Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (21 page)

“What? But … where did he go?”

“Evidently, the bishop sent the boy to another church district in Missouri to help an elderly couple whose family was killed in a buggy accident.”

Suspicion creeps over me, as cold and hard as January ice spreading over the surface of a pond. “Without speaking to his parents? I mean, did the boy
want
to go? Did he volunteer?”

“No one knows. And no one’s talking.”

“Did Rebecca confront the bishop?” I ask.

“She’s not one to take things sitting down.” The smile that follows is humorless and tight. “She’s a strong-willed woman and isn’t afraid to speak her mind. I don’t know everything that was said, but there’s bad blood between them now.”

Around us the shop is eerily silent. The only sound is the occasional hiss of tires on Main Street. The rattle of heat coming from the vent overhead.

“Laura,” I whisper, “did the bishop do something bad to the children?”

The words hover, like the smell of something long dead that neither of us wants to acknowledge. She stares at me, anguish and fear etched into her features. “I can’t imagine, Kate. I mean, he’s the
bishop
.”

“He’s a mortal man,” I tell her. “A human being with weaknesses just like the rest of us. Maybe more, from what I’ve heard.”

“I think I’ve said enough.”

She starts to rise, but I reach out and set my hand on her arm. “Laura, did the bishop have something to do with what happened to Rebecca’s hand?”

Pulling her arm away, she rises so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the floor. Without looking at me, she shoves it against the table. The shop no longer feels homey or cozy or even comfortable. It feels like a dangerous place that’s exposed and watched.

“I can’t.” Turning away, she walks to the counter.

I rise and follow. “Did someone hurt Rebecca?”

“I shouldn’t have told you any of this. I shouldn’t be burdening you with my worries.”

“I’m glad you did.” When she says nothing, I add, “That’s what friends are for.”

When she turns to face me, she’s pulled herself together. Her eyes are cool when they meet mine. “I think it’s time you went home, Kate.”

“But what about—”

She cuts me off. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

CHAPTER 16

Everything I learned from Laura Hershberger and the other women at the quilt shop churns in my brain as I take the scooter bike back to the trailer. Bishops don’t take teenage girls into their home to “counsel.” They don’t send teenaged boys away without the blessing of the children’s parents. Families don’t flee their homes in the middle of the night.

Unless they’re frightened of something. Or someone.

What really happened to Rebecca and her family? All I can do at this point is continue to ask questions. Keep digging. In the interim, I’ll pass along the information to Suggs so he can run the names. Hopefully, he’ll be able to locate them and find out what happened.

It’s nearly dark by the time I arrive at the trailer. While soup heats on the stove, I call Suggs and recap my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “The grandson never came back. Allegedly, he was sent to Missouri to help an elderly couple after their family was killed in a buggy accident.”

“That’s checkable. I’ll get with the highway patrol down there and see if they can get me stats on fatality accidents involving buggies. And of course I’ll run their names.”

“While you’re at it run the parents and the two girls, too, will you? Last name Beiler.” I spell it for him. “I don’t know the girls’ first names, but I’ll work on it.”

“All right.” He sighs. “Damn, this whole thing stinks. Kids disappearing. Entire families running in the middle of the night.” He goes silent and then asks, “You been able to get a look at any of the kids around there?”

“I saw a few at worship on Sunday. No visible signs of physical abuse. Most were bundled up, but no odd behavior or marked up faces.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Neither of us mentions the fact that some of the worst kind of abuse doesn’t leave physical marks.

“All these rumors,” the sheriff says with distaste. “God only knows what the hell is going on out there. Remember what I said, Kate. If things get too dicey, we can pull you out any time.”

“I got it under control,” I tell him.

As I end the call, I wonder how many cops have said those very words only to realize they weren’t true.

*   *   *

I spend a couple of hours struggling with my sewing project. By the time ten
P.M.
rolls around I’m frustrated and cold and ready to call it a night. It’s not until midnight that I fall into a fitful slumber. Dreams of Rachel Esh invade my sleep. We’re sitting at the sewing table at The Calico Country Store. I’m stitching a crib quilt that’s nearly finished, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t manage the final stitches. Rachel and Laura stare at the mess I’ve made of it, and I can tell by their expressions that they’ve realized the work isn’t mine. That I’m no seamstress and my secret has been found out.

Laura looks at me with knowing eyes. “She’s not one of us,” she tells Rachel. “
Sie hot en falsh Amisch.
” She’s a phony Amish.

The girl replies, but I don’t hear the words. Her lips are blue and I can tell by the gray hue of her face that she’s dead. Her front teeth are broken to the gum. Blood between her teeth. Ice on her lips. Her smile is macabre.

“We’re going to have to tell the bishop,” she whispers.

“I’m trying to save you,” I tell the girl.

Rachel throws her head back and a terrible laugh spills from her bloody mouth. “No one can save me.”

I wake in a cold sweat and sit bolt upright. Around me, the trailer is quiet and freezing cold. I’m breathing hard and in the thin light slanting in through the window I can see the vapor of my breath.

Tossing the blankets aside, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and rise to turn up the heat. I’m midway down the hall when I see a shadow shift in the living room. I go still, squint into the darkness. Another wave of cold air wraps around my ankles and slinks up my legs. The front door is open, I realize, and a different kind of cold stabs me in the back.

Something scrapes across the carpet ten feet away, and in that instant I know I’m not alone. Adrenaline burns like fire in my gut. My .22 and phone are beneath the mattress.

I spin, dash toward the bedroom. Heavy footfalls right behind me. I reach the bed, drop to my knees, jam my hands beneath the mattress. My fingertips brush steel. Heavy hands slam down on my shoulders and yank me backward. The fabric of my flannel shirt tears. I lose my balance, fall onto my back, my head bouncing off the floor. Stars fly in front of my eyes.

“Drag her out here,” a male voice says.

“Get your hands off me!” I draw back and punch at his face. My fist grazes his temple. “Get off!”

A second hand grasps my right arm, yanks hard, dragging me down the hall and into the living room. I twist, get my knees under me, try to scramble to my feet. I see the silhouettes of two men. Snowsuits and ski masks. Then I’m yanked forward. My knees go out from under me and I’m being dragged on my stomach.

Again, I twist, get one knee beneath me. I try to jerk my arm from the man’s grip, but his hand is a vise, crushing bone and bruising flesh. Using my free arm, I drive my fist into his crotch. His gasp ends in a roar. His grip loosens. I jerk my hand away. In an instant I’m on my feet.

“Get out!” I scream. “Get out!”

Spinning, I sprint toward the bedroom for my weapon.

He tackles me midway down the hall. I fall hard on my stomach. My chin scrapes the carpet. My attacker comes down on top of me. I hear his laugh. Hear his partner running toward us. I twist, bring up both feet and mule kick him in the gut. He reels backward, crashes to the floor on his ass.

“Grab that bitch,” he pants.

I flip over, scrabble toward the bedroom. My brain chanting.
Get the gun. Get the gun.
I dive toward the bed. A hand comes down on the back of my head, shoves me down hard, slamming my face against the floor. My nose crunches. Pain zings up my sinuses. My arms collapse beneath me. I feel the warmth of blood coursing from my nose, taste copper at the back of my throat.

“Son of a bitch!” I try to turn over to kick him again, but both men are on me now, pressing me down.

“Got a mouth on her, don’t she?” one of the men hisses.

“Guess someone needs to teach her some manners.”

My head reels. I lie still, taking physical stock, trying to regain my senses. Roughly, they flip me onto my back. I look up at them, keenly aware that my gown has ridden up, exposing my bare legs and underwear. My heart sinks when one of the men removes a roll of duct tape from beneath his coat.

“Don’t do it,” I say.

The other man’s hand snakes out and clamps around my throat, cutting off the blood flow to my head. “Gimme your hands or I’ll fuckin’ knock you out.”

I extend my hands. In front of me.

The other man tapes my wrists together. Fear crashes over me when I realize I’m done. I can’t get to my .22. Can’t get to my cell. I’m at their mercy and there’s not a damn thing I can do to help myself.

“Who are you?” I try to maintain a level of authority in my voice. I’m appalled when it quavers. “Why are you doing this?”

The men ignore me.

“Get up,” one of them says, and without waiting for me to comply, they haul me to my feet.

I look from man to man. Both are wearing ski masks and snowsuits. “I haven’t seen your faces,” I tell them. “I don’t know who you are.”

The men exchange looks, but say nothing.

“Let me go and we’ll forget this happened,” I say quickly. “I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

“Yeah, right,” one of them mutters.

“Tell me what you want,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

“You and that big mouth of yours will find out soon enough,” one of the men tells me.

“Let’s go,” says the other.

He takes my arm, drags me into the living room. I know they’re going to take me outside. God only knows what will happen once they do. Last time I checked my phone, the temperature was eighteen degrees. I try another tactic. “I need to get dressed,” I tell them.

“You’re dressed just fine,” the man behind me replies.

“I’ll freeze,” I say.

“We better put a coat on her,” the other puts in.

The man grasping my arm stops, gives me a rough shake. “Where’s it at?”

My barn coat is draped over the back of the bar stool facing the kitchen. I cock my head toward it. “You’re going to have to untie me. So I can put it on.”

The other man brushes past us and snatches up the coat. Facing me, he drapes it over my shoulders, yanks it tight, and fastens it with the big safety pin—without putting my arms through the sleeves. “There you go. Nice and warm.”

The other man kicks my sneakers over to me, then kneels and shoves them onto my feet, cinching the laces tightly. Together, they force me through the living room, out the door and onto the deck. As they drag me down the steps, I realize these are the same men I saw last night with the two women. They’re Amish; I can tell by their accents. And I’m pretty sure they’re going to kill me.

*   *   *

When you’re working undercover and your gig goes south, it usually happens so fast that any hope of initiating some brilliantly conceived contingency plan flies out the window—usually at about the same time you realize Plan B wasn’t quite as brilliant as you’d initially thought anyway. My emergency plan had been pretty simple: Grab the cell and the .22 mini Mag and hope five shots are enough. The best I can hope for now is the opportunity to run.

Don’t let down your guard.

Tomasetti’s words ring hard in my ears as we trudge through the snow to two snowmobiles parked a hundred yards into the woods. Before mounting, one of the men—the one I kicked in the groin—reaches out, grasps my throat with his right hand, and squeezes hard enough to cut off the blood to my head. Even in the darkness, I see the threat in his eyes as he peers at me through the slits of the ski mask.

“You do anything stupid and I’ll put a rope around your neck and drag you,” he snarls. “You got that?”

I nod and he releases me.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

The other man removes a stocking cap from beneath his coat, pulls it over my head, yanking it down over my eyes and most of my face. Then I’m lifted and put on the back part of the seat. I feel him climb on in front of me.

“Shut up and hold on to my coat,” he tells me.

The engine revs and the snow machine lurches forward.

*   *   *

For the first few minutes of the ride, I entertain fantasies of jumping off and running into the woods under cover of the night. I’d take refuge in the trees, somehow loosen the binds at my wrists, and make my way back to the trailer. Once there, I’d arm myself with my .22, contact Suggs—and kill anyone who came through the door before the sheriff’s department arrived.

All the while my mind races through a myriad of unpleasant reasons why I’m here. Are they taking me to Schrock so he can finish what he started? Worse, does he somehow know who I am? Are they planning to kill me?

The most pressing issue is the cold. I’m not dressed for temperatures in the teens. I’m certainly not dressed for a middle-of-the-night snowmobile ride, when wind chills are undoubtedly below zero. As we zip through the darkness, weaving between trees and over deadfall, the cold is like a blade, cutting into my flesh and sinking deeper with every mile. It penetrates my clothes—a nightgown, flannel shirt, and barn coat—and sucks the breath from my lungs. Within minutes my entire body is quaking uncontrollably. My teeth chatter. My face and hands have long since gone numb. As much as I don’t want to get close to the driver, I lean against him, using his body to block the wind.

I try to work at the tape binding my wrists, but it takes all my strength just to hold on. I use the driver’s back to scrape at the hat covering my face; eventually, I’m able to inch it up enough so that I can see. Even then, all I can see are snow and trees flying by, none of which look familiar.