Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (16 page)

Of course my short-lived love affair with that skateboard was twenty-five years ago. Now, looking down at the kick scooter propped against the deck rail, I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill myself with it. The Schrock farm is only half a mile away and the roads are clear, so I decide to try it. The day is overcast with temperatures hovering in the mid-twenties, so I’m bundled up. Knowing Schrock is strict with regard to dress, I don my longest black dress and black winter head covering and strike out at nine
A.M.
with the hope that I don’t bust my ass on the way.

I take the same route the Gingeriches took yesterday and it takes me just ten minutes to reach the mouth of the lane. The gravel is too rough for the scooter, so I park it on the shoulder and strike out on foot. There are several inches of old snow striped with buggy wheel marks. Around me, the woods echo with birdsong and I hear the whistle of a hawk in the distance. I pass by the clapboard schoolhouse and the barn where worship services were held the day before. An Amish woman in a gray dress and black coat is sweeping the concrete beneath the covered porch.

“
Guder mariye
.” I wish her a good morning as I approach.

She responds in kind and I’m relieved to be greeted with a smile. “
Wie geth’s alleweil?
” How goes it now?

“I’m Kate Miller. We met yesterday at worship.”

“You’re the young widow from Ohio.” She bows her head slightly. “What brings you here this morning?”

“I’m looking for the bishop.”

She blinks and I detect surprise in her eyes. “Is he expecting you?”

I smile. “Do I need an appointment?”

“Of course not, but if he’s in counsel…” Letting the words trail, she looks at me with a little more scrutiny. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I just need to speak with him about something that happened last night.”

Curiosity flashes in her eyes. I smile inwardly. The Amish may be pious, but they share all the same human weaknesses as the rest of us, including a propensity for nosiness.

“Something that will concern him?” she asks.

I lean a little closer. “I saw two young Amish men on snowmobiles.” Looking in both directions, I lower my voice conspiratorially. “They were with women.
Englischers
, I think.”

“Bishop Schrock has been known to be a little more lenient with the young men,” she tells me, “especially if they’re on
Rumspringa
.”

“These men are older. I think one of them wore a beard.” I don’t know that for fact; I couldn’t see his face because of the ski mask. But a married Amish man gallivanting with strange women makes for a more interesting story and will hopefully expedite access to Schrock—and get the tongues wagging in the process.

She presses her lips together. I can’t tell if she’s displeased by the news or with me for relaying it. “What makes you think that’s something he’ll be interested in?”

I laugh outright. “They were riding motorized vehicles. I’m sure that’s against the
Ordnung
.”

Stepping away from me, she goes back to her sweeping. “I don’t see why that’s any of your concern. You’re not a member of the congregation yet, are you?”

“I will be.” I pause, but she says nothing. “I saw one of the men strike the woman he was with.” I add a bit of attitude to my voice. “Do you think the bishop will be interested in that?”

She stops sweeping and looks at me as if she’d like nothing more than to hit me with the broom. Instead, she shakes her head. “The house is that-a-way.” She motions to a point farther down the lane. “Big farmhouse on the left. Can’t miss it.”

*   *   *

The trees thicken as I make my way down the lane and a sense of isolation surrounds me. Two hundred yards in, the branches curl overhead like black, arthritic fingers. I’m starting to wonder if the not-so-helpful woman gave me the wrong directions when I spot the old farmhouse nestled in the trees to my right. It’s a two-story brick structure that’s been painted white with a tin roof. No shutters. No winterized flowerbeds. No landscaping to speak of. Just hundreds of trees and, farther back, a massive bank barn and what looks like a good-size coop where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck at the yellow grass poking up through snow mottled with chicken shit.

A big dog of indistinguishable pedigree lumbers over to me, ears flopping, tongue lolling, emitting the occasional
woof
. He doesn’t look like a biter, or much of a watchdog, for that matter, but I give him a wide berth and head toward the front door.

I step onto a wood-plank porch that’s been painted gray. My boots thud softly as I make my way to the door and knock. A young Amish woman opens the door. I guess her to be in her late teens. Pretty face. Big brown eyes. She’s dressed modestly in a dark gray dress, black apron, and
kapp
. Plain clothes only go so far when it comes to obscuring the feminine silhouette, and this girl is hugely pregnant. Interesting.

“
Guder mariye
,” I begin. Good morning.

She opens the door wider. The smell of vinegar wafts out and I realize she’s cleaning. “
Guder mariye
.” Her voice is soft, like a child’s.

“I’m Kate Miller. I live down the road.”

I wait, but she doesn’t respond.

“Are you Bishop Schrock’s daughter?” I ask.

She looks down at the broom. I notice her red chapped hands. Nails chewed to the quick. “I just clean for him,” she tells me.

I want to ask her age, but fearing too many questions will set off red flags, I don’t. “What’s your name?”

“Esther.”

“What’s your last name?”

The girl looks away, doesn’t respond.

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Is the bishop here? I need to speak to him.”

“In the barn.” She motions toward the bank barn, looking relieved to be rid of me.

“
Danki.
”

She closes the door without responding.

I leave the porch, cross the wide gravel area and start toward the barn. One of the big sliding doors stands open. Inside, I see the silhouette of a horse in crossties standing in the aisle. A young Amish man is next to the horse, bent at the waist. As I draw closer, I hear the
clang
of a hammer against steel and I realize he’s shoeing the horse. A second animal is tethered to the stall door, awaiting its turn.

“Hello,” I say to him as I step into the shadows of the barn.

The farrier lowers the horse’s hoof to the ground and straightens. He’s thickly built, with bright blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, which tells me he’s unmarried. Though it’s cold this morning, he’s removed his overcoat and wears a black jacket over work trousers, a blue work shirt, and suspenders. “Hello,” he says.

“Is Bishop Schrock around?” I ask.

He nods toward the back part of the barn. “He’s unloading hay.”

“
Danki.
” I run my hand over the horse’s rump as I pass, its coat warm and soft beneath my palm.

I find Schrock standing in a hay wagon that’s been backed up to the rear door. His back is to me; he’s using a pitchfork to drop loose hay from the bed of the wagon to several horses in the paddock below. “Hello? Bishop Schrock?”

Slowly, he turns to me. His dark eyes zero in on mine with startling directness. He’s clad in black. Overcoat. Jacket over a white shirt. Work pants. Black felt hat.

He doesn’t offer a smile, but I discern recognition in his expression. “Kate Miller,” he says. “Good morning.”

“You remembered my name.”

“You have a memorable face.” He jams the pitchfork into the hay and climbs down from the wagon, moving with the surety of a man in good physical condition. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something that happened last night.”

Concern enters his expression. I can’t tell if it’s practiced or genuine or somewhere in between. “Of course.”

“I heard the sound of engines outside my trailer, so I put on my coat and walked outside and I saw two Amish men on snowmobiles.”

“
Amisch?
” His brows snap together. “On
snowmobiles
? Who were they?”

“They wouldn’t give their names. They were wearing ski masks beneath their helmets.”

“You’re certain they’re Amish?”

“They spoke
Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch
.” I grimace, take a half step closer. “Bishop, there were women with them.
English
women. I saw one of the men strike the woman riding with him. Hard enough so that she fell to the ground.”

He stares at me, dismay spreading over his features. “Was she hurt?”

“Her lip was bleeding.” I drop my gaze, pretend to struggle with the weight of the message with which I’ve burdened him. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought you should know.”

He nods. “Tell me, Kate, are the men of the age where they might be on
Rumspringa
?”

I shake my head. “Had that been the case, I wouldn’t have come to you. I understand sometimes the young men who’ve not yet been baptized … do things.” I let my expression become pained. “Bishop,” I say in a low voice. “I can’t be sure, but I think one of the men wore a beard.”

Sighing, he reaches out and sets his hand on my shoulder. I suppress the urge to cringe when he squeezes gently. “Thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll see if I can figure out who they are and what I can do to help them.”

If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I might’ve missed the flash of condescension, of
amusement
, in his eyes. He didn’t ask a single question that might help him identify the men.
You already know who they are
, a little voice whispers in my ear.

Giving me a nod, he climbs back onto the wagon.

I’d wanted to speak to him longer to see where the conversation might take us, but I’ve been dismissed. I start toward the door. I’m midway there when he calls out to me, “Do you need a buggy ride back to your trailer?”

“No, thank you, Bishop. I have my scooter bike.”

As I turn and start toward the door, it occurs to me that even though I hadn’t mentioned it, he knows where I live.

CHAPTER 13

My exchange with Schrock niggles at me all the way back to the trailer. When I told him about the men in the woods, he made all the right noises. He said all the right things. But he wasn’t convincing. I didn’t see genuine concern. There were no questions. Granted, he’s a reticent man; he’s difficult to read. I’m not sure if my perspective is tainted because of the suspicion that has been laid at my feet. But I know if I’d brought the same information to my former bishop in Painters Mill, he would have been all over it—and enormously displeased.

I drop the kick scooter at the trailer and continue into town on foot. My first stop is The Dutch Kitchen for a mug of dark roast and some conversation with Mary Gingerich. There are only three other customers in the restaurant. Two men sit in the nearest booth. A silver-haired man wearing a John Deere cap and insulated coveralls sips coffee at the end of the counter. I take my usual place, where Mary is pouring pancake syrup into a glass container.

“Morning,” I say as I upend the coffee cup in front of me.

She looks up from her work and grins. “Can’t stay away from my coffee, eh?”

“Or the biscuits.” I slide the cup toward her and tell her about the men on snowmobiles. “I think they were Amish.”

Mary pauses mid pour. “None of the Amish around here use snow machines.” Topping off my cup, she replaces the carafe, grabs a towel from the edge of the sink, and begins to wipe the counter. “It’s against the rules.”

“They were speaking
Deitsch
,” I tell her.

“Probably not from around here. Or maybe young men on
Rumspringa
, then. You know how they are when they’re that age.”

“One of them wore a beard.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “One of the men hit the woman in the face.”

Something akin to caution flickers in her eyes. “An
Englischer
, more than likely. A loose woman. Drinking alcohol or whatnot.”

“Maybe.” I sip the coffee, wondering why everyone is so ready to dismiss such blatant rule breaking. “It was a disturbing thing to see.”

“And what exactly were you doing out in the woods at night?”

“I thought I saw a stray dog.” I shrug. “He looked cold and I didn’t want him to be eaten by coyotes.”

She sends a scowl my way. “You’d best be careful out there all by yourself.”

I watch her work for a moment, sipping my coffee. “I went to see the bishop this morning.”

“The
bishop
?” She stops wiping and straightens, her gaze meeting mine. “You told him about the boys?”

“I thought he should know.”

“What did he say?” she asks in a low voice.

“Just that he’d look into it and take appropriate action.”

Taking the towel to the sink, she runs it under the tap, twists out the excess water, and takes it back to the counter. I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to the window behind her.

I glance past her and notice the Amish man in the kitchen area. The same one I saw before. Bent slightly, he’s watching us through the pass-through window. I stare back and he looks away, slinking deeper into the kitchen.
Eavesdropping
.

“I didn’t know the bishop has a daughter,” I say conversationally.

“He doesn’t have any family here that I know of.”

“I just assumed … The girl that answered the door. Her name’s Esther.” I shrug.

She wipes the counter harder, her mouth tightening. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours. Or mine.”

“She’s in the married way,” I say, using the preferred Amish term for pregnancy.

She stops wiping. Giving me a cross look, she sets her hand on her hip. “I’m no fan of gossip, Kate Miller. Or tall tales, for that matter.”

“I just thought—”

“You misunderstood what you saw, is all.”

I set my cup on the counter, look down at it. “I’m sure you’re right.”

She continues wiping the counter with a little too much vigor. “Such things aren’t spoken of here.”

I add a trace of hurt to my voice. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I was curious—”