Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (7 page)

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.”

“Schrock’s place is off Highway 30 near Constable.” Leaning closer, Suggs runs a stubby finger along the marked road. “You go north on Lucas Road and there’s a two track that’ll take you into the community.”

“I looked at aerials last night and familiarized myself with the area.” A sleepless night spent studying and memorizing maps.

Suggs nods. “That whole area to the north is a jigsaw puzzle of dirt roads and two tracks with a couple of good size creeks and ravines.”

“There are some other players involved.” Betancourt nods at Suggs.

The sheriff slides a second sheet of paper toward me. “This is everything I could find on the family Rachel Esh was living with when she died.”

The information is sparse. Abe and Mary Gingerich. Forty-six and forty-three, respectively. They live in a house outside Roaring Springs, not far from Schrock’s land. Four children are grown and out of the house. Special needs girl still at home. Fifteen-year-old Anna. Abe’s occupation is listed as a farmer. Mary works part-time at a restaurant in town called The Dutch Kitchen.

I raise my gaze to Suggs. “Any idea why Rachel Esh was living with this couple instead of her parents?”

“The Gingeriches told me she was staying with them to help with Anna, the special needs girl. That’s not the whole story. When I talked to her parents, Fannie and Samuel Esh, they let on that they were having some problems with her.”

“What kind of problems?”

“They backtracked, but I got the impression she was acting out somehow. I tried, but couldn’t get much more out of them.”

“I’ll try to make contact with them, but it might be tough with them grieving.”

“They live on a farm six miles south of the settlement.” Another sheet of paper comes my way. “Address is there, along with some info on her best friend.”

The information on the best friend is sparse. Sixteen-year-old Marie Weaver. No photo. She works part-time at a mom-and-pop restaurant called Huston’s outside Roaring Springs.

“Best friend might be a good source of information,” I say. “Have you talked to her?”

“Girl’s a piece of work.” Suggs sighs tiredly. “I talked to all of them, Chief. No one knows shit about shit. Or else they’re not talking.”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“Frankly, I can’t figure these people out. Here we are, trying to get to the bottom of a girl’s death, and yet getting anything out of them has been like pulling teeth.”

I nod, not surprised. “Does Schrock have a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

“That seems odd,” Betancourt says. “I mean, even for an Amish guy, right?”

“Most Amish men are married with grown children by that age,” I tell them. “Most widowers remarry, so it’s an interesting detail.”

We fall silent, then I look from man to man. “I suppose I should ask about my accommodations.”

Betancourt glances at Suggs, but there’s something in his eyes, a look that tells me I’m not going to like what comes next.

“We considered putting you up in the Sleepy Time Motel, but it didn’t seem quite right for an Amish woman,” Suggs tells me. “Especially since you’re supposedly going to be laying down roots.” He clears his throat. “I looked at several rentals, and frankly, we’re a little limited in Roaring Springs. I finally found a trailer home north of town.” He grimaces. “It’s fully furnished, including linens and dishes. The landlady, Brenda Bowman, keeps the place real clean. It’s not the Ritz, Chief, but the location is damn near perfect.”

The word “trailer” roils uneasily in my gut, but I quickly remind myself it’s part of my cover and I’ll only be here for a short time.

“Most important thing is that it’s just half a mile down the road from Schrock’s place,” Betancourt adds, “and close to town.”

“Close to the scene where Rachel Esh’s body was found, too,” Suggs adds. “Bowman rents almost exclusively to the Amish. She’s no frills so you won’t have to jump through any hoops. First and last month’s rent.” He jerks his head toward Betancourt. “We’ll supply you with the cash.”

“I’m sure you have a personal cell phone?” Betancourt asks.

“I do.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out a basic smartphone. “We got a backup for you. My cell number is programmed in. Same with Dan’s. And a direct line to the sheriff’s department. All on speed dial.” He nods at Suggs. “We’ll have our cells with us at all times while you’re here, day and night, and that includes when we’re in the shower.”

“I’ll have to leave it on vibrate when I have it on my person,” I tell him.

“Let’s check it now.” Suggs pulls out his own phone.

I pick up the phone and set it to vibrate. The sheriff hits a button, and the phone vibrates soundlessly in my hand. “Good enough,” I tell them.

“Can’t have it ringing while you’re at church.” Betancourt’s gaze meets mine. “You have your sidearm with you?”

“Both of them.”

“I’ll take care of any paperwork so we’re on the up and up with that,” Betancourt says. “Once we finish here and you’re dressed and ready to go, you’ll walk into the diner with your suitcase and box, and ask the waitress to use the phone.”

“Dee Dee—the waitress—can be a little persnickety,” the sheriff tells me. “If she gives you any shit, I’ll be at the counter. I go in all the time for coffee. She knows me and I’ll make sure she lets you use the phone.”

“Most phones have caller ID, and we thought it was better for Skelly’s Diner to come up,” Betancourt clarifies, “rather than your personal ID or anything to do with law enforcement.”

“All this will get the rumor mill humming, by the way,” Suggs tells me. “We don’t get many new residents around here.”

The grapevine is a powerful mode of communication in most Amish communities. Word of a new resident will travel fast.

Suggs passes me a sheet of paper with two names and phone numbers, and a Roaring Springs address at the bottom. “The driver’s name is Marcella Jennings, but everyone calls her Marc. Drives a beat-up blue van and hauls the Amish around all the time. Everyone knows her, so she’s legit.”

“Good,” I say.

“You’ll also need to call the landlady and tell her you want to rent the trailer,” Suggs continues. “Just tell her you saw the ad in
The Bridge
; it says something about the trailer being Amish friendly.”

“Got it,” I say.

“Once you set a time to meet Bowman out at the trailer, call Marc. Tell her you need a ride from Skelly’s in Brushton to the trailer home.” He nods to the paper. “Address is there. Marc’ll pick you up and drive you out there for fifteen bucks.”

The men fall silent. Now that we’ve touched on some of the details, I suspect the complexity of the assignment is hitting all of us.

After a moment, I say, “I have some thoughts on how to insert myself if you want to hear them.”

Both men look slightly relieved, as if they’re fresh out of ideas and unsure as to what else they can contribute from this point forward.

“I brought some Amish quilts with me,” I tell them. “Baby quilts I picked up at a shop in Painters Mill. I can pass the work off as my own and sell them at one of the shops in town. It’ll be a good way to meet some of the Amish women.”