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 o
f 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.
We’re on the snowmobile for less than ten minutes. By the time the engine slows, the cold has rendered me utterly useless. My hands and knees and feet are numb. I’m shivering so violently, I can barely stay astride the seat.
Tilting my head back for a better view, I try to get a look at my surroundings. We’ve arrived at a farm surrounded by hundreds of sixty-foot-tall trees. A large bank barn and paddock ahead. Two-story frame house to my left. We’ve stopped a few yards from a small outbuilding. Nothing looks familiar.
The gravity of the situation drops into my gut like stone. I have no idea where I am or why these men have brought me here. I have no mode of communication, no weapon, and not nearly enough protective clothing. In cop speak, I’m in serious shit.
I can’t help but think of Rachel Esh. She froze to death not far away from here. Is this the way it went down? Did these men come for her in the middle of the night? Did she get away from them and run into the woods? Did they look for her? Or did they know she wouldn’t make it and simply let her die in the snowstorm?
In the back of my mind, I consider telling the two men that I’m a cop. That if I die, they’ll be caught—and more than likely face the death penalty. As much as I don’t want to blow my cover and waste the time and effort invested in this operation thus far, it might be the only way to save my life.
But despite the risks and the fact that I’m not in control of the situation, some inner voice urges me to wait. I’ll keep my options open. For now, I want to see where this goes. I want to know who’s behind it.
The driver of the machine I’m on dismounts. I’m aware of his partner behind us, headlight illuminating us. The next thing I know, the driver turns, sets his hand against my chest and shoves me hard. I slide from the seat and plop into the snow on my backside.
Laughter erupts.
Using my hands, I scrape the hat up over my eyes so I can see and look around. One of the men is standing next to the outbuilding. Only then do I realize it’s a chicken coop. Shit. Shit.
“Get up.”
I bend my knees, try to get my legs under me, but wobble and fall sideways. He doesn’t give me a second chance. Bending to me, he wraps both hands around my biceps and hauls me to my feet.
“Cut the tape,” he says to the other man.
A different kind of fear goes through me at the sight of the four-inch folding knife. I raise my bound wrists, watching as he severs the tape.
“Get in the coop.”
I turn to face him. “I n-need t-to get warm,” I sputter through chattering teeth. “Gloves.”
“How ’bout if I knit you a pair? Now get in there.”
His partner fumbles with a padlock on a hasp and with some effort shoves open the door. The other man clamps his hand around the back of my neck and forces me toward the door. Beyond, the interior is dark and smells of frozen chicken shit and dirt.
“I don’t want to go in there.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“This is what we do to nosy Amish women.”
Raising his foot, he places it on my butt and shoves me through the door. I stumble into the darkened interior, smack my forehead against something, and fall to my hands and knees. Something scampers across the dirt floor to my right. Rat, I think, but I’m too cold to care. The door slams shut.
I struggle to my feet, strike my head against a low beam, and duck back down. A roost. Rushing to the door, I slam both fists against it. “Let me out!” I scream. “Let me out!”
A round of laughter ensues, followed by conversation I can’t quite discern. The snowmobile engines rev.
“Don’t leave!” I slam my fist against the door. “Bastards!”
The men drive away. I stand at the door. Through a gap between the wood planks, I watch the taillights fade into the darkness. The sound of the engines fade. Dismay spreads through me. And then the men are gone.
“Pricks.”
I stand there, shaking with cold and rage and disbelief. I’m somehow incredulous the situation has deteriorated to this. If I don’t play my cards right, it’ll soon become a life-or-death scenario.
Turning, I face the interior of the coop. Weak gray light creeps in through the gaps between the weathered wood siding. There’s a small door that’s about two feet square and at ground level on the far end for the chickens, but it’s closed. There are no chickens in sight. I can tell by the smell they haven’t been gone long. The place is dirty and, though I’m protected from the wind, cold as hell.
I make my way to the chicken door and kick it. It’s solidly closed; there’s probably a cross board nailed across it on the outside. There are no windows. I go back to the large door, shove at it with both hands, but it’s secure. Using my shoulder, I get a running start and bang against it. The door shudders beneath the force of my weight. I ram it again and again; I bring my foot up and kick it as hard as I can, but it refuses to give way. The sons of bitches put the padlock back on; I can hear it rattling on the outside.
I’m breathing hard from the physical effort. My shoulder hurts from the impact. My hands ache with cold. I can’t feel my fingers at all. I’m wearing sneakers with the socks I went to bed in, but they’re not enough to keep my feet warm, or even ward off frostbite. But the physical activity has alleviated the worst of the shaking. For now.
Half a dozen outcomes float uneasily through my brain. As far as I know, the men have left me here to freeze to death. I wonder if that’s the way it went down for Rachel Esh. Did they leave her here to die and then dump her body in the woods so the police would believe she’d perished in the storm? But why? Did she spurn Schrock’s advances? Did she see something she shouldn’t have?
This is what we do to nosy
Amish women.
Have I been asking too many questions? Is that what this is about? Or does this have something to do with the two women I saw with the men on snowmobiles? Were those women somehow harmed? Are the men afraid I’ll identify them? The problem with that scenario is I didn’t see their faces; I couldn’t identify them. If not that, then what?
The bottom line is I’ve been careless. I spurned Schrock’s advances. I’ve asked too many questions. I fooled myself into believing I was being careful. In reality, I’d committed the mortal sin of undercover work: I underestimated the perspicacity of my enemy.
Pacing the confines of the coop, swinging my arms to keep the blood circulating, I mentally catalog the people I talked to. Mary and Abe Gingerich. Their daughter, Anna. Laura Hershberger. The women at the quilt shop. Marie Weaver. The one event that supersedes the rest is my visit with Schrock. Of all the possible culprits, he’s the one who wields the power and has the authority to direct someone to do this, all without getting his hands dirty.
If I freeze to death tonight, no one will ever know what happened. As with Rachel Esh’s death, the coroner will be able to determine the cause of death—which would probably be hypothermia—but not the manner of death, which would be homicide. I made it easy for them.
Instead of letting the thought shake me, I use it to spur my temper. Starting in the nearest corner, I feel my way around the perimeter of the coop, testing each piece of siding as I go. The structure is about twenty by twelve feet. There are two roosts at about head level. The floor is hard-packed dirt. One wall is a maze of nesting boxes where the hens lay eggs. The large door is solidly secure, so I go back to the chicken door. I lower myself to the ground a couple of feet away from it, bring my feet up and plant a double barrel kick in the center. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Come on,” I pant.
The fourth blow cracks wood. Encouraged, I kick it again as hard as I can. One of the planks splits. Half of it pulls away from the frame. Another kick and my foot blasts through the hole. A wood sliver slices my calf as I pull it back through. I don’t care. A final kick and the plank flies off and lands in the snow outside. Then I’m on my knees, shoving at the loosened wood with my hands.