There’s nothing sinister about a nighttime snowmobile ride. More than likely it’s someone out to have some fun in the snow. Still, I don’t want to be seen here in the very spot where Rachel Esh’s body was found. I glance around for cover. There are hundreds of trees, but not all of them are large enough to conceal me if the snowmobiler gets close. I spy a snarl of bramble at the base of an evergreen, dash over to it, and drop to my knees.
The whine of the engine grows louder. Not one machine, but two. Headlight beams slash through the trees. Shadows cartwheel against the trunks. I hunker down, the brush snagging my coat. The headlights flash over me and move on. The machines stop twenty yards away. Engines rumbling. There are two people on each snowmobile. The drivers are wearing snowsuits and helmets. The passengers are smaller. Women, I realize. No helmets. Regular coats.
The men are talking, loudly to be heard above the engines. I’m shocked to realize they’re speaking Pennsylvania Dutch. They’re too far away for me to catch all of the conversation. Something about a dirt road. I’m puzzling over these Amish men utilizing gasoline-engine powered vehicles when one of the passengers launches herself from the snowmobile and throws herself into a sprint. Adrenaline burns through my gut when I realize her hands are bound in front of her.
What the hell?
“Shtobba!” the man with whom she’d been riding yells. Stop. “Halt!”
“Sie is am shpringa!” shouts the second driver. She’s running!
The man she’d been riding with unfastens his helmet, throws it to the ground, and vaults from the seat. “Stop!” He sprints after the woman. Even mired by the snow and his bulky clothes, it takes him only a few strides to catch her. He takes her down in a full-body tackle. The woman makes a muffled sound, her face crushed into the snow.
The man gets to his knees, flips her onto her back, and straddles her. “Stupid woman!” he shouts. “Get on the machine.”
She spits snow in his face and shouts something in a language I don’t recognize. He draws back and slaps her in the face.
A hundred scenarios snap through my brain. Is this some kind of domestic dispute? Are these people intoxicated? Or is something more sinister going on? For a split second I debate whether to intervene. Of course, if I do, I risk blowing my cover. But there’s no way I can stand by and let that son of a bitch assault her. The man takes the decision away from me when he punches her a second time.
I jump to my feet. Leaving the cover of the trees, I whistle. “Here, boy! Come on, boy!”
Then I’m walking toward them, using my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the headlights. “Hello?” I call out, making an effort to lose my cop persona. It’s not easy; nothing pisses me off more than seeing a bully punch the shit out of a woman.
“Who’s there?” I call out in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Four heads swivel in my direction. The man on top of the woman jumps to his feet. The other man, still sitting on the snowmobile, swings his leg over the saddle and gets off. I hear him tell the woman behind him to stay put.
I don’t see any weapons, but that doesn’t mean they’re not armed. The Amish generally don’t own handguns, but these men are a far cry from typical.
“Who are you?” The man who’d punched the woman starts toward me. He’s wearing a ski mask so I can’t see his face, but his body language tells me he’s pissed off that I’ve interrupted.
I’m aware of the .22 against my thigh as he closes the distance between us. Stopping, I watch him approach. He’s young. No beard that I can see, which means he’s not married. I don’t like the look of him. Angry and high on adrenaline.
“I’m Kate Miller.” I motion behind me. “I live down the road. I saw a stray dog. He looked cold and lost.” I cock my head, the way a suspicious Amish woman might. “What are you doing on those machines?” I ask in Pennsylvania Dutch.
The two men exchange glances.
“We ain’t seen no dog.” The man who’d punched the woman stops ten feet away from me, looks me up and down. “You probably saw a coyote.”
I look past him at the fallen woman and switch to English. “Was there an accident here? Are you injured?” I motion toward the snowmobile, then turn my attention to the man. “Isn’t it against the Ordnung for you to be riding them?”
The woman stares at me, mouth open, breaths puffing out in a vaporous white cloud. A small dribble of blood on her chin. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s frightened. That she doesn’t understand English or Pennsylvania Dutch.
The man sets his hand on her shoulder and pulls her against him, so that her bound hands are out of sight. I pretend not to notice and address the woman directly. “Did you fall off the machine?”
When she doesn’t respond, I turn my attention to the man. “Look at her,” I scold. “She’s cold and hurt.”
I start to go to her, a mother hen whose chick has been pecked by an aggressive rooster.
“She’s fine.” The man steps toward me, blocking my way. “We don’t need your help.”
I stop.
“Go home, lady,” the second man calls out. “You’re trespassing on Schrock land.”
“I’m sure Bishop Schrock will be interested to know about these machines,” I shoot back.
The man who’d hit her moves closer. For an instant, I think he’s going to lay into me. Behind the ski mask, his eyes blaze with fury. I brace, remind myself the .22 is in easy reach.
But he stops, gives me another once-over. “She’s fine. Now get out of here. There ain’t no dog out here.”
The woman says something in a language I don’t recognize. Eastern European, maybe. She’s young. Barely twenty. This is not a domestic situation. I’d lay odds she doesn’t know the man she’s riding with. But there’s little I can do.…
I look away, pretend I didn’t hear her. But my heart is pounding, my brain churning: What the hell is going on?
I can tell by the way the men are acting that my presence is making them nervous. Not because they’ve broken Amish rules, but because they’re up to no good and don’t want a witness. The man nearest me looks like he’s considering doing something about it.
I step back, putting some space between us. “You sure she’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” the man tells me. “She drinks too much. I’m taking her home. That’s all.”
I give the woman a judgmental look. “Der Siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard has sipped too much. “That’s what happens, I guess.”
The man points in the general direction of the road. “Go on. Get out of here.”
I put their physical descriptions to memory as best I can. Turning away, I start toward the trailer.
Behind me, I hear the man order the woman back onto the snowmobile. The twin engines rev. Once I’m in the trees, I stop and turn. Through the trunks, I catch a glimpse of the woman’s face. The cop inside me winces at the thought of letting them go. But I do, watching them fade into the darkness. When they’re gone, I turn toward home and break into a run.
* * *
I’m still out of breath when I call Suggs. Quickly, I take him through everything I saw and give him the physical descriptions of all four individuals. “The men were wearing ski masks beneath their helmets, so I don’t know what they looked like.”
“Of course they were,” he mutters darkly. “You’re certain the women weren’t Amish?”
“They weren’t wearing Amish clothes. They didn’t know Pennsylvania Dutch. I don’t even think they knew English.”
“Well, that’s puzzling as hell.” He goes silent a moment. “A couple of young Amish guys with foreign women? Is it possible they’re on Rumspringa and picked up … er … dates? Some of those kids, especially the boys, can get pretty wild.”
“I thought of that. But I don’t think that was the case. Dan, I saw one of the men strike the woman he was with. Her hands were bound.”
“Shit.” We fall silent; I can practically hear our thoughts zingin
g over the line. “Were the men armed?”
“Not that I could see. No rifles. But they were wearing snowsuits, so hard to tell. And those snowmobiles were nice ones. New. Polaris.”
“Not cheap.”
“Why would young Amish men have snowmobiles?” I ponder.
“I suppose they could have borrowed them.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. “Were they part of Schrock’s group?”
“Maybe. They told me I was on Schrock’s land and that I was trespassing.”
“Did you get a tag number?” he asks. “In New York state, snowmobile owners are supposed to display their registration number with a plate or decal.”
“I looked, but it was dark and the headlights were blinding me. One of the machines was silver and blue. Couldn’t see the other one well enough to tell.”
“A lot of snow machines up here this time of year.”
I’m still thinking about the women. “Are there any pockets of non-English speaking immigrants in the area? Eastern European, maybe?”
“We have a few immigrants here and there, but no concentrated pockets.”
“Is there a snowmobile dealer in town?”
“There’s one in Malone.”
“Could you check with them and see if any Amish have purchased machines?”
“Good idea. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I disconnect and look around the darkened trailer. It’s cold and smells of mildew and kerosene. I light the lantern on the bar, but it does little to penetrate the shadows. I take a few minutes to settle down, then carry the phone to the sofa and dial Tomasetti’s number.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief,” he says. “How’s it going up there on the tundra?”
“I’m sitting here in the dark and cold, missing you.”
“Hmm. Sounds tough. Are you wearing a dress?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“Head covering?”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “Tomasetti, are we having phone sex?”
“I’m pretty sure we are.”
“This dress is a bit of a stretch.”
“This is about the woman, not the dress,” he tells me. “Besides, I have a good imagination.”
“Good thing.”
But I can hear the smile in his voice. He misses me, too, I realize. The thought warms me from the inside out.
“You all settled in?” he asks.
“As settled in as I can be in a twelve-by-fifty circa-1980 trailer.”
“Sounds homey.”
“If you like caves.”
“How’s the assignment going?”
I tell him about attending worship earlier in the day. The women I met in town. Mary Gingerich and Laura Hershberger.
“Quilting? Worship? You like living the edge, don’t you?”
I laugh again. “Tomasetti, it’s really good to hear your voice.”
“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”
“Just for the record, you’re full of shit.”
“They usually tell me that, too.”
I debate whether to get into the incident in the woods. I don’t want darken the conversation. More important, I don’t want to worry him when I’m so far away. But I need his opinion, so I lay it out. “There’s no doubt something unsavory was going on. At the very least an assault. I feel like I should have done something about it.”
“You are. You’re there, trying to figure out what’s going on.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way, but he’s right. Still, it isn’t an immediate fix and that part of it doesn’t sit well with me.
“So what’s your take on the Amish community there?” he asks.
“Friendly. Welcoming.” I try to find the right words, can’t. “But I’m getting some odd vibes.”
“How so?”
“Still trying to pin it down. Outwardly, people are fiercely supportive of Schrock. Almost too supportive. I’m not sure everyone is being honest about their feelings. I guess I’m sensing some undertones of discontent.”
“What’s your take on Schrock?”
“He’s charismatic. Intelligent. Personable. Commanding. Hell of a preacher.”
“Joel Osteen meets Amish Mafia.”
Leave it to Tomasetti to make me laugh about something that really isn’t funny. That’s one of the things I love about him. “He’s very Old Order. One of the women told me there’s no plumbing in any of the houses on his land. Their dresses have to be a certain length and only a few colors are approved. No slow-moving vehicle signs on the buggies. Steel wheels. No windshields. No gas- or kerosene-powered engines, even on the dairy farms.”
“Makes the appearance of those snowmobiles even more baffling.”
“Exactly.” I’m still thinking about Schrock. “Interestingly, he practices Meidung.”
“Shunning?”
“Right. Only he takes it to the extreme. Usually social avoidance is used to bring the wayward souls back into the fold. Schrock doles it out as punishment. He bans for life and for relatively minor offenses.”
“Sounds like you don’t want to find yourself on his shit list.”
“If he only knew, right?”
Tomasetti pauses. “If you want to make points with Schrock, maybe you ought to tell him about the two guys on snowmobiles.”
“You’re right. It’ll give me an excuse to visit his farm and talk to him.”
“Might make you an enemy or two,” he says. “Something to keep in mind.”
“I’m not here to make friends.”
“Will you do me a favor before you start beating the beehive?”
“If I can.”
“Watch your damn back.”
CHAPTER 12
When I was a kid, my brother, Jacob, would help our neighbors bale hay for extra cash. The summer he turned thirteen, he used that money to buy his first bicycle. My sister, Sarah, and I—being females—were handed down his skateboard. I wasn’t very good at sharing and spent a good bit of time haggling with Sarah, trying to convince her I should be the one to ride it. I was a persuasive child, and most of the time, I got my way. I loved that skateboard; it gave me the freedom I craved—but got me into a lot more trouble than my parents bargained for.
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 scrut
iny. “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.