In the Land of Milk and Honey (11 page)

I dialed Ezra before starting the car. “Hey! I'm just leaving work. Be home in twenty. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back today. Is everything all right?”

Ezra was silent for a moment. “All's well. I made some dinner I can warm up for you. Talk to you when you get here.”

“Okay.” But my heart beat a little faster at the weighted tone in Ezra's voice.

—

Ezra preferred to come out with things in his own time. So I ate my warmed-up roast and vegetables slowly and waited for him to talk. He was sitting in the chair across from me at our small kitchen table. His head was bowed, and the overhead light cast a shadow over his strong features. He played with a clean fork in his long fingers. Unhappiness radiated off him, making me more and more concerned.

“I saw my father today,” he said at last.

I took a careful sip of water.
Oh
. “I take it that didn't go well?”

He huffed, twisting the fork in his fingers like an acrobat spinning around a pole. He started to speak, then just shook his head.

“I'm so sorry, babe,” I offered.

“I wanted to warn them 'bout the milk. Don't know why I thought he might listen more if it was comin' from me. He didn't want to hear me. Didn't say a word.” Ezra got up and put some water in the kettle for tea, his actions slow and angry.

I left my plate half-eaten and got up. I stopped his fussing by wrapping both arms around his waist from behind. My cheek rested on his warm, broad back. “I will never understand how a parent can disown their child. Or how anyone could not want
you
in their lives.”

He remained tense in my arms, but he didn't pull away. He'd
been hurting like this all day, I realized, since he'd called me this morning, and I hadn't been there for him. I felt utterly inadequate. He covered one of my hands with one of his—large and warm. But he said nothing. I could feel the dampness of his body heat and the overly fast beat of his heart through his shirt. He was really upset. I squeezed him tighter.

“I'm sorry I didn't call you back earlier today. I was completely distracted by this milk case, but that's no excuse.”

“You have your own life.” Ezra's voice was distant. He probably didn't mean it as an accusation, but my guilt made me hear it as one.

I drew away, no longer sure of my welcome. He turned to face me and leaned back against the sink. I couldn't read a thing in his expression. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. “I . . . have my work. And yes, it can be very demanding at times. But that's not my whole life.”

“I know what it demands of you. Can't say as I understand it.”

I felt a sense of wrongness, like the floor was tilting under my feet. There had al
ways been a hint of this between us. How could there not be? Ezra had grown up in a world where women stayed at home, did the cooking and the cleaning and a hundred other tasks around the homestead. They didn't go off to work ten to twelve hours a day. They didn't run after criminals, walk through bloody crime scenes, or carry a gun. They didn't say, “I'll call you back” when a member of their family was in pain and then totally forget to do so.

My hands found each other, and I clasped them together to resist reaching out to him again. Ezra's handsome face was closed off, and I didn't know how to make it right.

“The problem is not with you, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough. “It's in me. I admire who you are. You know that. But I don't . . . I don't know who I am when I'm with you. Who am I? I'm not an Amish man anymore. I'm not a father. I'm not even a husband. And I don't take care of you. Even if I made enough money to do it, you make your own money and want to pay your own way. So what am I good for? Those mules out there are 'bout the only creatures on this earth that need me.”

His face was bitter; his eyes glistened. He was as close to tears as Ezra Beiler probably ever got. I was exhausted after the near sleeplessness of the night before and the long day. So when my heart broke for him, it did so with surprisingly little effort or fuss, spilling a quiet, toxic grief.

“You, Ezra, are the man that I love. And I hope I'm the woman that you love. And the rest of it we'll build, Ezra. We will.”

His shoulders relaxed a little, and his chin dropped to his chest. He looked up at me from under his blond eyelashes and quirked one eyebrow. “You sound pretty sure 'bout that.”

“I am so damn sure,” I answered adamantly.

He huffed and stared at me a moment longer. Then he sighed. It was enough to allow me to go to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he opened up to receive me, putting his hands on my back.

“I'm so, so sorry I didn't call you back this morning. I hate how much they can hurt you, and I hate myself for not being able to prevent it.”

“Not your mess,” he said into my hair. “Not your fault.”

It wasn't. Ezra had been preparing to leave the Amish before he'd even met me. But even so.

My body was tired, and my spirit too, but he needed me. He needed to feel loved, and I needed to make up for my thoughtlessness. I kissed him, pressing into him as he leaned against the counter. But it wasn't going to be that easy this time. After a moment, he reached up to unlace my arms from around his neck and push me gently away. With an unreadable look, he went to the back door, put on his hat, and went outside.

The following day was a Friday. The CDC lab results on the plant matter found in Levi Fisher's barn came in at eleven
A.M.
At four
P.M.
Grady, Glen Turner, and I walked up the wide steps of the state capitol building in Harrisburg to meet with several state departments and an aide of the governor's.

It was the first time I'd ever been to the state capitol, and I was impressed. The stately building was made of ivory granite with a green dome. It was on a natural high point with views of the city, expansive grounds, spring flowers, and blooming trees. I was also anxious as hell. Glen would be doing the introductions, but I'd have to outline an initial plan and answer any questions about the case—a case which was less than five hours old.

“Oh, great,” Grady muttered sourly. He paused on the steps.

“What's the matter?” I paused next to him.

He nodded with his chin. There were a dozen or so protesters near the front door of the capitol building. That probably wasn't a rare occurrence and I wondered why it had put Grady off. That's when I noticed the word “milk” on the protest signs. My gaze flickered from sign to sign. “My Body My Choice
.
” “Food Freedom Now
.
” “Keep Your Laws Off My Milk
.
” “I Want It Raw
.
” One woman who couldn't have been over twenty had a huge white sign that said, “I Drink Raw Milk. Arrest Me
.
” The protesters were ordinary-looking people, young to middle-aged, and casually dressed. Amber Kruger would fit right in at a protest like this—if she weren't in the hospital fighting for her life.

“You've got to be kidding!” I said. “The press conference was only yesterday morning.”

Glen spoke up. “The farmers will be out here soon too, if we can't get this ban lifted.” He sounded calm about it.

“You must be used to this, working in the CDC,” I said as we continued up the steps.

Glen gave a bitter laugh. “I've personally seen to the recall of thousands of pounds of meat and forced manufacturers to pull product from grocery stores worldwide. So, yes. Companies hate the CDC even more than they hate tax auditors, and protests tend to crop up when we're around.”

“Good. Then I can place the blame on you,” Grady said. He pulled open the heavy door and held it as we passed through.

“Well, personally, I'm glad you're here,” I said. I meant it too. I didn't want to see anyone else die from this, and I was prepared to defend the raw-milk ban to anyone who would listen.

“Thanks.” Glen looked at me warmly.

I ignored a wave of uneasiness and tried to get my mind back on what I planned to say.

—

T
he conference room had wood paneling and a mural of George Washington giving a speech. A fine-weave blue carpet covered the floor and an enormous round conference table was made of polished dark wood and surrounded by plush blue chairs. I recognized several of the state officials from the CDC debriefing at the station, but others I'd never met. Mitch Franklin was there from the Department of Agriculture and there were also people from the DCNR and the Department of Health. Margaret Foderman, the governor's middle-aged and smartly dressed aide, was the only other woman in the room.

She began the meeting. “Dr. Turner, can you give us a brief update on the situation? And then, I believe it was the Lancaster Police who requested this meeting.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Foderman.” Glen plugged his laptop into the projector and ran quickly through pictures of the farms that had been infected and a blown-up map of the county showing where the farms were located. He brought up the current total of victims. “As of thirty minutes ago, there are twenty-nine deceased and an additional forty-six that have gotten ill. We have one unconfirmed but suspected source of tremetol-poisoned milk—Aaron Knepp's farm in Paradise—and three confirmed cases. The confirmed cases are Samuel Hershberger in Paradise,
the Kinderman family on Willow Street, and Levi Fisher in Bird-in-Hand.

“Right now, we have a handle on where it's been. Or we think we do. It's possible there are cases out there that have gone unreported. Unfortunately, we still haven't stopped the source of the tremetol. Which means it could crop up again anywhere, anytime. And probably will.”

“Excuse me, but how is it possible you haven't found the source yet?” Mitch Franklin interrupted. “Those farms are hardly in a state of flux. That's as stable an environment as you could hope for. And I thought your people had been all over them.”

“I didn't say we hadn't found the source. Only that we haven't
stopped
it. I'm going to let Detective Harris explain.”

I got out of my chair and walked around the conference table to Glen's laptop, swallowing down my nerves. There was a lot more at stake here than my dislike of public speaking. Glen had shown me the pictures in his slideshow on the drive up here, so I knew the order. I clicked to a picture of the Fishers' cow trough.

“Yesterday, CDC investigators found a small amount of green plant matter in the cow trough on Levi Fisher's farm. It was tested by the CDC labs and came back this morning as positive for tremetol. The plant matter has been identified as white snakeroot, also called
Eupatorium rugosum.
In other words, we have evidence that the toxin was eaten by the cows, from their trough, in plant form. It was not in their feed or in their hay. And the plant was
not
found by the DCNR anywhere in the Fishers' pasture,
just as it hasn't been found at the other farms where this sickness has cropped up.”

“Isn't that a contradiction?” Margaret asked, looking confused.

“It's not a contradiction if someone brought that plant onto the farm and put it directly in the cow's trough. Levi Fisher claims to have no idea how the plant got there, so we're talking about someone, not a member of the family, coming onto the farm and feeding this to the cows. That's why this morning the Lancaster chief of police approved opening a criminal investigation.” I looked at Grady.

He nodded. “That's correct. We believe there's enough suspicion of malicious intent to open it as a homicide case. Because the first big outbreak, the Kindermans, was in the jurisdiction of the Lancaster City Police, we'll be running the investigation from our violent crimes division. We have one of the most experienced and well-trained homicide detectives in the area—Detective Harris.” He nodded at me. “She was a detective for the New York City Police Department, and she solved the Yoder/Travis case last year. She'll be heading up this investigation.”

“Homicide?” This was clearly unexpected news to the state officials in the room. The reactions ranged from shock to surprise to disbelief.

After discussing it in whispers with his aide, Mitch Franklin stood up. His heavy, hanging-judge face wore a scowl. “Now, before we all get excited, I'd like to voice some skepticism. Just because no one's found the plant on the farms yet, doesn't mean it's
not there. A cow can eat a plant down to the ground, can't it? You'd be left with stubs in that case, or even just roots. And . . . heck, are we confident that the team even knows what it's looking for? This seems pretty straightforward to me. The cow eats a plant, the plant makes the cow sick. I don't see a conspiracy here.”

I pushed down my impatience and replied in a reasonable tone. “The DCNR team does know what it's looking for. Do you agree, Mr. Ellis?”

Dirk Ellis from the DCNR looked like a retired park ranger, still fit and handsome in his fifties. “Yes, we do, Mr. Franklin. My staff knows what to look for, and we haven't found it growing on any of these farms. Honestly, I'm not surprised. From what I understand, white snakeroot wouldn't be any cow's meal of choice. It normally grows in damp, shady areas and would be something cattle might eat during hard times, like in a drought, when other food sources weren't available. But these farms are flush with good spring grass.”

“How can you know that when we haven't seen this plant here before?” Franklin asked.

“Because we do have access to history books and to conservationists in other states. I've been in touch with the chief conservationist in New Mexico, where they sometimes have issues with white-snakeroot poisoning. They've only seen it when cattle are allowed to forage in woodland areas.”

Franklin shook his head as if not convinced, but he didn't argue.

“Also,” Ellis continued, “if I may . . . with a plant like this, the
stems are fairly woody, so it's unlikely it would be eaten down to the roots. Our people have been very thorough searching those pastures. I'm confident that it's not there.”

Franklin gave a wary grunt. “Even if that's the case, it's still a leap to talk about homicide. What you really mean is a serial killer. Right, Detective?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “He—or she, or they—is a murderer and, given the fact that they've hit multiple targets, a serial killer by definition. We believe we might have an eyewitness.” I described what Mark Hershberger had seen—the man feeding their family cow from the road just before the family fell ill.

Ms. Foderman raised her hand and spoke up. “Detective Harris—if the plant was deliberately given to these animals, and the farmers don't know who's responsible, how do you propose finding the person?”

“Good question,” I said. “We've outlined a number of lines of inquiry. We'll be interviewing the farmers' families again with this new information in mind. The killer may have a link to one or more of these farms, a reason why he—or she—targeted them specifically. Then there's method. White snakeroot isn't exactly easy to find in Pennsylvania. So we need to find out if any nurseries in the area grow it and check out their customer lists. The killer has to have access to the plant, and a considerable amount of it.”

Franklin stood up from his seat, his bulk ponderous. “I have to say I'm concerned about the direction this is going. I think this is a monumental waste of time, and a deflection of expensive
resources. The state of Pennsylvania is paying for this investigation, and, I'm sorry, Detective Harris, Detective Grady, but you haven't convinced me someone is deliberately poisoning random Amish cows.” He said the last with considerable disdain, like we were blaming little green men.

But I'd faced plenty of bullies in my life, and I wasn't intimidated. I crossed my arms and stared right back. “That's what the investigation is for, Mr. Franklin, to convince you and everyone else, including, eventually, a jury.”

Grady spoke up firmly. “We must follow this line of inquiry. I trust Detective Harris will be able to get everyone some kind of answer quickly.”

“What I want to know is, what do we tell the press?” Ms. Foderman interjected. “The governor is already concerned about the media coverage. The deaths of the Kinderman family and the Philadelphia outbreak have made this national news. Food-borne illness can cause a public panic. We have protesters outside already. If people think this could be some sort of terrorist act, it's going to be a madhouse.”

The words “terrorist act” hadn't been applied to the situation before, not even in my own mind. But Margaret Foderman was right. The press could spin it that way.

“Agreed!” Franklin barked. “If this
were
a case of deliberate poisoning, why, it could affect any farm at any time! We don't want to cause a boycott of all Pennsylvania food. Right now the scope is very limited. We need to maintain that perception.”

Limited to Amish farms is what he means,
I thought. And apparently that scope was fine with Mitch Franklin.

“Besides, what if the police are wrong?” he insisted. “We don't want to look like we have no idea what we're doing.”

“Actually, I agree,” I said. “I'd recommend that we keep this information quiet for the time being. First, because, no, we don't have unequivocal proof yet. I'd want more evidence before going public. But second, there's a better chance of catching this person—or persons—if they don't know we're looking for them.”

I exchanged a look with Grady. He nodded.

“Well. I think that's resolved for now,” Ms. Foderman said with the air of someone who fields crises on a daily basis. “Can we expect a daily update on your progress, Dr. Turner? Detective Harris?”

“Of course,” Glen said.

That's not how I should be spending my time
, I thought. But I nodded and said, “Absolutely.”

—

O
n Saturday morning, the first full official day of the police investigation, Glen and I drove out to see the Knepps. They were one of the first families to have gotten ill, according to Hannah. They'd gotten sick even before the Hershbergers. It was past time to follow up with them in person. If they
had
been an early case of tremetol poisoning, they might hold an important missing clue.

Aaron Knepp was in his sixties and lived on a small farm of about twenty acres. As we drove up, we saw a Jersey cow, her udder ripe with milk, and a single goat. They were eating side by side in the pasture. Aaron Knepp said little as he motioned for us to sit on a hanging glider on the porch and took a chair opposite. His children, he explained, were grown but lived in the area. Since his wife's death, he lived on the farm alone.

“That sickness took my wife. She had a weak heart anyhow, and being so ill . . . She passed in her sleep.” His voice was strangely devoid of emotion.

“I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr. Knepp,” I said. “Did a doctor or coroner confirm the cause of death?”

Knepp nodded. “After I found her, I walked to the neighbors, and they called the doctor. He come right out that mornin' to make out the death certificate.”

“Did he examine her?”

“Course. He made sure she was gone. Death certificate says it was her heart.”