Page 34 of Fallen

“Last one,” Rachael assured her.

The burn engulfed Loretta’s throat with such heat that her eyes watered. This time, it migrated down to her belly, and her head began to swim.

Taking her hand, Rachael led Loretta closer to the band and into the crowd. Around her, the music pulsed like a living, breathing thing. She could feel the beat of the drums all the way to her bones. The voices seemed louder, but not quite clear. The colors around her brighter. And she wondered why the drinking of alcohol was against the rules. How could something that made you feel so good, the world around you so beautiful, be such a bad thing?

Around them, everyone was dancing and laughing. Loretta looked left and saw an English girl wearing blue jeans with only a bra, holding a bottle of beer above her head, rubbing her pelvis against an Amish boy Loretta had gone to school with. The sight embarrassed her, and yet she couldn’t look away. The boy was so enthralled he didn’t notice her. Probably a good thing, since she wasn’t supposed to be here. The last thing she needed was someone telling her parents.

A few feet away, Rachael raised her hands over her head. Hair flying, she danced to the raucous music. Loretta thought she’d never seen her friend look so beautiful. Even one of the band members had noticed and grinned down at her from the stage as his fingers ripped across the strings of his guitar. Loretta didn’t know how to dance, but the rhythm made her feel in synch with the music. She raised her hands and threw back her head and, somehow, she knew the words to the song and she belted them out. She saw the guitarist looking down at her from the stage and she smiled back at him, and in that moment, she was beautiful and desired. There were no rules holding her back, and this dusty field with its brash vendors and rowdy occupiers was the only place she ever wanted to be.

“I never want to leave!” she cried to her friend.

Rachael Schwartz threw her head back and howled.

CHAPTER 16

I’m no stranger to the intricacies of a homicide investigation. Knowing the relationships of the victim, past and present, is one of the most important factors to establish. There’s no doubt in my mind that Rachael Schwartz likely knew her killer. Yet when I spoke with her parents, they claimed no knowledge of discord in her life. Not because none existed, I’m sure, but because they weren’t close to her. Both Loretta Bontrager and Andy Matson indicated Rachael did, indeed, contend with a fair amount of conflict. She shared a tumultuous relationship with her lover, Jared Moskowski. According to Loretta, she may have had other lovers we’ve not yet identified. She’d been shunned by the Amish. While I’ve heard rumors, I don’t know exactly why. Was it due to something specific she’d done? Or the end result of years of breaking the rules? Then, of course, there is the issue of the tell-all book. No one appreciates having their dirty laundry aired for everyone to see. How much friction was there between Rachael and the Killbuck clan?

It’s late morning when I pull into the gravel two-track of Bishop David Troyer’s lane. As I drive around to the back of the house, I notice the bishop’s horse is hitched to the buggy, telling me he or his wife is probably getting ready to leave. I park adjacent to a beat-up shed and take the sidewalk to the back door.

Through the window, I see the bishop in the mudroom, looking at me through the glass. He’s using a walker these days. And while he seems a tad smaller in stature, his belly not quite so round, he is not diminished. His presence and those all-seeing eyes invariably make me feel like I’m fourteen years old again, and put before him for breaking some rule. I was terrified of him during my formative years. Strange as it sounds—though I’m a grown woman and a cop—a smidgen of that old fear still exists.

I push open the door and lean in. “Guder mariye,” I tell him. Good morning.

I’ve known David Troyer the entirety of my life, and he looks much the same as he did when I was a kid. A head of thick gray hair generously streaked with black, blunt cut above heavy brows. A salt-and-pepper beard that reaches nearly to his waist. As usual, he’s dressed in black, but for the white shirt beneath the jacket and suspenders.

“Katie Burkholder,” he says in a wet-gravel voice. No smile. Just those astute eyes digging into mine. “You are here about Rachael Schwartz?”

I nod. “Do you have a few minutes, Bishop?”

“Kumma inseid.” Come inside. He turns and starts toward the interior of the house.

I follow him through the mudroom and into the kitchen. I wait while he maneuvers the walker to one of four chairs and settles into it. His wife, Freda, stands at the sink, washing dishes. She looks at me over her shoulder and nods a greeting that isn’t quite friendly. I do the same.

“I was on my way to see Dan and Rhoda,” he tells me. “This is a dark time for them.”

“I won’t keep you.” I take the chair across from him. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to her, Bishop. I’m wondering if you have any insights into her life. Her relationships. If she was dealing with any problems. If she had any ongoing disputes or conflicts.”

His eyes settle on mine, large and rheumy behind the thick lenses of his glasses. While the years may have taken a swipe at his physical body, his intellect remains sharp, his spirituality intense.

“You know I’ve not seen her in years,” he says.

“You knew her as a child,” I say. “Growing up.” I pause, hold his gaze. “You know her parents. The Amish community as a whole.”

“You knew her, too, no?”

“When she was a kid.”

“Then even you know her life was filled with conflict.”

He makes the statement as if it’s somehow a miracle I’ve figured out anything about anyone, a reference no doubt to my Englishness. I absorb the jab without reacting, keep moving. “I’m looking for details,” I tell him. “Names. Circumstances.”

“She disobeyed her parents at a very young age. Not once, but many times. They brought her to me dozens of times. This girl child. So full of life and with eyes for all the wrong things.” The old man shrugs. “Usually a good talking-to does the trick, you know.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Not so for this girl. I spoke with the Diener,” he says, referring to the other elected officials, the deacon and two preachers. “We did what we could. We stressed the importance of the Ordnung.” The unwritten rules of the church district. “We reinforced the importance of demut, the Christian faith, the worth of separation, and the old ways.” Demut is Deitsch for “humility,” a cornerstone of the Amish mindset. “Katie, young Rachael harricht gut, awwer er foligt schlecht.” Heard well, but obeyed poorly. “Dan and Rhoda did their best to teach her Gelassenheit.”

The word holds myriad meanings for the Amish. Suffering. Tranquility. Surrender. He shrugs. “Even so, there was trouble. Drinking. Gallivanting around. Lying about it. Dan came to me, asked that she be baptized early. He thought it might help. She was only seventeen. I went to the Diener. They agreed.”

I’d heard Rachael had been baptized early, without much of an opportunity to sow a few wild oats. I’d wondered why her rumspringa had been cut short. Now I know.

“They thought it would fix her. We thought it was worth a try. And so the summer before she was to be baptized, the ministers took her through die gemee nooch geh.”