“Name it.”
“Call if you need anything.”
I give his hand a reciprocal squeeze. “Bet on it.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m standing at the half podium in our storage closet–turned–meeting room. Everyone on staff at the Painters Mill PD is here, including Pickles, who just turned seventy-five. As usual, he’s in full uniform, including his trademark Lucchese boots, which are polished to a high sheen. He’s down to about ten hours a week now, which includes the elementary school crosswalk and the occasional jaunt down Main Street to ticket folks who don’t put a quarter in their parking meter.
“Looking sharp, Pickles.” Sitting next to him, Skid nurses an extra large cup of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner. He’s the resident practical joker and all-around smartass, both of which are endearing traits—most of the time, anyway.
“That’s what your wife told me this morning,” the old man replies.
T.J. Banks, my youngest officer and the only rookie, coughs out a laugh.
For the first time it occurs to me that I won’t have my team around to support me. To make me laugh. To back me up. I’m not married to my job, but I enjoy my work. I love the people I work with. They are my family, and the department is the one place, it seems, where I fit in.
I tap the mike, realize I don’t need it, and flip it off. “I just wanted to let all of you know I’m going to be away to consult on a case out of state for a couple of weeks. Glock will be acting chief in my stead. Business as usual here at the station.”
“Which are code words for behave yourselves,” Pickles mutters.
I spend twenty minutes going over assignments and another half an hour as each of my officers reports on things they encountered during patrol since our last meeting. As I wrap things up and watch my team shuffle from the room, I experience an oddly emotional moment and an overwhelming need to call them back. I know it’s silly, but in that instant, it feels as if I’ve bid them farewell and may never see them again.
* * *
I’m sitting at the table in the warmth of our farmhouse kitchen. Rain taps like gentle fingers against the window above the sink. A candle flickers in the center of the table, the scent of warm vanilla wafting up to mingle with the aromas of basil and tomato from the soup simmering on the stove. Tomasetti stands at the sink, rinsing our wineglasses, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. From the living room, Harry Connick Jr.’s smooth-as-silk voice floats on the air like smoke.
It should be one of those rare slices of time when everything is right in the world and I’m reminded of all the things that are settled and good in my life. All the things I have to be thankful for. I’m with the man I love, and confident in the knowledge that I’m loved as fiercely in return. I should be relaxed and happy because I’m ensconced in the warmth and comfort and familiarity of my home. But I’m none of those things. I’m antsy and edgy, and though I should be content, some small part of me is already gone.
The clock on the wall ticks, a metronome that never stops. Another minute gone that can’t be gotten back. I want to reach out and stop those black hands.
At the stove, Tomasetti still has his back to me. He’s putting up a good front, but I know he’s angry with me for agreeing to the assignment. We both know that if he turns, I’ll see what he’s thinking, and this perfect slice of time will no longer be perfect. I don’t know how to make any of it right.
“You’re quiet,” I say when I can stand the silence no longer.
“I’m not the only one.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “I suppose I’m just thinking.”
“About my leaving?”
“About the soup.” But he grins. “Needs a little more cayenne.”
I laugh and some of the tension leaches from my shoulders. “I miss you already.”
“Not too late to pull out.”
I watch as he taps red pepper into the soup. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But there it is.”
He ladles the soup into bowls and brings them to the table, sits across from me. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”
“You packed?”
“Yep.” I tell him about the dresses I borrowed from my sister, and he groans.
“Any idea how long you’ll be gone?” he asks.
“I can’t imagine it taking any longer than a couple of weeks. Three, max.”
“Three weeks can seem like an eternity when you’re working undercover.”
“I know.”
“You sure you’re up to it?”
“I don’t expect it to be easy, but I can handle it.”
He’s looking everywhere except at me. I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see what’s in his eyes. John Tomasetti might have a good poker face, but there are certain things he can’t hide—not from me. I know him too well. I know anger is one of them.
I’m not hungry, but I pick up my spoon and eat some of the soup anyway. It’s good, but too spicy. “Tomasetti.”
Finally, he looks at me. Dark eyes level. Resentment simmering just beneath the surface, hidden by a thin film of civility.
“I know you don’t want me to do this,” I tell him. “I get that.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You could give me your blessing.” I set down my spoon. “You could trust my judgment. My capabilities.”
“I do,” he snaps. “What I don’t trust is this group you’re going into.”
“They’re—”
He cuts me off. “I know. They’re Amish. You keep reminding me of that like they’re a bunch of fucking angels. But guess what, Kate? Somehow a fifteen-year-old girl ended up dead. She got pregnant. Had an abortion. Her body was pumped full of a dangerous narcotic. And she froze to death out in the fucking woods. That’s not to mention the rumors flying about that strange son of a bitch running things.”
“I guess you’ve been doing homework.”
“What do you expect?” he asks, his voice a scant inch away from nasty. “Undercover work is dangerous no matter how you cut it.”
“I’m not worried—”
“Maybe that’s the problem, Kate. You’re not worried. You’re not afraid to put yourself out there. You’re not afraid to lay it on the line. Maybe you should rethink that.”
I stare at him, my heart beating hard in my chest. Temper and uncertainty pull me in opposite directions. “I have to do this,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a cop. Because I’m the best person for the job. Because I’m good at what I do. Because she doesn’t have anyone else to speak for her.”
I’m not exactly sure where that last line came from. A place inside me that remembers what it was like to be a fifteen-year-old Amish girl and not have anyone to turn to when my life was shredded by an act of violence. When everyone—my own family included—swept it under the rug and pretended it never happened. I’m lucky because I survived. Rachel Esh did not.
“I need you behind me on this,” I say, surprised that my voice is shaking. “I don’t want to leave with things unsettled between us.”
“Things are not unsettled.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
Frowning, he gets to his feet and rounds the table, pulls me to my feet. “I love you. That’s not going to change. You got that?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I reply with a nod.
“I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t give you shit about this.”
“I got the message,” I tell him.
“When you love a cop, worrying sort of comes with the territory.”
“Same goes.”
“With you”—growling low in his throat, he brushes his mouth against mine—“it’s a full-time job.”
I don’t kiss him back, but something softens inside me. “You didn’t bite off more than you could chew when you
got involved with me, did you, Tomasetti?”
“I can handle you just fine.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
Falling against him, I raise my face to his. “I need you to trust me,” I tell him. “That’s all I ask.”
“I do.” He dips his head and kisses my neck. “Will you do me a favor?”
I loop my arms around him. “Well, now that you’re being nice…”
“Listen to your gut, Kate. Don’t take any chances. Don’t trust anyone.”
“Okay.”
“If you get into trouble, call me.”
“Every chance I get.”
He pulls back and looks down at me. “I mean it, Kate. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
Dinner forgotten, he pulls me tightly against him and lowers his mouth to mine.
CHAPTER 5
Sleep is invariably most elusive when you need it, and last night was no exception. Tomasetti slept restlessly, too, but he was snoring softly when I rose at three A.M., showered, and dressed. I grabbed my suitcase, loaded the cardboard box containing the quilts, potholders, and my sewing kit into the Explorer. It’s nearly four when I kneel next to the bed and press a kiss to Tomasetti’s cheek. Then I’m down the stairs and through the door. I run into the darkness, rain cold on my face, sliding behind the wheel of the Explorer.
My headlights slice through black, driving rain. I’m backing up to turn around when I see the bedroom light flick on. For an instant I consider going back inside to spend a few minutes with him. One more kiss before I leave. My foot hovers over the brake, but I don’t stop. We said our good-byes last night, and I don’t want to do it again. Instead, I hit the gas and barrel down the lane.
An excruciating loneliness chases me as I pull onto the road, but I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the light in our bedroom window or think of Tomasetti watching my taillights disappear into the night. The temptation to stay will be too great. I’m loath to admit it, but I don’t want to leave. Already, I miss him. Already, I’m apprehensive about what lies ahead.
By the time I hit Ohio 83 north, I’m crying. I know it’s stupid, and I’m unduly relieved there’s no one around to bear witness. That’s the thing about loving someone. You no longer own your heart, and that small, beating organ can turn on you without warning and shred you from the inside out.
As the lights of Wooster disappear in my rearview mirror and my headlights illuminate the road ahead, I regain control of my emotions. By the time I merge onto Interstate 71 north, my thoughts slide toward the assignment I’ve taken on. Roaring Springs, New York, is a nine-hour drive. Ample time to concentrate on details I undoubtedly overlooked and develop contingency plans in case things don’t go as anticipated.
I’m half an hour out of Erie, Pennsylvania, when dawn breaks, revealing a sky the color of rusted iron. A few more miles and the rain turns to sleet. By the time I hit the outskirts of Buffalo, the sleet has transformed into snow. Driving conditions deteriorate with every mile, and by the time I reach the south side of Rochester, the interstate is down to one lane. I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and creep along at forty-five miles an hour. The remainder of the journey is a white-knuckle-two-hands-on-the-wheel event peppered with four spun-out cars and a jackknifed big rig.
Ten miles from Brushton, I call Tomasetti. He doesn’t pick up. Meeting, I think. But that keen sense of loneliness presses into me again. I force it back into its hidey-hole and leave a message.
The blinking neon sign for Skelly’s Diner welcomes me at just after three P.M. The “S” has burned out and the sign reads KELLY’S DINER. It’s a dive, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The building had once been a service station; there’s a covered portico and an island where the gas pumps were. The windows are steamed up. There are two cars parked in front. In the gravel lot behind the building, a white SUV emblazoned with the New York State Police insignia is hitched to an unmarked travel trailer. I pull around and park next to it, out of sight from the street.
I’ve just shut down the engine when I see Frank Betancourt exit the trailer. He’s wearing a black parka and gray slacks. A second man who I assume is Sheriff Dan Suggs exits the passenger door of the SUV as I’m getting out. He’s tall, with a pear-shaped body stuffed into a Franklin County Sheriff’s Department jacket. The three of us meet between our vehicles.
“Good to see you again, Chief Burkholder.” Betancourt extends his hand. “I hope the snow didn’t make the drive too difficult.”
“Four-wheel drive helped.” I turn my attention to the other man.
“Sheriff Dan Suggs.” He reaches for my hand with both of his and shakes it with a good bit of vigor.
I guess him to be nearing fifty. Receding hairline. Red hair that’s going gray at his temples. Mottled complexion. Eyes the color of faded denim. Tall with a generous pudge at his middle. He looks like someone’s favorite uncle. The one who brought you candy when you were six and made you laugh about stuff you weren’t supposed to laugh at.
His gaze is genial and direct. “I appreciate you coming all the way up here to do this, Chief.”
“I’m glad to help.”
“Coffee’s on.” Betancourt motions toward the trailer. “I brought our portable office.”
I toss an admiring look at the RV. “Nice digs.”
Betancourt moves ahead and ascends the steps. “Twenty-seven-foot Winnebago. Confiscated it during a drug bust a couple years back,” he says, opening the door. “Comes in handy for long assignments or when we need a mobile base.”
“Or to keep someone out of sight,” I add.
He holds the door open for us. “That, too.”
“Staties get all the good toys,” Suggs grumbles good-naturedly.
The interior smells of coffee and the pressed-wood redolence inherent to all trailer homes. This one has been transformed into an office, replete with built-in shelves that accommodate a copier/fax machine, a flat-screen TV, police radio, and a plethora of complicated-looking electronics. Ahead and to my left, a sleek laptop and a short stack of manila folders sit atop a table that had originally been a dining booth.
The trailer rocks slightly when Suggs comes up the stairs behind me. “This thing’s nicer than my own living room.”
“You guys want coffee?” Betancourt asks.
“I’d kill for a cup.” Suggs looks at me. “He’s been fussing with that fancy coffee maker for fifteen minutes. You’d think he was some kind of connoisseur.”
Betancourt grins as he goes to the stove and pours. “We can sit at the booth there. Facilities are in the rear if you need them, Chief.”
I slide onto the bench seat. Through the mini blinds, I notice that the snow has dwindled to flurries, but the sky to the north threatens another round. Betancourt sets three cups on the table and then slides in next to me, careful not to get too close. Professional.
Suggs takes the seat across from us. “We thought it would be a good idea for all of us to sit down and talk before you go in.”
I sip coffee that’s hot and strong and very much appreciated. “I have questions and some ideas I want to toss out.”
“We were hoping you would,” Suggs tells me. “We’re not exactly in our element here.”
Betancourt opens the folder on top and slides a single sheet of paper toward me. “This is everything we have on Eli Schrock, the bishop.”
“Kind of a skinny file.” Suggs reaches for a folded newspaper beneath his coat and passes me the latest edition of The Bridge. “The Amish newspaper as per your request.”
“Thanks.” Setting the newspaper in front of me, I look down at the information sheet on Schrock. He’s forty-eight years old. Born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to Swartzentruber parents. Six siblings. No education beyond the usual eighth-grade level. Married Anna Yoder at the age of twenty-six. She was killed in a buggy accident four years later. No children. Never remarried. His work history includes
farming and a twelve-year stint as a furniture maker. He inherited his parents’ farm when they passed, but sold it a few years later and used the money to buy eight hundred acres north of Roaring Springs.
Upon his arrival, he became active in the local Amish community and quickly earned the reputation as a rabble-rouser. A few years after arriving, he was elected ordained minister of the church district. During that time, he received two citations from the sheriff’s department for failure to display a slow-moving vehicle sign on his buggy.
“Except for those citations, he’s kept his nose clean,” Suggs adds.
Betancourt slides a photo toward me. “That’s the only picture we could find. I think it’s a few years old.”
The photograph is black and white with poor resolution, as if it had been taken from a distance and enlarged. Schrock has no idea his photo is being taken. He’s not an attractive man, but his face is commanding. He’s dressed in black. Long beard that’s still dark. Angular face. Dark gray eyes with a piercing countenance. Heavy black brows.
“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” Betancourt tells me, “he left Lancaster because of some problems with the other leaders of the district. The deacon. Even the bishop.”
I look up from the photo. “What kind of problems?”
“I don’t really have an ear into the Amish community, so most of this is hearsay, but from what the sheriff down there told me, Schrock thought the bishop was too soft when it came to enforcing the rules. There was some disagreement on the issue of excommunication. He pissed off some people and ended up on the wrong side of the bishop. A feud of sorts started. Evidently, Schrock isn’t a very compromising individual and eventually left for New York. A few Amish families followed him. According to scuttlebutt, other Amish with similar beliefs came up from Ohio and as far away as Indiana. At some point he began calling himself bishop.”
“Has he had any issues with neighbors since arriving?” I ask. “Any disputes? Things like that?”
“Neighbor to the north isn’t Amish, so Schrock doesn’t speak to him. To his east is an Amish family that’s pretty much part of the community.” Betancourt passes me a satellite image map of Roaring Springs and the surrounding area. “The eight hundred acres owned by Schrock are highlighted in yellow. Highways are marked in red. Lesser roads in blue.”