Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (26 page)

“Odd for someone to go off the radar so completely,” I say. “Even an Amish person.” I think about that and something unsettling pings in my brain. “Unless he’s not in any of those places.”

“What are you getting at?” Suggs asks.

“Maybe Andy Beiler and his wife didn’t go to Shipshewana. Maybe her grandson wasn’t sent to Missouri. Maybe Rebecca was fed a lie to cover up something else.”

“Something like what?” Betancourt asks.

No one replies, but they know what I’m thinking.

Suggs finally says it. “You think they’re
dead
?”

“I think it’s something we need to consider,” I reply. “Maybe the bit about them fleeing in the middle of the night is the story Schrock’s putting out.”

“I’ll double down,” Betancourt grumbles. “If the three grandchildren and their parents are anywhere to be found, we’ll find them.”

I’m still thinking about Rebecca and Levi Beiler. “The timing of this is suspect as hell.”

“You’re not buying into the murder-suicide scenario,” Betancourt says.

“Rebecca Beiler was an opinionated and vocal woman,” I tell him. “She was upset about her grandchildren being sent away. Her son and daughter-in-law moving away. She was no fan of Eli Schrock and she’d been speaking out against him.”

Suggs mutters a curse.

“You think Schrock is responsible for this?” Betancourt asks.

“If Schrock is running some kind of cult, if there are kids—teenagers—being abused, he’s got a lot to hide and even more at stake if he’s found out,” I tell him. “What if Schrock got wind of Rebecca speaking out against him? Badmouthing him? What if she’d become a threat?”

“You think Schrock went over to their place, shot them, and made it look like a murder-suicide?” I don’t miss the doubt in Betancourt’s voice.

“I don’t think he pulled the trigger,” I reply, “but I think it’s possible he had someone do it for him.”

“The two men who accosted you,” Suggs says.

I nod. “That would be my guess.”

“If that’s the case, this changes everything,” Suggs says.

“You comfortable staying with the assignment, Chief Burkholder?” Betancourt asks.

“For now,” I tell him. “I’ve made some headway establishing myself in the community. I’ve met a lot of people. They know who I am. I’d hate to throw that away.”

“In light of recent events, I’d feel a lot better if you checked in twice a day instead of once,” Betancourt says.

“I agree,” Suggs echoes.

“Not a problem,” I tell them.

“In case you’re not reading between the lines here, Chief, that means watch your ass,” Suggs says.

“You can count on it.”

CHAPTER 19

Nights in the trailer are the worst; they’re dark and cold and seemingly endless, each of those things amplified by the resurgence of my old friend insomnia. Ever present in the back of my mind is the reality that the front door may not keep out those who would do me harm. That I’m alone and without backup if I need it.

It’s during those long hours between dusk and dawn that I can’t shut down my thoughts. I can’t seem to get my head around this case. While my knowledge of the Amish culture, the understanding of what it means to be Amish, has been a tremendous benefit, it has also, in some ways, been a handicap. For the first time I realize the one thing that made me perfect for this assignment—the reason I was chosen—is the same reason this case has been so difficult: my Amish roots.

No single group of people can be lumped together and neatly categorized. But I’ve always seen the Amish as fundamentally good. Not perfect, but moral and benevolent. It’s those preconceived notions that have tainted my judgment and blinded me to the darker possibilities.

In the course of infiltrating this community, I’ve opened a door I thought was closed, inadvertently ushering in the ghosts of my past. I re-entered a life I thought I’d left behind forever. Kate Burkholder, perpetual outsider, shunned by those I love, looked down upon—pitied, even—by a community I’d once been part of. It comes as a shock to realize that even after all these years, there’s still a part of me that’s conflicted.

I’ve stepped into the shoes of the woman I might have been had fate not intervened in and changed everything. While there were plenty of things I hated about being Amish, there were just as many aspects of the plain life I loved—and that I missed desperately when I left. This week has illuminated the truth: that I’ve not fully come to terms.

It’s one
A.M.
and I’m on the sofa, huddled beneath a blanket in a futile attempt to stay warm. On the table in front of me is a mug of tepid tea, my .38 revolver, my .22 mini Mag, the pepper spray, and my cell. What a collection. If my mood wasn’t so dark, I might’ve laughed.

I want to call Tomasetti, but I know he’s probably sleeping. I should be, too; tomorrow promises to be a busy, stressful day, and I need to be on my toes. I tell myself I don’t want to wake him. But I’m honest enough to admit that’s not the only reason I haven’t picked up the phone. I know if I tell him about the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler, he’ll ask me to call it quits. Ending this assignment would probably be the prudent thing to do at this point. The problem is, I’m not always a prudent person, particularly when it comes to my job.

I don’t want to walk away from this. Not when there’s a dead teenage girl, an entire family missing, and now a middle-aged Amish couple gone, too. Maybe it’s my ego talking, the part of me that likes to win no holds barred, but I know in my gut that if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s me. The problem is convincing the man I love to support a decision that’s as flawed as I am.

Tomasetti knows me. He knows how my mind works. He knows, better than anyone, that I’m driven and imperfect. That sometimes I try too hard and can be a sore loser. He knows that when I sink my teeth into a case, I can’t let it go, sometimes to my own detriment. He understands all those things. And yet he loves me anyway.

I pick up my phone and speed dial his cell because I know he keeps it on the night table beside our bed. He picks up on the second ring. “Yep.”

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

I hear rustling on the other end and I picture him sitting up, leaning over to flip on the lamp. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” My first lie.

“Okay.”

I’m gripping the phone hard. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. The wind tearing around the trailer outside. A piece of the skirting flapping. “I miss you,” I tell him.

“You, too.” Another pause. I sense his mind working. He’s trying to figure out why I’ve called him so late.

“Everything’s not so great,” I say.

“Maybe you should tell me what’s going on.”

“I will, but I need you to shut up and listen without interrupting.”

A moment’s hesitation and then, “All right.”

Taking a deep breath, I lay out everything, good and bad—the two men, the chicken coop incident, my encounter with Schrock, and the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler. “Tomasetti, Schrock isn’t an Amish bishop. For him, this has nothing to do with religion. He’s running a cult. He’s taking advantage of these people, deceiving them, controlling them through intimidation, threats and physical violence.”

“Are you on his radar?”

“I don’t think so.”

He makes a sound low in his throat. He’s got a pretty good bullshit detector, and he’s not buying it. If he knew what Schrock had done, he’d blow his stack …

“Goddamn it, Kate.”

“Don’t ask me to quit.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Kate—”

“I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you when it comes to my job. I’m tired of lying because I can’t tell the truth. I’m tired of hiding things from you. Keeping things from you because you can’t handle it. It’s … stupid and dishonest and I need for us to be honest. I need
you
. I need to be able to talk to you.”

“You can talk to me,” he growls. “You know that.”

“How can I when you worry? When I know it hurts you? I know what it does to you and I hate it.”

The silence that ensues is thick with tension. It’s so quiet I can hear his breathing. The wind pressing against the windows.

“Look, Kate, I’m going to be honest with you,” he says tightly.”I don’t like you being up there on your own. You have no backup. No transportation. Very little in the way of communication. You can dress that up however you like, but it’s a dangerous situation. If something goes wrong—”

“It already has,” I cut in. “A lot of things have gone wrong. In case you weren’t listening, I handled it. I’m okay.”

He makes a sound of frustration. “You’re not bulletproof.”

“I’m a cop, and I’m doing my job. Maybe you should have a little more faith in my capabilities—”

“Being a good cop isn’t always enough.”

We fall silent. Closing my eyes, I wish we could reconcile this moldering pool of fear and worry that’s plagued us nearly from the start of our relationship.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “Being a good cop, being careful and following the rules isn’t always enough. Cops still get hurt. Sometimes they die. Welcome to law enforcement.”

He makes a sound of annoyance.

I don’t stop. “I know you’re worried about me and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t stop being a cop. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”

“I get it,” he growls.

“I don’t think you do. Tomasetti, it’s not going to change. If we’re going to get past this, you have to trust me. You have to trust my judgment and my abilities.”

“I do. All of that.”

“Then show me. Have faith in me. Let me know you have my back on this.”

“I’ve got your back. Always. You know that.”

“I’m afraid,” I whisper. “I haven’t been able to tell you that. This has been difficult and you’re part of that. I need to be able to talk to you and know you’re not going to lay into me and add yet another layer of turmoil to this pile of chaos I’m trying to work through.”

After an interminable silence, he whispers my name, softly and with affection. “I’m sorry.”

Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. “I needed to hear that. I needed to hear your voice.”

“Usually, that’s the one thing people
don’t
want to hear.”

I laugh. He doesn’t join me, but it clears some of the tension.

“So what do Suggs and Betancourt have to say about all this?” he asks after a moment.

“They want me to hang tight.”

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.”

“I’ll be checking in twice a day from here on.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m getting close to some of these people. Decent Amish people who need to be able to live their lives without the threat of violence. Sooner or later, someone is going to talk to me, and Schrock is going to take a fall.”

He takes a deep breath. “At the risk of sounding like an overbearing son of a bitch … you know some of these cults can be dangerous.”

“I know.”

“When I was with the Cleveland Division of Police, I worked a homicide case involving a cult.”

“Tell me.”

“These cult leaders prey on people looking for something. The lost. The vulnerable. They offer security and friendship and a place to belong. They give people what they think they need. Tell them what they need to hear. Once they’re in, they’re isolated, indoctrinated, and brainwashed, and then it’s all about dominance and power. Most of the time it’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave.”

I think about Rebecca and Levi Beiler lying dead on the floor. I think of Abe Gingerich’s missing finger and the time I spent in the chicken coop, and I shiver.

“Are you sleeping?” he asks.

“I’ll sleep better tonight.”

“So … we’re good?”

“We’re good.” A sense of warmth pours over me. “I just … I wanted you to know what was going on. I want you to know I’m being careful and Suggs and Betancourt are on top of things.”

“Be safe,” he says.

“I will. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“I love you,” he tells me.

“Same goes.”

The lines goes dead.

When the tears come, I don’t bother to wipe them away.

*   *   *

I’m jogged awake by the sound of pounding. Adrenaline burns like mercury through my midsection as I swivel from the bed and set my feet on the floor. I reach down, grab the .38 off the table next to my bed. Cram the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants. The .22 and pepper spray in the other. Pounding sounds again, hard enough to shake the door.
Sons of bitches
, I think. Then I’m moving down the hall, my revolver leading the way, my temper bringing up the rear.

I step into the living room, sidle right toward the window and lift the curtain half an inch with my finger. In the meager light of a hazy half moon, I see a figure standing on the deck, a couple of feet from the door. Not the men I’d expected, but a diminutive female silhouette. It could be a trap; they could have anticipated my being prepared and sent a decoy.

Silently, I walk to the door, lower the .38 to my side. “Who’s there?” I call out.

“Your favorite Amish girl.”

Marie Weaver
. “You alone?”

“Just me and the coyotes.”

Pulling the chair from beneath the knob, I disengage the bolt lock, twist the knob, and open the door a few inches. “You’d better not be lying to me,” I say, my eyes sweeping the area behind her and around the trailer. There’s no one there.

“You’re kind of paranoid, aren’t you?” She looks intrigued by my fulsome caution.

“Shut up and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sheesh.” Sighing, she yanks her hands from her pockets. “What do you think I’m going to do? Rob you?”

“Or worse.” I give her a hard look. “What do you want?”

Cocking her head, she looks at me a little more closely. “You don’t act like a normal Amish woman.”

I motion toward her clothes. “Same goes.”

She’s shivering beneath a Walmart puffy coat. No hat. No gloves or scarf. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold. Why is she here?

“You want to come in for a minute?” I ask, calming down.

“I didn’t come here to stand on your porch and freeze my ass off.”