Page 40 of Fallen

The story Jacob told me about Rachael Schwartz follows me as I head south on Highway 62 toward Killbuck. I recall the passage in the book she wrote that’s chillingly similar to the one Jacob just relayed. In the book, the man, whose name was not mentioned, refused to take no for an answer. He raped her in the back seat of his buggy and then threw her to the asphalt and left her. When she went to the bishop, he blamed her. None of the other Amish believed her because she was fallen. In the end, she was excommunicated.

Was that extract an embellishment of what occurred between her and Jacob? Or was there another incident in which she was sexually assaulted and no one believed her?

I’m not sure what to think. What to believe. About Rachael. Her motives. By sheer virtue that Jacob is my brother, I am biased. That said, as a cop—as a woman—I know there is no greater insult for a victim of sexual assault than to not be believed, to be dismissed or disparaged. But I know my brother. He’s a straight shooter. He follows the rules, not because he has to, but because he subscribes to basic Amish tenets. I always believed that’s one of the reasons he had such a difficult time dealing with what I did that summer.

The vast majority of Amish men are well behaved when it comes to their female counterparts. They’re aware of appearances, particularly if they’re married. That said, I’m not blind to the reality that Amish men are as mortal as their English counterparts. They step over the line. They behave badly. Sometimes they break the law. Am I too close—not only to my brother, but to the young Rachael Schwartz I’d once known—to see the truth?

It’s afternoon when I enter the corporation limit of Killbuck. Amos Gingerich’s settlement is located west of town on a county road that’s riddled with potholes. The vegetation is lush and overgrown in this low-lying area. Massive trees crowd the shoulders of the road, the branches scraping the doors and roof of the Explorer.

Tomasetti made good on his promise to forward images of the letters Amos Gingerich sent Rachael Schwartz. His takeaway is spot-on. While the letters aren’t overtly threatening, it’s clear Gingerich wasn’t happy with her. The question in my mind now is: Did he act on all the anger simmering between the lines?

Generally speaking, the Amish are pacifists and live by the canon of nonresistance. When under threat, they will not defend themselves or their property. If they have an unresolvable problem with a neighbor or town, they’ve been known to simply move away. In times of war, they are conscientious objectors and refuse to bear arms. I know the Amish charter by heart; I was raised with it and lived by it through my formative years. I may not agree with every aspect, but I am certain of one thing: The Amish are a good and decent society. They’re hardworking, family oriented, religious, and they are good neighbors.

Amos Gingerich may have Anabaptist leanings, but I know enough about him to know he isn’t Amish, and I would be wise to use extreme caution when dealing with him, especially since I opted to come alone.

Half a mile in, a wall of trees rises out of the ground and the road dead-ends. I bring the Explorer to a stop and sit there a moment, puzzled.

“Well, shit.”

I’m in the process of turning around when I spot the narrow opening between two walnut trees that’s shrouded with a tangle of wild raspberry bushes. The derelict remains of a mailbox slant up through hip-high bramble at a precarious angle. The number matches the address I have on file.

I pick up my police-radio mike. “I’m ten-twenty-three.”

“Ten-four,” comes Lois’s voice. “Be careful down there, Chief.”

“That’s affirm.”

I rack the mike and start down the lane, cringing when the branches scratch at the paint on my doors. The Explorer bumps over potholes and puddles, mud and gravel slinging into the wheel wells. I’ve traveled another half mile, wondering if I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere, when the trees fall away. The lane widens and I drive into a large clearing. A dozen or so small, clapboard buildings, the kind used for construction-site offices, form a half circle. The units are closely grouped, each with wood stairs and a porch adorned with a potted plant or lawn chair. To my left, I see a large swatch of what looks like a community garden, where two women wearing ankle-length dresses and winter bonnets hoe the soil between rows of tiny spring corn, caged tomato plants, and other, indistinguishable greens. Beyond, an old bank barn that was here long before the other structures lends a sense of character the rest of the place lacks. A couple of draft horses graze in a small pasture. In another pen, several pygmy goats stand on giant wooden spools, bleating. A black buggy—oddly adorned with an orange roof—is parked outside the barn. I take in the scene with the sense that it has been staged.

I idle across the clearing to a hitching post in front of the nearest residence and shut down the engine. The two women don’t look up from their work as I get out of the Explorer, but I feel eyes on me as I make my way up the steps and cross to the door. I’ve barely knocked when the door cracks open several inches. I find myself looking at a woman, barely into her twenties. She’s hugely pregnant and wearing a longish print dress, and a head covering that’s neither Amish nor Mennonite.

Her eyes widen at the sight of my uniform. “Can I help you?” she asks.

I show her my badge. “I’m looking for Amos Gingerich,” I tell her.

She blinks, her eyes darting left. “Amos?”

It’s a dumb response. One designed to delay. She’s not quick enough to think of a viable stall off the top of her head, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Amos Gingerich,” I tell her. “I need to speak with him. Right now. Where is he?”

She visibly swallows, then raises her hand and points toward the old bank barn. Before I can say anything else, she shrinks back inside and closes the door.

“That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” I mutter as I trot down the steps.

I reach the open area where my Explorer is parked and keep going at a brisk clip toward the barn. To my left lies the garden. It’s a large chunk of land, an acre or so. The two women have stopped what they’re doing. They lean on their hoes, watching me. I raise my hand to wave, but they don’t return the gesture. I can’t help but notice both women are pregnant.

The barn door stands open. I enter; the smells of cattle, horses, and freshly sawn wood lace the air. A few yards away, a man is bent over a table, working on something unseen. He’s broad shouldered and dressed in black. A ponytail dangles to midback. I stand there a moment, taking his measure. He’s well over six feet, two-fifty, with a muscular build. The flat-brimmed straw hat speaks of Amish leanings. The ponytail curtails any such misconception.

I’m about to announce my presence when he turns. Whether he heard my approach or merely sensed my presence, I can’t tell, but when his eyes land on mine he’s not surprised by me or the sight of my uniform.

He’s got a thin, expressive mouth. A hook nose. Salt-and-pepper beard that reaches nearly to the waistband of his trousers. If he were Amish, the beard would tell me he’s married and has been for some time. With this group, I’m not so sure. Pale eyes the color of an overcast sky. Amos Gingerich. I recognize him from the photos in Rachael’s book.

“Ah, the police.” Good-naturedly, he presses his hand to his chest. “Am I in trouble?”

Something about him I can’t quite pinpoint unsettles me in spite of his friendly tone. His accent tells me he’s not originally from this area. That Deitsch is likely not his first language.

“That depends.” I approach him, tug my badge from my pocket, and introduce myself. “Amos Gingerich?”