He reached her, set his hand on her arm, slid it down to her wrist. “I’m placing you under arrest for drunk driving.”
Alarm spiraled inside her when the cuff encircled her wrist. He snugged it tight. The metal hard and cold against her wrist when it clicked into place.
“Please don’t arrest me.” She tried to sound calm, but panic rang in her voice.
He took her other hand, pulled it behind her, and cuffed her. “Do you have any weapons on you? Anything sharp that I should be concerned about?”
“No. Please. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just want to go home.”
Placing one hand at her upper arm, his other on the chain connecting the cuffs, he guided her to his car. Upon reaching the trunk, he turned her toward him, and backed her up so that her backside was against the trunk.
“I’m going to do a quick pat-down to make sure you don’t have any weapons on you,” he said. “Just stay calm for me, okay?”
“But I’m not drunk,” she said.
“We’ll get it all straightened out.”
She stood stone-still while he ran his hands over her hips, squeezing the pockets, turning then inside out. He removed her pack of cigarettes, lighter, cell phone, and the twenty-dollar bill she had in her back pocket.
“Please don’t arrest me,” she said. “I just made a mistake. Please. I’ll be in such trouble.”
When he was finished searching her, he stepped back. She was leaning against the car, her hands clamped together at the small of her back. He stared at her. She stared back, aware that she was shaking, and she struggled to keep it in check.
“Looks like we got us a situation,” he said.
For the first time she noticed his breathing was elevated, even though he hadn’t exerted himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. The underarm area of his uniform shirt was wet. And for the first time, she sensed something was amiss.
“Can’t you just let me go?” she whispered.
Something in his expression changed. A strange light entered his eyes. His jaw flexed, as if he were biting down on something hard. “Do you think maybe we can work something out?”
She blinked, not understanding the question, but the sense that something wasn’t quite right burgeoned into a different kind of alarm. And for the first time it occurred to her that she was alone with a man she didn’t know or trust. They were in the boondocks in the middle of the night.…
“Them jeans you’re wearing are sure nice and tight,” he whispered.
The alarm grew into something closer to panic. The urge to run swept through her. She looked around, wondering if she could make it to the field before he caught her.
“You got nice big titties for a seventeen-year-old, you know that?”
No one had ever talked to her like that. Certainly not a grown man. An adult. The terrible understanding that followed brought with it a gasp of shock that stuck in her throat like a chicken bone.
“Hold still now. You hear?” He reached for the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up.
Instinctively, she leaned forward, hunched her shoulders forward, tried to cover herself. But he pressed her back against the vehicle, forced her to straighten so that her breasts were visible.
“Man.” He didn’t even look at her. Just stared at her breasts, a starving animal watching prey in the seconds before it attacked. “Man.”
“You can’t do that,” she cried. “It’s not right. You can’t.”
His eyes slid to hers. “Let me tell you something, Amish girl. If I take you to jail, you’ll be there for at least three or four days. A DUI will cost your parents thousands of dollars. Plus a lawyer and they ain’t cheap. You’ll lose your driver’s license. Your car. Everyone will know. All those self-righteous Bible-thumping Amish going to shun you. Is that what you want?”
“Please don’t,” she cried. “I promise not to do it again. Please.”
“Well, listen up. If you let me put my hands on you, I’ll let you go home. No ticket. No jail. We won’t tell a soul. And no one will ever know.” His voice had gone hoarse, his breaths coming faster.
Rachael didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to say. Did he just want to touch her? Did he want to do something else?
“I don’t want to do anything,” she choked.
“Then you’re going to jail. You want to know what’s going to happen when you get there? They’re going to take your clothes. Strip-search you and they ain’t very nice about it. Keep you locked up for days. Is that what you want?”
“No.” Feeling trapped, she began to cry. “What do I have to do?”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Slowly, he turned her around so that she was facing his car. “I’ll do everything.”
Clamping his hand around the back of her neck, he forced her face against the trunk lid.
CHAPTER 26
Outrage boils in my gut by the time Loretta finishes her story. I tamp it down, grapple for distance. I don’t trust my voice, so I say nothing. The only sound comes from the buzz of the overhead lights, the beelike hum of my computer.
Tears stream down Loretta’s cheeks. She doesn’t acknowledge them. Her gaze fastens to the surface of my desk, and the silence that follows is excruciating.
“Rachael told you that?” I ask.
She nods. “A couple weeks after it happened. She didn’t know what to do. I think she needed someone to talk to.”
Next to her, Ben sets his elbows on his knees and looks down at the floor.
“She named Dane Fletcher?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I think about that a moment. “Did she tell her parents?”
“I don’t think she told anyone. I mean, she was Amish. And she was out doing things she shouldn’t have been doing. How could she tell anyone?”
I don’t respond. Maybe because I don’t want to contemplate my answer. Would Rachael’s family have supported her? Would they have believed her? Or blamed her? Would her parents have gone to the police? Or would they sweep the whole, ugly incident under the rug in the hope it would go away?
“Did she seek medical help?” I ask. “Go to the doctor?”
“No.” The Amish woman tightens her mouth. “She was never the same after that.”
I look at her. “How so?”
“Rachael was always bold, you know.” A sad smile pulls at her mouth. “The stories her mamm told about her when she was a little one.” She turns thoughtful. “In the weeks and months after that happened to her, Rachael became even bolder. Worse, she became unkind.”
I think about Dane Fletcher. The unexplained deposits into Rachael’s bank account. In my mind’s eye, I see the CCTV video from the gas station next to the bar in Wooster, and I realize the silhouette of the man who met with Rachael that day could very well be Fletcher’s. A theory begins to take shape.
Tears shimmer in Loretta’s eyes when she raises her gaze to mine. “Chief Burkholder, Rachael was barely seventeen years old. Little more than a child. Going on twenty-five, you know? She thought she could handle what happened to her. But it changed her. Changed her view of the world and not in a good way.”
“Why did Fletcher show up at your place last night?” I ask.
“He knew Rachael and I grew up together. That we were friends. He must have known she told me what he did to her that night because he told me to keep my mouth shut.” Her face screws up, but she fends off tears. “He threatened my family.”
Ben raises his head. I catch a glimpse of anger in his eyes before he can tuck it away, out of sight. “In light of … what happened to Rachael,” he says, “we thought you should know.”
Loretta’s eyes widen on mine. She blinks. And I realize she’s arrived at the same conclusion as me. That Dane Fletcher and Rachael Schwartz met at the Willowdell Motel and something unspeakable ensued.
“Mein Gott.” Choking out a sound of dismay, she lowers her face into her hands.
In the backwaters of my mind, I see Rachael ly
ing on the floor in that motel room. Her broken body and destroyed face. A beautiful young woman with her entire life ahead. A woman who was difficult and flawed and didn’t always conduct herself in a way becoming to her Amish roots. But she damn well didn’t deserve what happened to her.
“Do you think that policeman did this terrible thing?”
The question comes from Ben. He sits stiffly next to his wife, his expression a mosaic of horror and disbelief and a possibility he can’t accept.
I don’t answer. I can’t for too many reasons to say, let alone the fact that a law enforcement officer has suddenly become my number-one suspect.
I divide my attention between the couple. “Do you know if Rachael has been in touch with Dane Fletcher?” I ask. “By phone or text? Do you know if they’ve met at any time over the years?”
They exchange a look and then Loretta shakes her head. “I’ve not heard of such a thing, Chief Burkholder. If they did, Rachael never mentioned it.”
CHAPTER 27
I was eighteen years old the last time I saw Rachael Schwartz. The Fall Harvest Festival was a huge flea-market-type event for which the Amish traveled miles to set up booths or wagons, and sell their wares, everything from produce to livestock, from baked goods to quilts. For me, it was a day away from the farm and chores, a time to see my friends, and, of course, sample all that delicious Amish food. Every September, my datt loaded our old hay wagon and dragged me and my siblings, Jacob and Sarah, to the festival, where we spent the day selling pumpkins of every shape and size.
By the time I was eighteen, the festival had lost some of its luster. On that particular day, I escaped the watchful eye of my datt under the guise of a restroom break and I made my way to a not-so-bustling area on the periphery of the festival, far enough away from my Amish brethren to sneak a smoke. I was about to light up when a cacophony of raised voices interrupted my plans.
I should have known Rachael Schwartz would be involved. The majority of festivalgoers were Amish, after all, and they simply did not partake in noisy public discourse.
At the edge of the gravel parking lot, next to a row of Port-a-Potties, Loretta Weaver pulled a wood crate filled with what looked like baked goods from the back of a wagon and carried it to her booth, where she’d set up a nice display. A homemade easel was bedecked with a big handwritten sign that proclaimed:
HINKELBOTTBOI (CHICKEN POTPIE)—$6.99
LATTWARRICK (APPLE BUTTER)—$4.99
FRISCHI WASCHT (FRESH SAUSAGE)—$3.69
KARSCHE BOI (CHERRY PIE)—$1.99 PER PIECE/$6.99 WHOLE PIE
A few yards away, two English girls had been working on their own booth, where they were selling cakes. A printed sign pinned to the front of their table read:
PERSONALIZED CAKES FOR BIRTHDAYS,
ANNIVERSARIES, AND OTHER SPECIAL
OCCASIONS. TAKE ONE HOME TODAY!
Evidently, a territory dispute had broken out between two groups of sellers.
“Hey you! Pilgrim girl! This is our spot.”
An English girl of about fifteen wearing cut-off denim shorts and a Backstreet Boys T-shirt stood in front of her booth, hands on her hips, glaring at Loretta. Behind her, two gangly teenage boys stood next to the booth, watching, their expressions expectant and amused.
Loretta Weaver went to the English girl and offered a faltering smile. “We’re just selling for the day,” she said reasonably. “Pies and such, you know. We can’t leave until everything is sold.”
A second English girl rounded the table to join them. This one wore a white blouse and pink shorts, a nifty summer hat cocked to one side. “Yeah, well, you’re putting a crimp in our style with those pies. You’re going to have to take it elsewhere.”
Loretta shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “But this is my booth. I’m all set up. I think we’ll be fine just where we are, don’t you?”
Hat Girl rolled her eyes. “We paid a week’s salary for this spot, and we were told no one next to us would be competing with our shit.” She pointed toward the ocean of tables and sellers set up closer to the buildings. “You’re going to have to move.”
Loretta looked around as if expecting someone to come to her aid and help her defend her position. But no one was paying attention. She stood there, looking from one girl to the other, saying nothing.
“I don’t think she heard you!” one of the boys called out.
“Send her a frickin’ text!” the other boy added, and both of them broke into raucous laughter. “All those Amish hypocrites got phones!”
Loretta looked at the boys and swallowed. “We paid, too. We can’t just move. This is our table. There’s no place else to go.”
The Backstreet Boys T-shirt girl pointed to the more crowded area at the front of the market. “I bet there’s a table over there. Just go. You’ll find something.”
“But this is our assigned booth,” Loretta said reasonably. “They told us to use this one. We can’t just take someone else’s spot.”
“Oh my God, she’s dense.” Shaking her head, Hat Girl moved closer and got in her face. “Look, be a good little pilgrim, load up that buggy, and move your shit.”
Loretta opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it as if not certain how to respond. Instead, she looked down at the ground and shook her head. “I don’t want any problems.”
“Well, you got one,” said the girl in the Backstreet Boys T-shirt.
Hat Girl looked at her friend and shook her head. “I’ve heard they were dense, but this is ridiculous.”
“Maybe she needs some convincing!” one of the boys called out.
The other boy started to chant. “Catfight! Catfight!”
Even then, I was aware that people were occasionally hostile toward the Amish. It didn’t happen often, but I’d seen it once or twice. I wasn’t exactly a quintessential example of Amish values, but I knew right from wrong. I couldn’t abide a bully. Loretta Weaver was a quiet, shy, and hardworking girl who’d been raised to be submissive and nonviolent. She hadn’t been exposed to prejudice or cruelty. She was light-years out of her depth and probably didn’t even realize it.
“Oh, for God’s sake, are you fucking deaf!” Hat Girl strode to the Amish girl’s booth. There, she paused, perused the items set on the table, and snatched up a jar of apple butter.
Loretta trailed her, fingering the hem of her apron, trying to stay calm, not quite succeeding.
Mean glinted in the girl’s eyes. Holding up the jar, she unscrewed the lid, stuck her finger into the goo, and brought it to her mouth. “Oh my God. This is some good shit.”
Loretta stiffened her spine, met the girl’s gaze. “You have to pay for it now.”
The two English girls exchanged looks and burst out laughing.
A cruel expression overtook Hat Girl’s face. Her eyes slanted to the boys snickering from their place at her booth, then slid back to Loretta. “How much do I owe you?”
Loretta held out her hand. “Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”
Upending the jar, Hat Girl poured the apple butter onto Loretta’s upturned palm.
“Oh my God, Britany!” The Backstreet Boys T-shirt girl gasped, then slapped her hand over her mouth to hide the bark of laughter that followed.
Loretta lowered her hand, the apple butter dripping unceremoniously to the ground at her feet. Saying nothing, not meeting the other girl’s gaze, she pulled a wadded-up tissue from her dress pocket and tried to clean away the sticky apple butter.
I don’t remember moving. Just the buzz of fury in my head. Tunnel vision on the girl with the hat. The mean in her eyes. In the back of my mind, I was visualizing myself punching that painted pink mouth.
I never got the chance.
I was still a few steps away when movement out of the corner of my eye snapped me from my fugue. I glanced over to see Rachael Schwartz charge Hat Girl. I barely recognized her. Her face was pulled into a mask of rage. She held a pitchfork in her hand.
I wa
s closest to Loretta, so I grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way. Rachael swung the pitchfork, slinging horse manure all over Hat Girl with such force that I heard each individual chunk slap against her face and clothes.
For the span of several seconds no one spoke. Hat Girl looked down at her clothes, at the green-brown smears and stains on her white blouse, her bare legs. “Ewww. Ewww!” A shudder moved through her. “Oh my God. Ewww! You bitch!”
Rachael had already darted back to where the horse stood for a second load of manure. Breathing hard, she held it at the ready. “Get lost or you’re going to get it again,” she said.
That was the day young Rachael Schwartz won my respect—and pilfered a little piece of my heart. Despite our age difference, I realized we were kindred spirits. She couldn’t abide by the rules, didn’t fit in. She was misunderstood. She broke molds. Worst of all, she was a fighter—a fatal flaw when you live among pacifists. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, when I looked at Rachael, I saw myself. Hopelessly awkward, fatally flawed, incapable of pretense. Up until the day I left, I secretly cheered her on.
I lost track of her as she entered her teens, but I heard the stories upon my return. She liked boys a little too much. At seventeen, she got a job and bought that old junker she could never quite live down. It wasn’t a first because she was Amish—it was a first because she was female. She drank more than her share of alcohol. Smoked cigarettes. Stayed out too late. Sometimes she didn’t come home at all.
As an adult looking back, her fall from Amish grace makes me incredibly sad, and I realize something important. While my parents weren’t perfect, they instilled in me a foundation that gave me the tools I needed to overcome the bad decisions I made early in my life. I didn’t know Rhoda and Dan well, but I don’t believe they did the same for their daughter. Because they viewed her as fallen, perhaps beyond redemption, they cut her off. That intolerance—that lack of guidance and support—set her on a path to self-destruction.
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