“Yeah, I can tell.” Her expression turns annoyed. “What are you doing here, anyway? I mean, in Roaring Springs?”
“I told you. I moved here from O—.”
“I got that part of it. But why?” She hefts a laugh. “No one comes here. It sucks here.”
“My husband died. I needed … a change. I wanted to—”
“Take a walk among the wicked?” She offers a nasty grin.
“I was looking for … something else.”
“Yeah, well, be careful where you look around here because you may not like what you find.”
“What do you mean?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Bishop Schrock is strict to the extreme. If he likes you, you’re in. If he doesn’t, you’re screwed. I guess you’ll figure it out soon enough.”
I look away, draw on the cigarette. “Maybe I already have.”
She cocks her head, her eyes narrowing on mine. Inwardly, I smile; finally, I have her undivided attention. She’s fully engaged, as if she’s been invited into some exclusive private club and gets to hang out with the beautiful people. She wants the scoop. She wants to know what I did to deserve it. This is the thing I can share that might prompt her to share something in return.
“What did he do to you?” she asks.
I tell her about the two men on snowmobiles throwing me into the chicken coop. “That’s why I asked you about it. It scared me.”
“What did you do to deserve that?”
I shrug. “I’d rather not say.”
She seems to accept that. “You’d better be careful.”
“I plan to.” I hit the cigarette again. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
She lowers the cigarette and gives me a hard, hostile look. “What are you going to do? Report back to him and tell him what I said?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone anything.” I tilt my head, holding her gaze. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know you. You’re not my best bud. As far as I know you’re a spy.”
“A spy?” Spoken aloud the word sounds absurd and I let fly with a laugh. “What does that mean?”
She looks at me as if I’m a dim-witted child. “You think that’s funny? How do you think he knows so much? He has people watching everyone.”
“Bishop Schrock?” I offer another laugh, unapologetic, at her expense. “No offense, but that sounds paranoid.”
“Let me tell you something Kate-from-Ohio: It pays to be paranoid around here.”
“If that’s the case, why does everyone speak so highly of him?”
She gives me a withering look. “Because they’re scared shitless.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” she fires back.
“Even after what happened to Rachel?”
Her eyes skate away from mine, blinking, as if she doesn’t know what to say. She recovers quickly. Dropping the cigarette on the ground, she crushes it with her sneaker. “I gotta get back to work.”
“Wait and I’ll walk in with you.”
“Fuck off.”
She brushes past me and stalks inside without looking back.
* * *
Marie is nowhere in sight when I pick up my sandwich at the counter. I go to a corner booth and eat it without pleasure, all the while my mind running through the odd conversation.
He has people watching everyone.
It pays to be paranoid around here.
Sheriff Suggs’s words echo the entire time. That place is beginning to sound more like a damn cult …
It’s evident I’m not going to get anywhere with her tonight. At least she knows who I am. She knows I’m a fellow rule breaker. While those two things don’t exactly make us kindred spirits, she knows the door is open if she wants to talk.
I finish the sandwich and head for the ladies room. Inside a stall, I pull out my cell phone, call up a map app and punch in the address for Rebecca and Levi Beiler. They live a few miles south of Roaring Springs. If I hurry, I’ll make it before dark.
I’m loathe to go back outside and into the cold, but I don’t have a choice. Pulling on my gloves and wrapping my scarf around my head and neck, I go through the door and get on the scooter. I’m losing daylight, so I set a brisk pace, traveling back through town where the lights of The Dutch Kitchen glow with warm light. The Calico Country Store windows are darkened, but I can just make out the pretty window display and, thinking of the time I spent there earlier, I’m warmed.
Main Street forks at the east end of town. I go right and set a fast pace toward Bear Creek Road. Despite temperatures in the twenties, I break a sweat beneath my layers of clothing. Two miles into the trip, I shake the scarf from my head. Another mile down the road and I catch a whiff of cattle and manure. I round a curve and the dairy farm comes into view. The two-story brick house sits atop a hill. A split rail fence surrounds a large yard crowded with blue spruce. Despite the lack of formal landscaping, the abundant trees and rustic fence make the old house a pretty sight to behold.
I turn into the long lane and muscle the scooter bike through snow. A big white barn stands tall behind the house. In the side pen, a dozen or so Holstein cattle stare at me through the fence rails, bawling. The big sliding door stands partially open and I wonder if it’s feeding time. Maybe a good chance to catch Rebecca alone inside.
Leaning the scooter behind a hay wagon loaded with loose timothy, I follow the sidewalk around to the front door and take the steps to the porch. The daylight is waning, the cloud cover ushering in dusk earlier than usual. There’s no lantern light inside and I hope I haven’t missed them.
A dusting of snow covers the porch. No footprints, just the paw prints where a cat walked. Two old-fashioned, shell-backed chairs with a plain wooden table between them. Someone left a mug with an inch or so of coffee inside that’s now frozen solid. I cross to the door and rap the wood with my knuckles, then turn to take in the view, listening for footsteps. The wind whispers through the boughs of the spruce trees. At the foot of the hill, a sparrow chatters from atop a fence post. It’s peaceful and pretty here, the perfect place to sit and look out over the land.
When no one comes to the door, I knock again. Vaguely, I wonder if the couple is in the barn, feeding the stock. I’m on my way to the steps to check when I glance through the window to my right. Black curtains cover the glass, but there’s a gap where one of the panels has caught on something and is pulled away. A closer look reveals the curtain rod has come loose from the wall. Odd that someone would leave it like that …
Bending, I peer through the gap. Something on the floor snags my attention. At first glance I think it’s a dog, lying on a rug. As my eyes adjust to the semi darkness I discern a hand against the wood plank floor. A burst of alarm in my gut. Instinctively, I reach for my radio, but it’s not there.
“Shit. Shit.”
The first thought that strikes my brain is that someone has had a heart attack or succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. The latter scenario is all too common in the winter months, when people use kerosene space heaters. If the heater isn’t properly vented, carbon monoxide can reach dangerous levels and cause unconsciousness and death.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beiler!” I slap the window with my open palm, then move to the door, striking it with the heel of my hand. “Rebecca! It’s Kate Miller! Open the door!”
I try the knob, but it’s locked. I rush to one of the shell-backed chairs, pick it up and smash the window. The sound of breaking glass seems deafening in the silence.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beiler! Is everyone okay?”
Even as I call out, I drag the chair along the bottom of the window to knock out the remaining shards. Simultaneously, I yank the phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial for Suggs.
Before he can even utter his name, I shout, “I’m at the Beiler farm. I got one person down. Maybe CO poisoning. I see a space heater.”
“I’ll get an ambulance out there. They ali
ve?”
“No one’s moving.” Inside, an Amish female lies on her side in front of the sofa. I can see the legs of a male near a doorway. “Two down, Dan. I’m going in.”
“Shit. Go. I’m on my way.”
Then I’m through the window, rushing toward the fallen woman. Too dark to see. An unpleasant smell I don’t want to name. Thinking of carbon monoxide, I dart to the door, flip the bolt lock, yank it open. Light and cold air flood the room. I cross to the woman and kneel.
“Rebecca.” I set my hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
I know immediately I’m too late. The feel of her skin, even through my gloves, isn’t right. Hard. Lifeless. Like frozen meat.
Gently, I push her onto her back. A wet sound against the wood floor. Blood on her chest. Face ghastly pale. Blue lips gaping. Flesh pinkish-blue on the right side of her face. Not bruised, but the beginning of livor mortis.
Not enough light to tell if she’s been shot or stabbed, but it’s a devastating wound. I scramble back, nearly trip on the foot stool, catch my balance just in time.
Lifting my skirt, I yank the .22 Mini Mag from the holster, spin to face the kitchen doorway.
I don’t think there’s anyone there, but the last thing any cop wants to do is walk into a scene to help someone and get shot because she didn’t clear the place. I’m not taking any chances.
“Who’s there!” I shout. “Get out here! Keep your hands where I can see them! Do it now!”
The house is dead silent.
No one there.
Craning my head right, I glance at the male. He’s lying in the kitchen doorway. Toes up. He’s wearing work boots. Trousers. My hands and legs shake as I cross to him. He’s face up. One eye open and staring. The other at half mast. A black hole for a mouth. Shattered teeth. Perfect half circle of blood around his head, stark against the floor. A shotgun lies next to him, the muzzle a few inches from his head.
At first glance this looks like a murder-suicide situation. Levi shot his wife, then turned the gun on himself. But one of the golden rules of any investigation is to never take anything at face value.
I step back, keenly aware that I’ve contaminated the scene. My face is hot, my back covered with sweat. I dial Suggs as I head toward the door.
“They’re dead,” I say when he picks up.
“Aw, man. How—”
“Dan, they’ve been shot—”
“What?”
“There’s a shotgun on the floor. It looks like a murder suicide. But … I don’t know.”
“You see anyone?” Even over the phone I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine, telling me he’s rushing to the scene.
“No. I haven’t looked around, but I don’t think there’s anyone else here.”
“You okay?”
“Yup.” It’s a lie. It’s disturbing as hell to walk into something like this. By the time I go through the door I’m shaking so violently I can barely hold the cell. “I hear sirens.”
“Look, this is kind of an unusual situation. I mean with your cover and all. I don’t know what the protocol is, but it might be a good idea for you to get out of there. I’ll get an official statement from you later.”
“I’ve left tracks. Contaminated the scene.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just get out of there. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
“All right.”
I flee the scene and don’t look back.
* * *
Two hours pass before Suggs calls with an update. I’ve been pacing the living room relentlessly since arriving back, a dozen scenarios running through my mind. None of them are good. By the time my cell rings, my patience has grown thin.
“I got Frank on the line with us,” Suggs begins. “You there, Frank?”
“I’m here.”
I don’t bother with a greeting. “What happened to them?”
“I just left the scene,” Suggs tells me. “Medical examiner is there. It looks like both suffered fatal gunshot wounds. My undersheriff is overseeing things.”
“I got an investigator with the state police out there, too, Chief Burkholder,” Betancourt adds. “Along with a crime scene unit.”
“What’s your take on this?” I ask.
“It has all the hallmarks of a murder-suicide,” Suggs tells me. “Looks like the husband accosted his wife in the living room and shot her once in the chest at close range. He then went to the kitchen, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.”
I think of Rebecca and I can’t believe something like this would happen to her. “Have you notified next of kin?” I ask. “Talked to family members?”
“We’re still trying to find them.” Suggs sighs. “No luck yet.”
“Last I heard, their son, Andy Beiler, his wife, and their two teenage girls moved to Shipshewana, Indiana,” I tell them. “The grandson went to Missouri to live with an elderly couple.”
“We got that,” Betancourt says. “We’re looking. Nothing yet.”
“What were you doing out at the Beiler farm, anyway?” Betancourt asks.
“I went to talk to Rebecca.” Quickly, I summarize my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “She told me Rebecca’s three grandchildren were taken in and ‘counseled’ by Schrock. Laura wouldn’t go into detail, but intimated that some kind of abuse occurred while the kids were at Schrock’s farm.”
“Dan briefed me on that,” Betancourt says. “Did she mean sexual abuse?”
“I don’t know.” I tell him about my encounter with Schrock. “That would be my guess.”
“I ran the grandson’s name through every database I could think of and I got nada.”
“Not even an ID card?” I ask.
“I checked Missouri, Indiana, and New York,” Betancourt replies. “Nothing.”
“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,” Su
ggs 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.