander out in a pasture without supervision. And when they’re in the barn, lock the barn doors. Make sure no one can get inside while the family is sleeping, or even post guards if you have the manpower. Watch closely for any signs that your animals have been infected—panting, trembling in the legs or flanks, mucus or foam around the nose or mouth. If you see this, call us immediately and we can have the animal tested.” I studied their faces, hoping they could sense my sincerity. “I’m not going to ask you not to drink your cows’ milk. That’s a decision each of you must make for yourselves and for your children. But please know that until we can catch this poisoner, this danger is out there. If anyone in your family becomes ill, this sickness is treatable, but only if you get to the hospital right away. At the first sign of muscle aches, weakness, vomiting, or diarrhea, please go to your closest emergency room. Are there any questions?”

  A younger Amish man with a long dark beard stood up. “Can’t youse tell the public about this outsider? So they know it’s not a fault of our milk, or the way we’re farmin’?”

  There were murmurs of assent. I nodded. “I know this has been very hard on your livelihood. The public is afraid, and that probably has hurt your sales in any number of ways.”

  “I’ve been selling my milk to Heinz Dairy for fifteen years. Now they won’ take it,” another farmer said, shaking his head.

  “We could tell the newspapers about the poisoner,” I agreed, “but I’m not sure that would make the public feel safer. In fact, it might make them more afraid, knowing there’s someone out there putting poison in Amish foods. After all, if he can poison the milk, he could poison something else.”

  A lot of unhappy faces seemed to agree with me.

  “What we want to do is put an end to this once and for all and catch this person. And that will be easier for us to do if he doesn’t realize we know what he’s up to. If he hears that we’re looking for him, he may stop targeting your farms. And while that’s good for your families, it won’t put the public’s mind at rest, because he could start up again at any time. That’s why we need to catch him and put him in jail and then let people know exactly what happened.

  “And please, you can help by passing this word along to all your Amish friends and relatives. We need to get the word out there to the entire Amish community.”

  Glen Turner was speaking at another worship service today, and Isaac Yoder at his congregant’s service in Paradise. Hopefully that would be enough to disseminate the message.

  “I believe what she said makes gut sense.” The elder who’d introduced me stepped forward. He stroked his white beard with a weathered hand. “We should pray that God grants us the wisdom and strength to face this person who is intent on doing so much evil. We are lucky to have gut friends to help us. Let us pray.”

  —

  On the way home, Ezra was quiet, but it was an easy stillness. His face was relaxed, and he looked at peace.

  “Thank you for helping to arrange that and for going with me. Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  Ezra had one hand on the steering wheel; the other relaxed on the center console. I took that hand and he didn’t pull away. I threaded our fingers together.

  “Half a dozen people nodded at me,” Ezra said. “Men I came up with. Two ladies who’d known my wife, Mary.”

  “I’m glad.” I really was relieved this morning hadn’t been a disaster for Ezra. He’d been so low lately. I didn’t want him to be unhappy, and I didn’t want to lose him either.

  “You know . . .” he began slowly. “Bein’ there made me realize all over again that I could never go back. I’m not . . . Maybe I never was that person. But I couldn’t even fake it now.”

  I listened, rubbing my thumb over his strong hand.

  “I don’t want that,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “And . . . and I truly am in love with you, Elizabeth Harris. I was proud of you today.”

  His words were warm, and they brought a lump to my throat. I looked out at the countryside as we drove, determined not to reveal myself as a total sap. I could be a hard-ass when I needed to be. But Ezra Beiler? He could push every single one of my schmaltzy, puppies-and-kittens buttons.

  “Maybe you’d be better off with some fancy doctor like that Glen guy, but, the truth is, I’m too selfish to let you go,” Ezra added roughly. “That is, if you still wanna stay.”

  “Oh, babe, I don’t want him or anyone else. You’re all I want.”

  He smiled sweetly. “Then I’m a lucky man. And it’s time I acted like it.”

  “I know I’ve been at work all hours with this case, and I haven’t been there for you—”

  “Stop.” Ezra shot me a stern look as he drove. “I’d be a selfish fool to expect you to be home with me at six o’clock when you’re helping so many other people with your work.”

  “It’s not always like this,” I reminded him.

  “I know that. And when you’re needed, you’re needed. The least I can do is take care of things at home and provide whatever support to you I can.”

  I sniffled and wiped at my wet lashes. Damn hormones. Damn mascara. “I know that’s not the type of woman you grew up with. And it has to be hard for you to accept me being away from home all hours. But I love you so much.”

  He abruptly pulled the car off onto a wide dirt shoulder that bordered a cornfield, turned to me, and took both my hands in his.

  “If I’d wanted that kind of wife, I could have stayed with the Amish.”

  I nodded as if I knew that, but, honestly, I needed to hear those words from him today. I gave him a smile.

  He looked down as if self-conscious. “Listen, what’s been wrong with me lately is about me, not you. I was cut off from everythin’ I knew, and you were all I had. That’s too much burden to put on any one person.”

  “But I want to be there for you.”

  “You are there for me.” He squeezed my hands gently. “But nobody can find a man’s happiness but the man himself. I learned that from Mary.”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  “Just be patient with me. I’m taking steps. . . . I found a group of ex-Amish, and it’s been real good to have someone to talk to about things.”

  “You have?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes. As soon as you find this killer, I’d like to take you to one of the meetings with me. I’d be glad for you to meet them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And . . . one of the ex-Amish, Jacob, he and his girlfriend go to this small church. Lutheran. I might try it out
. I’m not so sure about God and me, but I feel like I need to make peace with that too, one way or the other.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow, a sparkle coming into his eyes. “You can’t agree with me on everythin’, Elizabeth. Makes me suspicious. I know your ornery nature.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure I can find something I disagree with. Just keep talking.”

  He grunted and released my hands, slipped his arms around my waist—rather awkwardly given the seatbelt. I leaned into him and he placed a kiss on my hair. “I meant what I said. I’m real proud of you. You sacrifice yourself to help other people. You’re like . . . like a guardian angel, I guess.”

  I snorted. “Okay, that I disagree with. I’m no angel.”

  He rubbed my back. “Good works through you though. That’s all I need to know.”

  Good works through you. God, there went those damn hormones. I couldn’t love this man any more than I did at that moment. And I had a few hours before I had to report in at the office. Lucky me.

  “Let’s go home,” I said, kissing his neck. “I’ve missed you so much. I want to hold you for a while, Mr. Beiler.”

  He gave me a last squeeze before pulling away. “Time to break a few speed limits, then.”

  I had no objections.

  CHAPTER 18

  The watcher wanted to flip off the Amish man who drove toward him in a buggy and stared at him. Instead he dredged up a wide-eyed smile and a wave, hoping to pass as a clueless tourist. The buggy went by, and the watcher observed it through his rearview mirror until it was well past him. He slowed down on the country road, scanning the farms to his right.

  He was getting pissed off. It was Tuesday afternoon and the second day he’d wasted hours driving around the back roads of Lancaster County. Yesterday he’d tried south, around Quarryville. Today he’d gone in the opposite direction and was now up north near Denver. He still wasn’t having any luck.

  It was easy enough to tell which farms were Amish. Most of them had clothes hanging out on a line. Some had windmills or buggies parked outside. And unless the weather was shitty, there were usually people hanging around, especially kids. But something had changed. Some paranoia had poured through the community like red paint, making his life much more difficult.

  They were watching.

  Before, it had always seemed to him that they ignored the cars that passed by, belonging, as they did, to outsiders. They ignored the cars and they ignored the drivers, dismissing his relevance from their reality. That had always annoyed him, as if he wasn’t good enough to be acknowledged. But he knew it was stupid to be annoyed. Why should the fox complain if the chickens chose to pretend it wasn’t there?

  The problem was, they weren’t doing that anymore. As his ’04 Corolla cruised past farms, people stopped what they were doing and watched him go by, as if they were making sure he drove on and was gone. And that wasn’t all.

  Yesterday he’d seen three Amish kids in the yard of a farmhouse and a lone cow in the pasture. He’d noted the address and had driven back there at sunset. He’d parked down the road a ways to watch. For the first time, he felt nervous and exposed parking on the side of the road, even though he had a cover story about being lost (map on the passenger seat) if anyone approached him. He trained binoculars on the house. His mother had gotten the cheap pair for him for his twelfth birthday. At the time, he’d made up a story about wanting to learn bird calls, but the truth was, he’d been hoping to see the woman who lived next door naked.

  Through the somewhat fuzzy lenses he watched a man and boy come out of the house and walk to the barn. The boy was carrying a lidded bucket, obviously for the milking. The watcher leaned forward with interest. He was astonished to see them reach the barn door and the man fiddle around with . . . a lock.

  There was a large padlock on the barn door. The man opened it with a key and went into the barn with the boy.

  Fucking hell. He’d never seen the Amish lock up anything. Was this a one-off? Maybe the farmer kept something valuable in the barn. But the watcher didn’t like it. In the gathering gloom of dusk, he shoved his car into gear and drove by a few other farms with dairy cows he’d noticed previously that day, slowing down to train the binoculars on the barns. Locks. He saw more locks.

  Feeling a surge of rage, he slammed on the accelerator and peeled away, heading back toward Route 23 and Lancaster. He was done.

  As he drove he slowly calmed down. He didn’t get angry often. Bullshit emotions. He was above all that. Don’t get mad, get even. That’s what the strong did, right? Like Ragnar on Vikings. Calmly take it all in without saying jack shit. Then, when it’s time to act, have no mercy. But today had been surprising, and it fucked with his head.

  The more he thought about it though, the more he figured maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

  The Amish were afraid. That made him smile. He was having an impact. That’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  But if they were watching out for strangers, locking up their barns, that meant they were on the lookout for a person, not a plant. And if they’d figured that out, the police probably had too.

  Or maybe not. The Amish didn’t necessarily listen to the police, much less tell them their business.

  And maybe it was time he upped his game anyway. He was clever, wasn’t he? If they thought he couldn’t get past a padlock or two, they were dumber than a pig running after a bacon truck. He just had to figure out how to adapt his strategy. And when he did, the scythe would fall.

  —

  Two days after I’d met with the Amish congregation, Grady and I agreed on the final details of a plan. He insisted we run it by Lumbaker, the chief of police, just to get “an objective opinion.” But really, I figured, it was to cover our asses. I was not averse to getting Lumbaker’s input. I needed all the professional objectivity I could find. And when Lumbaker agreed to what I outlined, I was almost sorry.

  Good works through you.

  I hoped to God Ezra was right and that my existence on this planet wasn’t about to become a liability for a family I cared about very much. I tried not to second-guess myself. I knew the plan made sense. But it was one thing in theory—another thing entirely face-to-face.

  Grady went with me to the Yoders’ home, and we were soon seated at the kitchen table. There we sat: tough guy Grady, me, and a middle-aged Amish couple: Hannah and Isaac Yoder. It was like a gathering of mismatched odds and ends, certainly no one’s idea of a dream crime-fighting team. I turned down Hannah’s offer of coffee. My stomach was a mess already.

  Grady nodded at me, and I laid out my plan, trying to keep my voice steady and reasonable.

  “So . . . you want us to lure the killer here?” Isaac summed up. He spoke slowly, as if he doubted he’d heard me right.

  My hands gripped each other in my lap. “I hate to ask it of you. I realize it sounds desperate, but I guess we are. We need a way to find him. The area’s too big; there are too many farms. We need to be able to guess where he’s going to strike next. I thought of you because I know you’re strong and reliable, both of you. And I hope there’s some trust between us.”

  I was going to go on, to repeat our reassurances for their safety, but Hannah spoke up, her voice firm. “Of course. Please let us help. None of us will feel safe as long as he’s out there.”

  Isaac nodded. “We must help. I wanna see you catch this man once and for all. He should face the consequences of his actions. We’ll do whatever you say.”

  I breathed a shaky exhalation of relief and gratitude. There was a lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

  “If the good Lord can use us to stop this, who are we to say no?” Isaac asked.

  Amen to that. Only, for God’s sake, let nothing go wrong.

  “Yo, James! Where are you, Mars? I said, what’re ya doing this weekend?” James Westley’s roomma
te, Billy, waved a hand in front of James’s face. He’d been sitting at his desk in their dorm room, so lost in thought that he hadn’t even heard Billy come in.

  “Sorry,” James muttered. “Studying, I guess. Laundry.”

  “Dude! Way to live on the edge. You gotta slow down. That fast lane’ll kill ya.”

  “LOL,” James said flatly. He smoothed the pages of the textbook under his hand. He had to read three chapters by tomorrow, but he couldn’t focus.

  Billy snorted. “What’s up? Something’s been bugging you for the past few days.”

  If even Billy noticed, it was pretty damn obvious. Billy’s attention was usually reserved for things that wore pink panties or had a head of foam. James had tried to put his fears in the back of his mind, but they kept floating up like a piece of shit in a toilet. James had lied to that hot female detective, Harris. The thing is, James wasn’t a rat. He really wasn’t a rat.

  In his sophomore year of high school, he’d hung around with a group of guys who liked to party. They’d smoked in the third floor boy’s bathroom at school. The teachers could never catch them at it because they would stand in a circle and pass around one cigarette. The minute a teacher walked into the bathroom, whoever had the butt would toss it in a toilet. And then they’d all lie their asses off. It was the sort of thing where you had to be caught with the ciggy in your hand to get written up.

  Well, one day, James had the cigarette, and he was telling a story and he got distracted. So did his friends. The next thing he knew, he had the butt between two fingers and was staring right into the face of a teacher. Busted.

  The asshole principal had offered James a choice: provide a list of all of the boys he’d seen smoking in the bathroom or take ten days detention with no ability to make up his work. James had taken the detention, and he’d been a hero for it with his friends.