by Carol Coffey
Upstairs, a glass-panelled corridor revealed workers hurrying to and fro from their offices. After ten minutes, aware that he was being watched, Locklear glanced up and saw Bethany Stoll staring down at him. Her long, wavy hair was loose and hung about her shoulders. He smiled at her as she moved back from the glass and disappeared.
After twenty minutes passed, Locklear waved to other people sitting on adjoining sofas, business people waiting to see Shank.
“Must be a lot of money in milk,” he said loudly.
Only one man smiled at him while two others drew their briefcases towards their chests and avoided eye contact with him.
Locklear began to whistle. The receptionist lifted the phone again and whispered into the receiver.
“I’m waiting to see the big man myself. Find out why he won’t buy milk from shunned Mennonites while he lives in luxury.”
Now his only supporter looked away from him but Locklear could see the faint smile on his lips. The man picked up the newspaper and snapped its large pages open.
“You know, that’s another funny thing.” Locklear raised his voice. “I’m a bit ignorant about the faith and I thought Old Order Mennonites don’t read what’s going on in the outside world. I was wrong – they do. Not everyone has respect for the written word though. Did you know that the library burned down last night? Doesn’t matter though, they got copies of everything that was in there in practically every library in this country.” Locklear was practically shouting now.
The neatly dressed receptionist left her seat and approached him.
“Mr Shank will see you now.”
“I thought he might,” Locklear replied.
When the door to the elevator opened on the fifth floor, Locklear found Bethany Stoll waiting for him.
“Mr Shank’s office is this way.”
“You mean your grandfather’s office?” Locklear curtly replied.
Stoll ignored him. Locklear had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying he knew she was the woman in the parking lot of the library the night before, that he knew she or someone with her had tried to kill Carter and that she had arranged for the library and every piece of information on John Grant inside it to be burned to the ground. Locklear noticed the shortness of the young woman’s skirt, which revealed two deeply tanned legs, and the way she deliberately accentuated the swing of her hips as she walked ahead of him. He focused his eyes on the door at the end of the corridor, knowing his nemesis sat just inside its heavy panelled door.
Stoll knocked lightly and entered.
“Das ist Herr Locklear – ein Polizist,” Stoll said.
Locklear stood at the door and stared at the tiny man behind the huge desk. Samuel Shank looked smaller than he had the first time Locklear laid eyes on him perched on top of his buggy. The bespectacled man with the large grey beard wore the same black coat and, despite being indoors, wore a large black hat on his tiny head. Locklear wondered if the hat and coat had ever fitted him and smiled at the charade.
Shank stood and offered his hand. Locklear ignored it and sat uninvited. Stoll remained at the open door until Shank began to shout at her in German. Locklear knew the old man’s ire related to the length of his granddaughter’s skirt as the woman pulled at the garment before closing the door abruptly behind her.
“What can I do for you, Herr Locklear?” Shank said genially.
“Sergeant,” Locklear corrected him.
Shank shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak.
“I know, I know,” Locklear interrupted him. “You answer to no one but the Lord. I wonder what the Lord would think of your nude statue in the entrance?”
Shank sat back on his leather chair and rocked back and forward.
“In the business world, one has to present oneself in a certain manner.”
“And in your Mennonite world?”
Shank said nothing and continued to rock back and forth.
“You have questions for me?” he asked.
“I’m still waiting on you to answer the last one.”
“It is true that my personal life and professional one are at odds with each other.”
Shank stood and went to the window behind his desk. He tilted the blinds on his window and stared out, his back to the room.
“I learnt as a young man that the only way I could help my community would be if I was rich. So I set about building this business up to what it is today. I stopped my people being reliant on outsiders to buy their milk and gave them a fair price for it. Soon, English farmers wanted to do business with me and the business grew. As a result of my success I am able to pay for schools, for education, housing –”
“Healthcare?” Locklear interjected.
“Yes, that too.” The old man released the blinds and returned to his desk to face Locklear.
“Including the medical costs for Sara Fehr?”
“An unfortunate accident,” Shank replied.
“Not attempted suicide?”
Shank’s grey wiry eyebrows rose up. His lips parted slightly, revealing a semi-toothless mouth.
“Or would attempted murder be more correct?” Locklear asked.
Shank ignored the comment but, this time, did not bother to feign surprise.
“She was a beautiful girl but, you probably don’t know, there’s a long history of ... psychological distress in the family.”
Locklear did not speak in the hope it would make Shank nervous. It didn’t.
“Her family can’t afford it. They no longer even farm. They’re distant relations of mine so ...”
“What is Luke Fehr digging for?” Locklear asked abruptly.
Shank had taken control of the interview and Locklear needed to put the ball back in his court. He knew this might be the only time he got to speak with the man and he could already picture his smart granddaughter typing up an application for a restraining order.
This time Shank’s surprise seemed real. The man was a good actor.
“Digging?”
“Yes, you know. Digging – shovel-into-hole – that type of digging,” Locklear replied.
“I’ve no idea.”
“I think you do, Mr Shank.”
Shank remained silent. The door opened and a man in a dark-blue suit walked in.
“Ah, Jacob! Come in. This is Mr – Sergeant Locklear. Mr Locklear, this is my son. He largely runs the business now.”
Locklear recognised the man as the second occupant of Shank’s buggy in the flyer he took from reception.
“And your granddaughter?” Locklear asked, anxious for them to know that he knew the identity of the woman.
“My sister’s daughter,” Jacob replied.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Locklear retorted.
“No, but you will be in future. Any further contact with this company will be through me – or through Ms Stoll.”
Shank Senior sat down.
“Ms Stoll ... yes, I think my trooper mentioned he saw her last night at the back of the library,” Locklear lied. “Not somewhere a registered lawyer wants to be identified, especially as someone shot him. I hear they don’t treat lawyers too good in prison.”
Samuel Shank stood quickly. Locklear could see the look of alarm in the old man’s face.
“She didn’t shoot –”
Jacob Shank raised his hand, silencing his father.
He smirked at Locklear who stood up.
“If you think you can prove that, Mr Locklear, we’ll very happily see you in court. Shortly after you try to drag our name through the mud, we’ll see your department in court for defamation. Am I making myself clear?”
Locklear walked to the door and turned.
“Crystal. But let me make myself clear. I know that your family have been killing the Fehrs for generations. I know you were behind the attack on Andrew Fehr and also, somehow, responsible for what happened to Sara Fehr and I will keep digging until I have enough evidence to prove it.”
Locklear walked ou
t onto the corridor and banged the elevator button.
When he reached reception, Bethany Stoll was idly standing at the desk. She walked up to him and whispered, “I really hope your trooper makes it. He’s kind of cute.”
As she walked away, Locklear could see that the woman had hitched her skirt back up.
He made his way into the heat of the parking lot and remained there for several minutes, thinking.
There was only one more place he could go.
On the other side of Fehr’s farm, Locklear parked his car and climbed the north side of the steep incline to the old cabin he had seen on the day he climbed to the top of Fehr hill. Nothing told him this was where he’d find Aaron Fehr except instinct. He had called to the station en-route and found the old man was not listed on any database. No tax number, no utility company records. The man did not exist. Locklear checked Mendoza’s notes and figured the man was a sibling or cousin of the Fehr’s grandfather.
When the cabin came into view, Locklear hunkered down and moved slowly towards the back of the property, anxious to take Aaron Fehr by surprise. When he reached the building, he stood upright and glanced through one of the two back windows. The cabin, which appeared to consist of just one room, was sparse and basic. Fehr could be seen sitting in an old armchair, facing the open door of the cabin. To the right, a small table held a cup and plate. A swarm of flies buzzed around the leftover food and about the head of the cabin’s only occupant. Locklear couldn’t understand why Fehr did not move to shoo them. Slowly, he moved around the side, ducking briefly to avoid detection in the one dusty window that faced south. He stepped on a dry branch and held his breath as it cracked loudly beneath his feet. He looked at the ground and found Abigail Fehr’s red rag doll lying in the dirt. Convinced the twig had given him away, he remained there waiting for movement within the shack. He heard none. He moved forward and along the front of the building which contained only two small windows on each side of an open wooden door. Locklear hunkered down again and raised just the top of his head as far as his eyes to get a closer look at the man. Realising what he was looking at in the dim room, Locklear slowly stood to his full height. Aaron Fehr was dead. A short noose was tied around the old man’s neck. Locklear stepped inside and placed a hankie over his nose and mouth. Fehr had been dead for several days and had obviously been beaten before someone strangled him with a short rope in the seat he was sitting in. Locklear stepped back outside into the air and picked up Abigail Fehr’s rag roll. He phoned the station and then sat on a rock and looked down at the Wyss farm in the distance. Abigail Fehr had been here and he was both sickened by and enthused that the young girl might have seen or heard something that would be useful to him.
Two hours later the body was carried down the steep hill and removed to the hospital’s morgue. Locklear was still sitting on the large rock as he gave his statement on the hill to the fleshy-faced cop whose name turned out to be Maguire. Crowds of Mennonites could be seen at the base of the hill watching and whispering, anxious about the drama unfolding in the normally serene village they called home.
Slowly, Locklear descended the hill and made his way down the dirt track to the Wyss farm. He knocked on the door and stood silently while Helena Wyss considered whether or not to let him in. The much-missed doll in his hand may have swung her decision.
“I heard about Mr Fehr,” Helena said as she ushered Locklear into the kitchen where Abigail was busy podding peas. “It’s so awful.”
Abigail looked up and saw the doll in Locklear’s hand. He held out the doll to her. Her lip quivered and Locklear thought she was going to cry. She looked to her foster mother for reassurance before reaching forward and snatching the doll forcefully from his hand.
“She’s missing Esther,” Helena offered as she gestured that he should sit at the table.
“She hasn’t been seen since?” Locklear asked, sitting down.
Helena shook her head.
“Has Abigail been ... behaving strangely since the doll went missing?” he asked, anxious to know to what extent the girl witnessed the events in the cabin.
“You’re wondering if she saw ... Mr Fehr?”
“Yes.”
Helena placed her hands to her face. “I’ve told her a hundred times not to go up there.”
“Has she said anything?”
“No.”
“Can you ask her?” Locklear asked, unsure how to communicate with the strange girl.
Helena moved to Abigail’s seat and turned the girl around to face her. She took the doll from her foster daughter’s hands and held it in front of the girl’s eyes.
“Abigail – where did you lose Red?”
Abigail turned away from her mother and lifted another pod.
Helena turned her around again.
“Abigail. Answer me.”
Abigail Fehr dropped the pod and smacked herself on the face. Helena reached forward and held the girl’s hands down.
“She does this sometimes during an absence,” Helena said almost apologetically to Locklear. “Abigail? Did you go see Uncle Aaron?”
Abigail Fehr eyes rolled upwards and she began to laugh. “Fuck you! Tell us where it fucking is!”
Helena blushed. “She doesn’t mean it. Can’t think where she heard such words.”
Abigail rolled her eyes back to their normal position and stared at Locklear. “It’s a good year to put things right.”
Locklear stood and went around to the other side of the table. He hunched down and looked into the girl’s stunning eyes.
“Abigail – I need you to tell me where you heard those words. It’s important – for Andrew.”
Helena pursed her lips. Locklear could sense her disapproval.
“Please do not lie to her,” she whispered.
Locklear didn’t take the time to explain that he was telling the truth. Those words linked Abigail to her brother and if he could find out where she heard them, he would know why Andrew Fehr woke saying those same words.
Abigail looked at Locklear as though she had only just woken to find her foster mother and a strange man looking at her.
“What?” she snapped.
“Abigail – be gentle,” Helena warned.
Locklear repeated the question. “Where did you hear those words, Abigail?”
“The men in Uncle Aaron’s house said them.”
Locklear moved closer to the girl. “When was that?”
Abigail rolled her eyes back and forward. Locklear, anxious that the girl was going into another absence, touched her arm. She jumped.
“When did you hear those words?” he repeated.
“The day of Andrew’s birthday.”
“Where was your uncle then?”
“Sitting in the soft chair Pastor Plett gave him with blood on his face.”
Helena gasped. She walked to the kitchen wall and stood facing it. Locklear glanced at her as she lifted her apron to wipe tears from her face.
“Abigail – did you tell your uncle that Andrew was coming to this house that night?”
Abigail bit down on her lip. She raised her hand to hit herself but stopped. “Yes.”
Locklear could see tears welling in her eyes.
“You’re not in trouble, Abigail. If you tell me the rest it will help Andrew and Luke and Esther.”
“Sara?” she asked.
“Yes – and Sara too.”
Helena turned back from the wall and glared at him.
“It won’t help her wake up but it will make her happier,” he added. “Did Aaron tell those men that Andrew was coming here?”
“Yes.”
Locklear patted her head although he suspected she was much too old for such comfort. He never knew how to interact with children, never having had any or even being one himself.
“What happened then?”
“Then they put a rope around Uncle’s neck and pulled it tight and then they stopped and he coughed.”
Abigail made a gurgling noise
and poked her tongue out of her mouth, mirroring what she saw.
Helena let out a cry and ran from the room.
Abigail, unperturbed, stared at Locklear, waiting to give the next answer that would make everybody happy again.
“Where were you? Did they see you?”
Abigail shook her head. “I was looking through the side window.”
Locklear knew the window Abigail meant. It was where he stepped on the dry twig and where he found Abigail’s doll.
“What happened next?”
“One man put his hand on Uncle’s neck and said ‘He’s gone’. But he wasn’t gone – he was still sitting right there.” She looked questioningly at Locklear. “Then I made a noise and a man came out to see. I was afraid. I dropped Red and hid behind a tree.”
“Then what?”
“They left. I went inside and sat on Uncle’s knee.”
“What happened then?”
“Uncle played a whispering game.”
“Can you tell me how it went?”
Abigail leaned forwarded and whispered into Locklear’s ear – her voice changed into a hoarse rasp. “Tell Luke. Warn him – they’re coming for Andrew. Tell him it’s a good year to put things right.”
“Did you tell him? Did you tell Luke this?”
Abigail Fehr shook her head. “It was daytime and Luke only comes when it’s dark.”
“What did you do?”
“I walked to Pastor Plett’s house and I told Esther. Uncle isn’t playing with me anymore.”
Locklear reached forward and pulled the girl to him, awkwardly patting her shoulders.
“No – but he’s very proud of you.” He pulled the flyer from Shank’s office from his pocket.
“Was this the man you saw on the mountain?” he asked, pointing at Samuel Shank in the buggy.
Abigail shook her head. Instead she pointed at the younger man – at Jacob Shank. “It was that man.”
Locklear stood and retrieved a shaken Helena from the hallway.