Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (2 page)

A figure materialized from the woods and stepped onto the trail ahead. A white phantom with dark holes for eyes. Hat and canvas coat caked with snow. Recognition flashed. She tried to be relieved, but her heart didn’t slow, her legs didn’t stop shaking.

“You scared the shit out of me!” she exclaimed.

A familiar grin. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Eyes skittered away from hers. “I couldn’t let you leave without saying good-bye.” A step closer.

Instinct screamed for her to maintain a safe distance, but she ignored it. No danger here, she reminded herself. Just the paranoia playing tricks on her. “I told you I’d call.”

“We both know you won’t.”

She wanted to argue, but there was no time. She tried to ignore the uneasiness slinking over her, grappled for the last remnants of a trust that had been shattered time and time again. But there was something in those familiar eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I have to go,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you.” Another step. Close enough to touch.
Too close
. “Please don’t go.”

A flash of resolve. A stab of regret. Spinning, she skidded down the bank, launched herself into a dead run across the lake.

“Wait!”

She didn’t dare slow down. A few yards out, she slipped, fell hard on her belly. Snow against her face, in her mouth. Ice groaning from the impact. A split second and she was back on her feet. She ran for fifty yards. Arms pumping. Boots sliding. Eyes flicking toward the bank behind her. No one there. But where?

She continued across the lake. Slower now. Ice creaking beneath her feet. Nearly to the center. Not much farther.

A sickening
crack!
reverberated across the ice. Water sloshed over the tops of her boots. Slush beneath her feet. The realization of a mistake. Another step and the ice crumbled. A trapdoor swallowing her feet first and sucking her down. The shock of cold burned like fire against her skin. She spread her arms, hands slapping against the ice. But the momentum dragged her down, plunging her into freezing blackness. Water closed over her face. Cold ripped the breath from her lungs.

Darkness and panic and underwater silence. On instinct, she kicked her feet. Paddled with her hands. She was a strong swimmer, had swam the length of this lake a dozen times last summer. Her face broke the surface. She sucked in a single breath. Chest too tight. Bottomless cold beneath her.

Sputtering, she reached for the jagged edge of the ice, gripped it with gloved hands and tried to pull herself out of the water. Her shoulders cleared, but the ice broke off in her hands, plunging her back in. Her boots were filled with water. Using her right foot, she toed off the left boot. One foot bare. Body quaking with cold. She could still make it …

Kicking hard, she grabbed the edge of the ice, tried to heave her body from the water. Again, the ice crumbled, sending her back into the water.
No
, she thought.
No!
Another wild grab. The ice was solid this time. A scream tore from her throat as she heaved herself upward, but her coat was waterlogged. She wasn’t strong enough to pull herself out.

“No…” She’d intended to scream, but the word was little more than a kitten’s mewl.

For the first time it occurred to her that she might have to abandon her plan. The thought of failure outraged her. After all the preparation, the hope and planning, after seeing to every detail, she was going to drown in this stinking fucking lake like some dumb animal that had wandered onto thin ice.

“
No!
” She tried to slam her fist down on the ice, but her arm flailed weakly. Instead, she reached out and clung to the frozen edge. Shivering. Teeth chattering uncontrollably. Strength dwindling with astounding speed.

Through the driving snow, she caught sight of the figure. Twenty feet away, watching her. She tried to speak, but her mouth refused to move. She raised her hand, a frozen claw against the night sky. She couldn’t believe this was happening. That her life would end this way. After everything she’d been through. So close, and now no one would ever know …

Exhaustion tugged at her, promising her a place that was warm and soft and comforting. It would be so easy to let go of the ice and give in. End the nightmare once and for all.

Her fingers slipped. Her face dipped beneath the surface. Water in her mouth. In her nose. Body convulsing. Too weak to fight. She broke the surface, coughing and spitting, the taste of mud in her mouth. She looked at the figure, no longer a threat, but her only chance to live.

“Help,” she whispered.

The figure lay bellydown on the ice. A branch scraped across the snow-covered surface. “Grab on,” the voice told her. “Take it and hold tight.”

Hope flickered inside her. A candle fighting to stay lit in a gale. She reached for the branch with hands no longer her own. She couldn’t feel them, but watched as her gloved fingers closed around the base.

Ice scraped her coat as she was pulled out, breaking beneath her weight at first, then holding. Closing her eyes, she clung to the stick. Then she was laid out on the ice, still gripping the branch, unable to release it. Violent tremors racking her body. Cold tearing into her flesh like cannibal teeth. Her hair was already beginning to freeze, sticking to her face like strips of cloth.

She was aware of movement, booted feet in the snow. Then she was being dragged toward shore. When she opened her eyes, she saw the black skeletons of the tree branches against the night sky. Strong hands beneath her arms.

She looked up at the sky. Snow slanting down. Her feet leaving furrows in the snow. And she wondered:
How will I run without my boot?

CHAPTER 1

Dusk arrives early and without fanfare in northeastern Ohio in late January. It’s not yet five
P.M.
and already the woods on the north side of Hogpath Road are alive with shadows. I’m behind the wheel of my city-issue Explorer, listening to the nearly nonexistent activity on my police radio, uncharacteristically anxious for my shift to end. In the field to my left, the falling snow has transformed the cut cornstalks to an army of miniature skeletal snowmen. It’s the first snow of what has been a mild season so far, but with a low-pressure system barreling down from Canada, the situation is about to change. By morning, my small police department and I will undoubtedly be dealing with a slew of accidents, hopefully none too serious.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, Ohio, a township of just over 5,300 souls, half of whom are Amish, including my own family. I left the fold when I was eighteen, not an easy feat when all I’d ever known was the plain life. After a disastrous first year on my own in nearby Columbus, I earned my GED and landed an unlikely part-time job: answering phones at a police substation. I spent my evenings at the local community college, eventually earning an associate’s degree in criminal justice. A year later, I graduated from the police academy and became a patrol officer. Over the next six years, I worked my way up to homicide detective and became the youngest female to make the cut.

When my
mamm
passed away a couple years later, I returned to Painters Mill, my past, and my estranged Amish family. The police chief had recently retired and the town council and mayor—citing my law enforcement experience and my knowledge of the Amish culture—asked me to fill the position. They’d been looking for a candidate who could bridge a cultural gap that directly affected the local economy. My roots had been calling to me for quite some time, and after weeks of soul-searching, I accepted the position and never looked back.

Most of the Amish have forgiven me the transgressions of my youth. I may be an
Englischer
now, but when I smile or wave, most return the gesture. A few of the Old Order and Swartzentruber families still won’t speak to me. When I greet them—even in my first language of
Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch
—they turn away or pretend they didn’t notice. I don’t take it personally. I like to call that part of my repatriation a work in progress.

My own family wasn’t much different at first. Early on, my sister and brother would barely speak to me. In keeping with the Anabaptist tenet of excluding the wicked from the group, they’d effectively excommunicated me. We’re still not as close as we once were; chances are we’ll never again find the special bond we shared as children. But we’ve made headway. My siblings invite me into their homes and take meals with me. It’s a trend I hope will continue.

I’m anticipating the evening ahead—a quiet dinner at the farm where I live with my lover, John Tomasetti. He’s also in law enforcement—an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I love him, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Like any couple, we’ve encountered a few bumps along the way, mostly because of our pasts—both of which are slightly checkered. But he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and when I think of the future, it makes me happy to know he’s part of it.

I’m doing fifty, headlights on, wipers making a valiant attempt to keep the snow at bay. I’ve just crested the hill at the intersection of County Road 13 when the buggy materializes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard to the left and stomp the brake. The Explorer fishtails, but I steer into the skid. For an instant, I think I’m going to plow into the back of the buggy. Then the tires catch asphalt and my vehicle comes to an abrupt halt on the gravel shoulder on the opposite side of the road.

I sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. Several thoughts strike my brain at once. I didn’t see the buggy until I was nearly upon it. The accident would have been my fault. Everyone on board probably would have been injured—or worse.

Through the passenger side window, I see the horse come to a stop. Flipping on my overhead emergency lights, I back up so that I’m behind the buggy to protect it from oncoming traffic. I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out, noticing immediately that there’s no lantern or reflective signage anywhere on the buggy.

The driver exits as I approach. I keep my beam low to avoid blinding him as I take his measure. Male. Six feet tall. Mid-thirties. Black jacket. Black, flat-brimmed hat. Matching steel-wool beard that hangs to his belly. His clothes, along with the fact that the buggy is without a windshield, tell me he’s Swartzentruber. I’ve seen him around town, but I’ve never spoken to him. I don’t know his name.

“
Guder Ohvet
,” I begin. Good evening.

He blinks, surprised that I speak Pennsylvania Dutch, and responds in kind.

Leaning forward slightly, I shine my beam into the buggy. A thirtyish Amish woman, also clad in black, and six children ranging in age from infant to preteen are huddled in the rear, their legs covered with two knitted afghans. The woman is holding a baby. Dismay swirls in my gut when I’m reminded how this could have turned out.

“
And Wie bischt du heit?
” I ask the woman. How are you today?

She averts her gaze.

“
Miah bin zimmlich gut
,” comes the man’s voice from the front. We are good.

When dealing with the Amish in an official capacity, particularly the Old Order or Swartzentruber, I always make an effort to put them at ease before getting down to police business. Smiling at the woman, I lean back and address the man. “
Sis kald heit.
” It’s cold today.

“Ja.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Elam Shetler.”

“Do you have an ID card, Mr. Shetler?”

He shakes his head. “We are Swartzentruber,” he tells me, as if that explains everything.

To me, it does. The Amish don’t drive; if they need to travel a long distance, they hire a driver. Most do not have driver’s licenses, but apply for DMV-issued ID cards. Not so with the Swartzentruber, whose belief system prevents them from having their photographs taken.

“Mr. Shetler, I came over that hill and didn’t see your buggy.” I motion toward the vehicle in question. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a lantern or reflective signage.”

“Ornamentation,” he mutters in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I nearly struck your buggy.” I nod toward his wife and children. “Someone could have been seriously injured.”

“I trust in God, not some
Englischer
symbol.”

“
Ich fashtay.
” I understand. “But it’s the law, Mr. Shetler.”

“God will take care of us.”

“Or maybe He’d prefer you put a slow-moving vehicle sign on your buggy so you and your family live long, happy lives.”

For an instant he’s not sure how to respond. Then he barks out a laugh. “
Sell is nix as baeffzes.
” That is nothing but trifling talk.

“The Revised Ohio Code requires reflective signage on all slow-moving vehicles.” I lower my voice. “I was there the night Paul Borntrager and his children were killed, Mr. Shetler. It was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t want that to happen to you or your family.”

I can tell by the Amish man’s expression that my words are falling on deaf ears. His mind is made up, and he won’t change it for me or anyone else. I’m trying to decide whether to cite him when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see Tomasetti’s number on the display.

Opting to call him back, I return my attention to Shetler. “Next time I see you on the road without the proper signage,” I tell him, “I will cite you. You will pay a fine. Do you understand?”

“I believe we are finished here.” Turning away, he climbs back into the buggy.

I stand on the shoulder, listening to the jingle of the horse’s harness and the
clip-clop
of shod hooves as he guides the buggy back onto the asphalt and drives away.

Snow falls softly on my shoulders. The cut cornstalks whisper at me to let it go. “Jackass,” I mutter.

I’m sliding behind the wheel when my radio cracks. “Chief?” comes the voice of my second-shift dispatcher.

I pick up my mike. “What’s up, Jodie?”