I smile. “Tomasetti, you’re full of surprises this afternoon.”
“I like to keep you on your toes.”
“You do.” Snuggling more deeply into the blanket I’ve thrown over me, I tell him about my visit to see Schrock earlier. “He didn’t ask any questions.”
“He already knew.”
“Exactly.” I tell him about the young woman who answered the door. “She’s pretty and young. She could have been there to clean or to cook for him, but I got a bit of an odd vibe.”
“You think she’s there for another reason?”
“The Amish are generally aware of appearances. They care what people think. With Schrock being unmarried, relatively young, and in a position of power, I thought it was odd that he’d have a pretty young woman cleaning his house.” I think about that a moment. “Most Amish would go to great lengths to avoid any hint of impropriety.”
“Was this girl a minor?”
“Late teens. Maybe early twenties. And pregnant.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought so, too.” I think about bishop. “I’m no schmuck when it comes to reading people, but I can’t get a handle on this guy.”
“Sometimes that happens when people put forth a false front,” he says.
“I’ve only met him twice. Both times, he was relaxed, said all the right things. Body language matched his words.”
“But?”
“I know it sounds melodramatic, but there’s something about him that seems … off.” I think about my visit with Mary Gingerich earlier in the day, about Laura Hershberger’s reticence. “Nobody wanted to talk about those men. I don’t know if they’re protective of their bishop or … scared of him.”
“Maybe he’s abusing his position. Intimidating people.”
I think about my conversation with Anna Gingerich. “Remember what Suggs said about people being locked in a chicken coop?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“I was chatting with a girl on Sunday and she told me she knows of another girl who’d been locked in a chicken coop.”
“That kind of extreme punishment would explain why people don’t talk about him.”
“They want to stay off his radar.”
“They sure as hell don’t want to piss him off.” He sighs unhappily. “I know I don’t have to remind you, but somehow a fifteen-year-old kid ended up dead. Don’t let down your guard. Don’t trust anyone. And keep your fucking eyes on Schrock.”
Despite my best intentions, the conversation has gone in a direction I didn’t want it to go. “I’m being careful.”
We go silent and I’m suddenly aware of the hiss of the miles stretching between us. “I could drive up there,” he says quietly. “We could shack up for a couple days.”
“That would get the tongues wagging.”
“Probably get us locked in the chicken coop.”
I can’t help but laugh, but I don’t miss the serious note in his voice.
* * *
At just before five P.M. I’m saved by a knock on the door. Setting my ruinous sewing project on the sofa, I go to the window and part the curtains, surprised to see Jacob Yoder standing on the deck, his hands in his pockets, snow gathering on the shoulders of his black overcoat. Beyond, I see a bony-looking Standardbred gelding hitched to a buggy. He’s alone.
I open the door and give him a look that’s not quite friendly. “What do you want?”
Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Bishop Schrock wants to see you.”
It’s the last thing I expected him to say. For an instant, I’m not sure how to respond. “Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Right now?”
“That’s what he said.”
I stare hard at him, looking for a lie or some deception, but there’s nothing there. “All right.” I start to close the door, but he stops me.
“I’m supposed to take you.” He motions toward the buggy.
“I have my scooter bike.” If things go south with Schrock, I don’t want to rely on Yoder for transportation.
He gives me an incredulous look. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“If I were you, I’d make it ten.”
I close the door without responding.
CHAPTER 14
I watch Yoder pull away. When he’s gone, I rush to the bedroom, kneel next to the bed, pluck the .22 from its hiding place, and holster it. I double check the charge on my phone, make sure it’s on vibrate, and stow it in my pocket. Grabbing a black scarf, I cover my head, pull on gloves and my coat, and then I’m out the door and into the cold.
I push the scooter bike hard, and it takes me ten minutes to reach Schrock’s place. The snow is coming down in earnest now and starting to accumulate. Stopping at the mouth of the lane, I hop off the bike, lean it against a tree, and set off on foot.
The hem of my dress is damp and cold even through my tights, but my feet are dry in my boots as I tromp through snow. There are buggy tracks, telling me someone has driven by recently. I pass the barn where worship was held yesterday. The main door is closed and there’s no one in sight.
The house looms into view like something out of a gothic movie. It’s a grim place in the semidarkness. It’s isolated and, with the falling snow and trees, somehow menacing. I see the flicker of lantern light in the living room window. Taking the steps to the porch, I cross to the door and knock.
While I wait, my mind scrolls through possible reasons Schrock might want to see me and how I might use the visit to my advantage. I look out over the woods, and even with my nerves zinging, I have to admire the beauty of the place. The black trunks of the winter-bare trees. The softly falling snow. The blanket of leaves slowly being covered with white.
The creak of hinges sounds. I turn to see Eli Schrock standing in the doorway, looking at me as if I’m lost and wandered to his doorstop for directions.
“Guder nochmiddawks,” I say. Good afternoon.
He doesn’t offer a smile. His eyes are direct and probing. Clad in all black—hat, trousers, and jacket—he makes an imposing figure. I’m not easily intimidated, but the knowledge that we’re wholly alone and I’m miles from help hovers in the forefront of my mind.
“Kate Miller.” He bows his head slightly. “I thought you’d ride with Jacob.”
“I didn’t want to put him to any trouble, so I rode the scooter bike.”
“You must be cold. Come in.”
Stepping aside, he ushers me through the door. I’m keenly aware of his size as I walk past him. He’s well over six feet tall and probably two hundred pounds. He stands so close I discern the smell of fresh-cut wood on his jacket and coffee on his breath. The first thing I notice is the fire blazing in the hearth. A braided rug covers a rough-hewn plank floor. On a table next to the sofa, a kerosene lantern flickers, casting shadows on the ceiling. I notice a copy of Martyrs Mirror lying facedown on a sofa cushion.
“I’ve interrupted your reading,” I say.
He closes the door. “You’ve read Martyer Schipiggel?”
“When I was a teenager.”
“The Anabaptists have suffered many torments because of their faith.” He motions to a straight-backed chair across from the sofa. “And yet they forgave, even loved their persecutors.”
“Dirk Willems,” I reply, referring to the story of the martyred Anabaptist who fled from his captors, risked his life crossing thin ice, and made it to the other side. When his pursuer gave chase and fell through the ice and into the frigid water, Willems went back onto the ice and rendered aid. Because of his kindness, Willems was recaptured, tortured, and burned at the stake.
Schrock smiles, pleased that I’m familiar with the story. “It’s the Amish way.”
My boots are nearly silent against the floor as I cross to the chair.
“Would you like kaffi?” he asks.
“Thank you.”
He walks int
o the kitchen. I watch as he removes a plain mug from the cupboard, lifts an old-fashioned percolator from the stove, and pours. I lower myself into the chair, lean back with my hands in my lap, and try to settle my nerves.
“Sometimes I make it too strong.” He returns with a mug in each hand and passes one to me. “When you’re a widower, you learn to do all the things your wife would normally do.” He smiles. “And usually not as well.”
“How long have you been a widower?” I drink some of the coffee. He’s right; it’s strong, but good.
“A long time.”
“I’m sorry.”
He offers a kindly look. “God had another plan. Perhaps it was His way of bringing me here to Roaring Springs where I could dedicate myself to serving as Vellicherdiener.”
I expected him to go to his chair and sit, but he sets the coffee on the mantel above the hearth and remains standing. “You’ll be joining the church on Sunday?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment. “What about you? How long have you been a widow?”
“John has been gone for nine months now.” I say the name with reverence. “He was a good husband. A good man.”
“You never had children?”
“We weren’t blessed with children.”
“Children are important.” His eyes bore into mine. I look for disappointment, but he gives me nothing. “But we are blessed with only what God gives us.”
I look away, take another drink of coffee. “Yes.”
“There’s still time if it’s the Lord’s wish.”
It’s an overly personal statement, so I don’t respond. I try to get a handle on the source of my discomfort, identify it, stave it off, but I can’t. I don’t know why I’m here or where he’s going with this line of conversation. I’m not sure what to say next, so I pick up the cup and drink.
“It must be difficult,” he says.
“What’s that?”
He walks to the hearth, lifts a log from the rack, and places it on the fire. “Being alone at such a young age. No children. No husband.”
“I have my faith,” I tell him. “It fills up my life. It’s enough for now.”
He straightens and crosses to me, looks down at me, studying me intently. I’m no stranger to odd individuals or awkward situations, but my unease is making itself known. My palms are damp. My heart beats a little too fast. I’m sweating beneath my coat, but I don’t want to take it off.
“A young woman has needs,” he says softly. “Without a husband…” He shrugs. “Even an Amisch woman.”
Incredulity rises inside me, but I bank it. I look up at him. He’s standing too close, his head cocked. His gaze searches mine, as if he’s waiting for a reaction. Or something I’ve not yet revealed to him. For the first time it strikes me that I feel strange. My heart rate is too high. My hands and feet are still cold from the ride over, but the back of my neck is damp with sweat. The heat from the fire is making me sleepy, which is unusual because I’m “on.”
I startle when he reaches out, takes my left hand, and pulls me to my feet. For an instant I feel light-headed, but it quickly levels off. In the back of my mind I wonder if I’m coming down with something. Or if the stress is getting to me …
We’re standing face to face, about two feet apart. Around us, the house is so quiet I can hear the crackle of the fire, the wind driving snow against the window, the steady thrum of my heart. I know better than to let the moment unnerve me, but it does.
“Did your husband forgive you?” he asks.
“Forgive me for what?”
“You never gave him children.”
I glance down where my hand is enclosed within his. I try to tug it away, but he doesn’t release it. Despite my best efforts, I’m flustered. I feel unsettled and spaced out. I raise my gaze to his and find his eyes probing mine. I’m aware of my heart tapping hard against my ribs. The .22 against my thigh. The weight of my phone in my pocket.
“That’s private.” I say the words slowly, enunciating each syllable because suddenly I’m having difficulty speaking. “I prefer not to talk of such things, even to you, Bishop.”
“Artificial birth control is against the rules here. It’s against our conscience and is considered taking a life.”
Kate Burkholder would have told him to piss off. Kate Miller, bound by her faith and the Ordnung, is obligated to submit.
“I’ve never used it,” I murmur.
“Then why no children?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you a good wife?”
“Of course I was.”
“You submitted to your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
I say nothing.
Gently, he turns my hand over so that it’s palm up. Again, I try to withdraw it from his, but he maintains his grip. I’m keenly aware of his proximity. The warmth of his skin against mine. Raising his other hand, he runs his index finger across my palm. A feather-soft touch, but I feel it with the power of an electrical shock.
“Did you have thoughts of other men?” he asks.
I stare at Schrock, taken aback. “Bishop, that’s an … inappropriate question.”
“So you did, then? While you were with your husband, you were thinking of another man?”
“Never.”
“Do you plan to remarry?” he asks.
“One day. God willing.”
“Sadly, many widows never do. Some, of course, are too old. They have difficulty finding a suitable husband. Not you, of course.” He shrugs. “Some of the young widows have too much guilt.”
“Guilt? I have no guilt.”
“Some Amish women find it difficult to open their bodies to another man. After taking their vows.”
Had the circumstances been different—had I not been required to maintain my cover—I would’ve laughed in his face and left him with a resounding fuck off. Of course I can’t do either of those things. As distasteful and outrageous as this exchange has become, I’m bound to participate.
“I have no such guilt.” I’m alarmed when I slur the final word. It’s then that I know the light-headedness isn’t my imagination. Something’s wrong. My vision is off. I stare at him, aware that my face is hot. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip. Not embarrassment or discomfort. More like a fever.…
Only then does the possibility that I’ve been drugged strike me. A warning bell clangs in my head. Did he put something in the coffee? I didn’t drink much, but I’m definitely feeling the effects of … something.
“I can help you,” he whispers. “As your bishop, I will counsel you. Prepare you for your husband. Teach you to be a better wife in the eyes of God.”
I yank my hand away and stumble back. His fingers scrape my skin as he lets go. “I don’t need any of those things.”
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. A sort of dark amusement peeks at me from behind his eyes. He’s enjoying this, I realize. He enjoys intimidating people. Toying with their emotions. Manipulating them to get what he wants. Bending them to his will. Finding a weakness and taking advantage of it.
Hurting them.
I have to hand it to him: he’s good at it, at least when it comes to grieving widows and vulnerable teenagers. But I’m a cop, and at the moment it’s taking every bit of restraint I possess not to blow this whole thing for the sheer satisfaction of taking him down a few notches.
“God came to me last night, Kate Miller. In a dream. He told me your husband died because you were not a good wife to him. You had impure thoughts.”
I step back. “That’s not true.”
“I know these things. I look at you and I see a woman who is lost and alone. A frightened woman who wants to belong but she doesn’t know how to reach out. A woman who longs for the return of the faith she’s lost. I know everything about you.”
“No, you don’t,” I whisper.
“I know John never forgave you. Because of that he ca
nnot get into heaven. Come with me tonight, and I’ll show you the way to forgiveness.”
“I have to go.” Turning abruptly, I run to the door, throw the lock.
He reaches the door at the same time I do and sets his palm against it, blocking me. He bows his head slightly, his face coming within inches of mine. Too close. “Wait.”
“No.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I have to go.”
He straightens, his expression disapproving, disappointed. “All right.” His eyes go to the window. “It’s dark and snowing. At least let me hitch the buggy and drive you home.”
“I’ve got the scooter bike.”
He looks at me for what seems like an eternity. As if he’s trying to decide whether to let me go. For an instant, I’m afraid he won’t. I’m not incapacitated; I’m armed and able to defend myself. But I’m impaired. And for the first time, he’s frightened me.
After an interminable moment, he opens the door. “As you wish.”
I rush through. My head spins as I cross the porch to the steps and stumble down them. What did he put in that coffee? The tox screen done on Rachel Esh showed she had OxyContin in her blood. Was it from Schrock? Is that what he gave me? Something worse?
At the foot of the steps, I glance over my shoulder, find him at the door leaning against the jam.
Goddamn predator.
“Be careful out there, Kate Miller,” he calls out. “It’s very, very cold.”
I feel eyes tracking me as I walk swiftly through the falling snow. I wonder if he’s laughing because my coordination is off. The son of a bitch. A chill that has nothing to do with the falling temperature hovers at the base of my spine. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder until I reach the trees, where I break into a run.
I’m out of breath when I reach the scooter bike near the end of the lane. As I push it toward the road, I notice there’s at least two inches of new snow, and I hope I can get the damn thing home.
It’s not easy. After a few hundred yards, I get off and push it the way a kid would push a bike with a flat tire. All the while I fret over what I might have ingested, my mind replaying every moment. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The things he said and the manner in which he said them.