I follow the woman up the stairs. At the top we go through a door and into a good-size room that had once been a hayloft. A small table and two chairs are set against the wall to my right. I see a bed in the corner. A large-screen TV. A space heater. A set of drawers. Farther, another door where I can just make out the white porcelain of a sink.
There’s no lock on the door. “Are we safe here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “The men will come soon,” she replies, not getting too close, watching me cautiously.
“I need to lock the door. Keep them out. How do you lock it?”
“I’m not allowed.”
Edgy with adrenaline, I stride to the table, pull out the chair, and wedge it beneath the doorknob. If someone tries to get in, it won’t keep them out. But it will buy me some time.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Alina,” she tells me. “Marchenko.”
I indicate the room and all of its contents. “What is this place?” I ask. “What’s going on here?”
“They brought me here. This is where I live.” She looks me up and down, taking in my Amish dress. “You are new?”
I have no idea what means by that. I go to the door and listen. No one there. Yet.
She follows me. “You are police?”
“No.” I try to tone down some of the intensity in my voice. It’s not easy because I’m scared. I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes up those steps.
The woman stares at the .22 in my hand. It’s scaring her, I realize; she looks like she’s about to bolt, so I lift my skirt and holster it. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
She nods.
“I need you to tell me what’s going on here.” I motion toward the door. “We don’t have much time.”
She nods. “This is where they keep us when we first come in from Canada.”
I can tell from her accent this woman isn’t Canadian. “Where are you from?”
“Odessa.”
“Odessa?”
“Ukraine. I’m … looking for a job. To start a new life. I have visa.” But her eyes flick down and to the right. She’s lying. At the moment, it doesn’t matter.
“Are you being held here against your will?” I ask.
“No, I just have to … you know, pay before I can go.” She shrugs. “If they find husband for me, that would be good because then he pay.”
“Who brought you here?”
“Ivan.”
“What’s his last name?”
“All I know is that he’s American and promised us he would take care of our papers. I meet him in Donetsk last year when the tanks rolled through. Everyone was afraid and he was promising some of the women new lives in Canada and the U.S. Wealthy husbands. Jobs. We got on the marriage list. A few weeks later they put me on the boat. Gave me the papers. Sofiya was supposed to be on the next boat, but she never came.”
I stare at her, trying to get my head around this new direction in the case. Her story raises more questions than it answers. I don’t know what to make of it; I’m not even sure I believe her. But if she’s telling the truth—if women are being smuggled into the U.S. from eastern Europe and “married off” for money—the situation is more explosive than anyone imagined.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Six weeks.”
“How many of you are here?”
“Five at first. But then two left.” She shrugs. “Husbands or jobs. I don’t know.”
“They were staying in the rooms downstairs?” I ask.
“I think they’re waiting for their papers.”
“Who else is involved? What are their names?”
“Jacob and Jonas.” She looks down at her hands. “They come here, to my room sometimes.”
“Who else?”
“The elder. I don’t know his name, but we call him Dido.” Her mouth twists into a parody of a smile. “It means grandfather in Ukrainian.”
I wonder if she’s talking about Eli Schrock. She’s young enough to think of him as an elder.…
Turning away, I pull out my cell and call Suggs. I’m at the door, listening for footsteps when he picks up.
“Eli Schrock, Jacob Yoder, and Jonas Smucker are smuggling people into the U.S. and Canada,” I say without preamble.
“What? Smuggling? Are you—”
“I’m at the old barn a mile or so from Schrock’s place. The deputy isn’t here yet. Dan, you need to get out here. I need help.”
“I’m at Schrock’s house now. No one’s answering the door. You okay?”
“For now.” I’m vaguely aware of the woman trying to get my attention. I hold up a finger, letting her know I need to finish my call. “Yoder and Smucker and another unidentified male are downstairs. I don’t know if they’re armed. If they find me here … I’m outnumbered.”
“Shit. Look, just … hang tight. Stay out of sight. Keep yourself safe. I’ll get someone over there pronto.”
“Roger that.”
I drop the phone into my coat pocket. When I turn back to the woman she raises her hands and backs away. “Nemaye politsiyi. Nemaye politsiyi!”
“Calm down and be quiet.” I snap the words as I go to the door, press my ear against it and listen for footsteps.
She follows me to the door. “The police are bad. They already know about us.”
“The police aren’t bad here—”
“Yes! He comes here, to my room, all the time!”
I turn to her, a chill scraping up my spine. “What? Which police?”
“The big man with red hair. He knows,” she whispers. “He looks the other way.”
Sheriff Dan Suggs is a large man with red hair. My intellect, my sense of loyalty, rejects the idea. Dan Suggs has been the consummate professional; he’s been helpful and accommodating, even protective. I don’t know how reliable this woman is; I don’t know if she’s victim or perpetrator or somewhere in between.
“He comes to my room,” she hisses. “He tells me safe passage isn’t free. That I have to pay. Believe me, he makes me pay.”
I stare at her, my heart pounding. Doubt is a punch between the eyes. Is it possible Suggs is involved? But if that’s the case, why in the name of God would he let the investigation go so far?
Using my cell, I go to the Franklin County Sheriff’s department website and pull up a photo of Sheriff Dan Suggs. “Is this him?”
She narrows her eyes, nods. “That’s him.”
If she’s telling the truth, backup isn’t coming. There is no deputy parked nearby. I’m on my own. If the men downstairs don’t already know I’m here, they will soon …
I hit the speed dial for Betancourt. He growls his last name. Sleeping. I don’t bother identifying myself. “I need backup. I’m at Schrock’s place. I need the state police. Expedite.”
“What’s going on? Where’s Suggs? Burkholder, he can get a deputy out there faster than—”
“Suggs is involved,” I say. “Whatever’s going on here in Roaring Springs, he’s part of it.”
“What?” he says crossly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Eli Schrock, Jonas Smucker, and Jacob Yoder are smuggling people through Canada into the U.S.”
“Human smuggling? For God’s sake, how do you know that? When did this come about?”
“Just now. I have a witness.”
The woman is standing a few feet away, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. I lower my voice. “She identified Suggs. There are people being held here, locked in rooms. Get someone out here now.”
“All right. I’m on it. You’re at Schrock’s place?”
“An old barn a mile north of the house. Hurry.”
He curses exorbitantly. “Where’s Suggs?”
“I don’t know. But he knows I’m here.”
“I’ll get him on the horn. Stay away from him until we get this straightened out.”
I start to respond but he hangs up.
Dropping my phone in my pocket, I look around for some way to secure the door. “Do you have any nails? Tools? Something we can use to jam the door?”
She rushes to the table beside her bed and comes back with a small package of half-inch brads, offers it to me.
“Too small.” I cross to the bed. It’s a full size. Heavy, but not so much that we can’t shove it against the door. It won’t keep anyone out, but it’ll slow them down.
“Help me move it,” I say to the woman.
We’re sliding the bed across the floor when a woman’s scream rends the air.
We stop and look at each other. “Who is that?” I ask.
“They brought her yesterday. The plain girl. They always … you know. The new ones.”
I go to the door, press my ear against it, listen. No sound of anyone approaching. No voices. I crack open the door and peer out. The stairwell is empty. I hear voices downstairs. Male laughter. The unknown female crying.
I turn my attention to the woman. “He’s assaulting her?”
She nods. “They won’t hurt her. She’s money to them.”
Another scream sounds. A hysterical outpouring of outrage, a visceral sound of pain. Her cries are met with ridicule.
It would be foolhardy for me to intervene. I’m outnumbered three to one—four to one if I include Suggs in the equation. I don’t know if the men are armed. I have no idea where Suggs is or how long it will be before real backup arrives. All of that said, there’s no way in hell I can do nothing while a vicious crime takes place scant feet away.
I turn to Alina. “I want you to drag the bed over here and shove it against the door. Do you understand?”
She looks alarmed. “You can’t go down there. They’ll—”
“No, they won’t.” I step onto the landing, then look back at the woman. “Don’t let anyone in. The good police are on the way.”
* * *
Lifting my skirt, I unholster the .22 and start down the stairs. I wish for my .38. Not only does it have six shots, as opposed to five, it’s got a lot more stopping power.
At the base of the stairs, I peer around the corner into the main area. The barn door stands open, undisturbed. No movement. The same as I left it. I can hear the woman wailing over the blare of the music. One of the men is taunting her. I know better than to let that get inside my head or let my emotions get involved. But I know what that kind of violence does to a person, and I make an effort to dial it back.
I step into the hall and go right. Straight ahead, the door is still ajar. Pressing my back to the wall, I edge toward it, ducking at each window I pass in case someone’s locked inside and they start making noise. I reach the door. Using my fingers, I push it open a few inches and look inside.
Straight ahead I see a folding table. Playing cards, a bag of chips, and several beer bottles sit on top. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall to my right. A pornographic movie plays on the screen in vivid color. Music blares from a sleek sound system stacked on a shelf unit. A newish sofa, end table, and lamp. Clothes strewn on the floor. There are no weapons in sight.
I look left. I see a man on a bed. His back is bare, his lower half covered by a blanket. I can only see the side of his face. Black hair. Scruffy beard. The woman lies motionless beneath him. Bloodied lip. Misery on her face.
A door near the bed swings open. I slink back, but not before I see Jacob Yoder emerge from what looks like a bathroom. No need for me to be worried he’ll see me; his attention is riveted on the man and woman in the bed. He’s wearing trousers, unfastened and unzipped. No shirt. Wiry arms. Skinny white chest. His face is flushed.
There’s no sign of Smucker. I take a step back, trying to figure out how best to handle this when I hear a minute sound behind me. I spin to see Smucker coming down the aisle. His eyes meet mine and go wide. His mouth opens. For an instant, time stands still.
His gaze flicks to the pistol at my side. “What the fuck?”
I bring up the .22, aim center mass. “I’m a cop,” I hiss. “Get your fucking hands up. Face the wall. Now.” I say all of it quietly enough so the other two men can’t hear.
I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not armed. It sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. I don’t like the close quarters of the hall. I’m ever aware that two more men are scant feet away on the other side of the door.
“Cop?” But he raises his hands. “Shit. Okay. Whatever you say.”
“Put your hands against the wall. Your face, too. Do it now.”
Watching me, moving slowly, he obeys. “What the hell is this?”
“Shut up.” Keeping as much distance between us as possible, the .22 trained on his back, I sidle past him.
I walk backward toward the open area. Smucker watches me, his cheek pressed against the wall. I wonder if Betancourt got to Suggs, if the state police are en route. I sense movement behind me. I swing around, catch a glimpse of Suggs an instant before his fist slams into my face. Pain explodes in my nose. The force of the blow buckles my knees, sends me reeling backward. As I go down, I see intent in his eyes. The blue steel of a revolver in his hand and I think: You fucked up, Burkholder.
An instant before I hit the floor, something slams into my head from behind. Stars fly in my peripheral vision. I look up, see Smucker bending toward me, teeth clenched, arms reaching. I bring up the .22 and fire blind.
Smucker screams and staggers backward. Red blooms on his coat sleeve. He looks down at the tear, goose down sticking out, blood soaked. He grasps his arm with is uninjured hand. “You shot me, you bitch!”
“Get that fucking gun!” Suggs kicks my wrist, but I don’t drop the .22.
The door bangs against the wall. I glance up to see Yoder rush out, a rifle in his hands. Eyes locked on me. Mouth twisted into a snarl. “What’s going on?” he shouts.
I shift the pistol, fire at him. My shot goes wide, takes a chunk of wood out of the door. Suggs comes down on top of me like a truckload of bricks. The crushing force of his weight smacks the breath from my lungs. Grasping my wrist, he slams my hand against the floor. Pain zings up my arm. I lose my grip on the .22. It skitters across the floor and strikes the wall.
I’m thrashing, trying to wriggle out from beneath Suggs when Smucker draws back and drives a steel-toed boot into my ribs. White-hot pain streaks across my rib cage and lights up my spine. An undignified sound rips from my throat. I throw a single ineffective punch. A second kick lands in my temple. My head is knocked violently sideways. Stars scatter and my vision dims. For several seconds, I lay there, dazed and gasping. I’m aware of Suggs rising. The men speaking words my brain can’t quite process.
I see Jacob Yoder looking down at me, his eyes alight with satisfaction, and then the world fades to black.