In the Land of Milk and Honey (15 page)

Nate licked his lips, uneasy. “It's been in the news the past few days. That's what got into the milk, right? The cows eat it and it poisons the milk? I told Amber she was setting herself up for a liability selling that stuff right off the farm. She never listened to me.”

“Are you sure you never heard of white snakeroot before it was on the news recently?”

“No. Why would I? Look, if you're implying that I had something to do with the poisoned milk Amber sold, that's . . . that's ridiculous! That's total—
excuse me
—bullshit!” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound.

I stared at him for a long moment, watching him squirm. “It would help us eliminate you as a person of interest, Mr. Kruger, if you gave us permission to search your home and car. Just to verify that there's nothing that links you to this case. I also have a list of dates for which you'll need to provide a full account of your time.” I took a form with dates from my notebook and pushed it to Nate across the table.

He glanced at the form. “You're kidding. Right?”

“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.” I leaned my elbows on the table, my gaze steady.

Nate swallowed hard and pushed the form back to me. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

—

Rob Myers, Amber's intern, was the opposite of Nate Kruger. He was open and friendly, almost too friendly. He was short, about five foot five, dark-haired, and skinny. He was twenty but still had the acne of a teenager. His only attractive features were striking light blue eyes that glimmered with intelligence and a ready smile.

“This whole thing is so awful,” he said sincerely when we interviewed him at the station. “Poor Amber. She must be beside herself, what with all those people dead. Are you going to arrest her?”

Rob's face was a study in sympathy. I thought,
You were selling that milk at the farmers' market too, kid
, but I didn't say it. Was Rob nervous that he could be in trouble? I decided I didn't need to threaten him with that. Not yet, anyway.

“That Tuesday morning when you picked up the milk and produce at Levi Fisher's farm, did you notice anything unusual?”

“Like what?”

“Anything different about how Mr. Fisher was acting? Anybody on the property you didn't recognize. Footprints. Trash. Animals acting strangely. Anything at all?”

Rob
hummed
and appeared to think about it. “No. Honestly, I'm not all that with it early in the morning. We were there at, like, seven o'clock. I remember it being just like any other day.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I wish I knew how to help.”

“Amber didn't seem any different that day?”

Rob blew out a heavy breath. “Not until we were driving home. She got sick on the drive back. I offered to take her straight to the ER, but she wanted to go home. Guess maybe I should have insisted.” He looked regretful.

“And you never got ill yourself?”

Rob shook his head. “No. I drink nonfat milk, so I don't drink the stuff we get at the farms. Gotta watch the diet, you know?” He patted his stomach with a conspiratorial smile. Said stomach was nonexistent as far as I could tell and in any case was hidden under an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt.

“How did you come to work for Amber, Rob?”

“Um, I'm taking computer repair classes at a vo-tech college
in Lancaster. But I thought I might want to be a farmer someday. You know, once I've saved up some money from a computer job. My dad was a farmer. It'd be nice to be your own boss, you know? Not have to punch a clock.”

“And you met Amber how?”

“Oh. Well, anyway, if I ever do go into farming, I want to do organics. 'Cause that's where the money is, right? You can hardly make a living these days in regular farming, but people like that organic stuff, and if you sell it direct you cut out the middle man. Amber put up a job notice at the vo-tech 'cause there's a farm program there. I saw it and thought it might be good experience, just to see what it was like. And . . . yeah. It's been good. Very educational.” Rob frowned. “Do you think Amber will keep her business? I know it means a lot to her. She's very dedicated, you know?”

“You'll have to talk to Amber about that.”

“Right. Of course.”

We ran through the other farmers—the Knepps, the Hershbergers, the Kindermans. But Rob didn't know any of them. He said that all the Amish farmers he'd met were “nice” and that he “could learn a lot from them probably.” He didn't seem to harbor any emotion about them one way or the other. Or if he did, he was good at hiding it.

“Have you ever heard of a plant called white snakeroot?” I asked.

Rob tilted his head with a curious look. “No. What is it?”

“You haven't heard it mentioned on the news recently?”

Rob shrugged. “I don't watch TV much.”

I wrote that down slowly. I found it odd, considering that Rob was closely involved with the deaths in Philadelphia. Most people would have followed the news stories about it obsessively. Then again, college students could be incredibly insular. “And where do you live, Rob?”

“I live with my mom right now. My dad isn't with us anymore, and she needs the help. Plus it saves money while I'm in school.” He tapped the table restlessly, maybe embarrassed to still be living at home, despite his straightforward rationale.

“I'd like your address, please. And your cell phone number. I also have a list of dates. I'd like you to describe, to the best of your ability, everything you did on those days.” I passed Rob the form.

“Absolutely. I'd be happy to,” Rob enthused. “Anything for Amber.”

At noon on Friday, I was in the car with Glen as we drove back to Lancaster from Harrisburg. We'd given our update to Margaret Foderman, Mitch Franklin, Dirk Ellis of the DCNR, and the rest of the state officials who were interested in the raw-milk case. There'd been pressure placed on us but no more than was already there. It had only been a week since we'd opened the murder case officially, but frustration with the lack of progress was rising fast. Fortunately, the press still thought the deaths had to do with an “invasive plant” problem. It was only a matter of time, though, before the killer figured out we were looking for him.

“So . . . I hear you used to live in New York,” Glen said, breaking the silence in the car.

“I did. I lived there a little over ten years.”

“Living here must be quite a change for you. Why'd you move?”

I hesitated. I didn't feel like sharing the story of my husband's death with Glen. It was a private story and would make me more vulnerable than I cared to be with him. But not telling him, when he'd asked, felt like a denial of Terry. And that felt wrong.

“I was getting tired of the city anyway. Then my husband was killed. It was a random holdup at a convenience store. The perps shot him and two other people who were in the store at the time.”

“I'm sorry,” Glen said with quiet sincerity.

“Thank you.”

I offered nothing more, and after a moment Glen spoke again. “I understand the desire to get away. Believe me. But . . . doesn't it get boring as all hell working in a small city and living out in the country?”

I shot him a disbelieving look. “You can ask that, with this case we're on?”

Glen made a face, acknowledging my point. “But this isn't the norm, right? And I'm not just talking about work. Culture. Nightlife. A real city. Don't tell me you don't miss it.”

I looked out over the open countryside. It was scenic, especially in late spring, with the crazy neon green of new growth and the farmhouses tucked among the fields. Did I miss Manhattan? I missed things about it. I missed my favorite Indian food place, just a block from the apartment I'd shared with Terry. I missed the off-beat film festivals he'd dragged me to. I missed Central Park. I missed the lights of downtown at night. But if I
was there, I'd miss here more. And I couldn't begin to picture Ezra in Manhattan.

An image came to mind of him, beautiful and strong and grounded to the earth, working out in the pasture with the mules. Things between us were a bit rocky at the moment, but that had no impact on how I held him in my heart. And I felt . . . important to this community in a way I hadn't felt in Manhattan, like I made a difference. Maybe it was an illusion, but it was a damned nice one.

“Nope. I'm good,” I said.

“I have a few friends with the DC police. They're always looking for good officers. If you . . . I mean, if you'd have any interest in checking it out. It's a solid force. Good leadership. Excellent benefits. And DC is an exciting city.”

I looked at him curiously. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel. He was uncomfortable, probably because he was pushing in a rather obvious way.

“I appreciate the thought. But I'm not looking to make a move.”

“Well . . . if you change your mind.” Glen took his eyes off the road to give me a hopeful smile.

I thought he was going to say something more, something about how it would be nice to have me close by, maybe. His eyes said as much. I was relieved when he didn't put it into words. Words are tricky things, and you can't take them back.

We left the highway and crossed a small bridge just outside the city limits. Something caught my consciousness like a cast line. “Hang on,” I said, sitting up straighter.

“What is it?”

“Pull over!”

Glen pulled onto the grassy shoulder, and I got out of the car. I jogged back to the bridge and stared down into the stream below. Lancaster County was riddled with streams, and I had no idea what this one was called. But it was at least ten feet across and still running high from the winter snow melt and spring rains.

“What's wrong?” Glen asked, joining me at the bridge.

I pointed. My eyes hadn't been playing tricks on me. I knew immediately what it was. And my brain leaped from that recognition to the implications in the space between one terrified heartbeat and the next.

Churning through the stream were swaths of white, like liquid ghosts. It was an unnerving sight, almost apocalyptic, only instead of the rivers running with blood they were running with milk.

“What the hell?” Glen sounded more confused than horrified. He hadn't gotten it yet.

I already had my phone out and was dialing Grady.

—

T
hat morning, Ezra had made sure Elizabeth got some coffee, eggs, and toast before she headed out for a meeting in Harrisburg. Then he drove to Lancaster County Central Park to meet up with the ex-Amish group. He'd only been to one of the group's meetings, but he was looking forward to seeing them again. The park was crowded with cars, rows and rows of buggies, and large
tour buses. It took a while to find a spot and to make his way to the rendezvous point on foot.

He hadn't told Elizabeth about this. He knew she'd be angry. The raw-milk protest had been growing like spring weeds with high emotions on both sides. Elizabeth had complained about it several times—the mess it was making of downtown and the pressure it was putting on the investigation. Now the Amish were organizing their own protest, which would only add fuel to the fire. Jacob Zook had heard about it from his older brother. Samuel Zook was still Amish but talked to Jacob a little anyhow.

Jacob had brought it up at the ex-Amish group meeting on Wednesday. “I guess we have every reason not to support them. But I think . . . yeah. I want to be better than that. I want to show I can support them even if they don't support me. And everyone is welcome at this thing, English too. That's what Samuel says.”

I can support them even if they won't support me.
Those words had stuck with Ezra. He'd made the decision to come today in full knowledge that Elizabeth wouldn't like it one bit. He was willing to give a lot for her, but there were times when a man had to do what he felt was right no matter who disagreed.

There were at least two hundred people gathered at the park pavilion where the protest was being held. It was on a grassy lawn bordered by steep woods on one side and a pretty bend in a stream on the other. People were milling about the area. The group was primarily Amish, but there were dozens of English there too, standing around waiting, some holding protest signs in favor of raw milk.

Ezra recognized some of the Amish in the crowd. Their gazes lingered on him a moment before moving away. But it felt all right. He was not their concern today. The men were busy moving around large kegs on dollies from a flat-bottom wagon. And a group of Amish women stood in a circle, holding hands and praying.

Jacob Zook saw him and came over with Leah.

“Hey, Ezra. Good to see you.” He shook Ezra's hand with a smile.

“Jacob, Leah. Good to see you too.”

“We have eleven here from our group. Wanna come stand with us?”

“I'd like that.”

Jacob led the way. The Strauss brothers were there with their English wives. Ezra hadn't known any of the others in the group in his previous life, but they'd all felt like kin immediately. The younger ones had the look he thought he himself probably wore—like someone walking out onto the ice in a pair of skates for the very first time. There was a nice older woman, Mary, who was a nurse. She'd been out of the Amish community for twenty years. She'd left, she told Ezra, to get an education. She'd never taken the vows the way Ezra had, so her leaving wasn't considered as much of a sin. Her family still talked to her some. There was an older man, too, who'd left the Amish on religious grounds. Ben was now “born again.” They all greeted Ezra and he shook hands all around.

It was . . . nice. It was hopeful to have a group to stand with, like he was less of a castoff. But they were all castoffs, he
supposed. They were the in-betweens. They were no longer Amish, but they knew the life as second nature. It held no mystery or undue romance. They were not like the English in the crowd who either stared at the Amish or tried so hard not to that they stuck out like red poppies in a field.

The mood in the crowd was serious. Hardly anyone spoke as the Amish rolled large barrels over to the stream bank.

“Do you know what they're plannin'?” Ezra asked Jacob in a whisper.

“Not exactly,” Jacob replied with a wary shrug. “But I'm guessin' there's milk in those barrels.”

It was one of the Amish men who finally spoke. Ezra didn't know him, but he was likely an elder. He had a full, long white beard and a kind face. There was a sparkle in his eye and sympathy in his open nature that made him a good spokesman. He stood in front of the array of barrels, his booming voice carrying easily through the crowd. “Can I have your attention, if you please! Please, come gather round. Come on in. Don't be shy.”

He motioned with his hands, and everyone moved in. The crowd had grown since Ezra arrived, and now there was a news van too. A man with a huge camera over his shoulder moved in close to get the speech on film.

“So this here is a peaceful demonstration. Those of you who are visitors may have heard that we Amish do not believe in violence. We won't serve in the military. We won't go to war. But sometimes, it's our duty to protest in a peaceful way. And this is one of those times.”

Ezra was nudged forward as people in the back tried to get closer to hear.

“Here's how we see it: Men have been livin' on homesteads for thousands of years, raising stock and crops, and bartering with their neighbors with the fruits of their labor and the blessings the good Lord gives us. In the past fifty years, we've had to fight to keep our rights to raise food and sell food in the way we believe God means for us to live—simply and with as little intervention in the natural way of things as possible.”

There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd.

“We would never knowingly sell anything to anyone that would do them harm. We want to get to the bottom of what happened as much as anybody. Our hearts go out to the victims, and it is heartbreakin' what happened to them, to the folks in Philadelphia, to Levi Fisher's customers, Will Hershberger, and the Kinderman family. But so far, the police haven't been able to tell us anythin' that makes sense about this tragedy. They say the sickness was due to a plant the cows ate, but they haven't found the plant, not in a single place.” He paused while that sank in.

“Now, there were only three farms affected. Two of 'em didn't sell milk to anyone, but only drank their own cows' milk. Yet Amish dairymen all over Lancaster County are havin' their milk turned away by the same dairies they've supplied for years. The dairies don't want our milk, even though there's nothin' to say our milk's been affected. Two men farmin' land side by side—the English man gets his milk picked up as usual and the Amish man does not. That's thousands of gallons of good food the Lord gave
us that's goin' to waste every single day. And families that earn their livin' from the milk have nowhere to turn. So today we're here to say this cannot go on without hurtin' the entire Amish community, and in turn all good people of conscience.”

It was what Ezra had feared when he'd seen that press conference about the raw-milk ban. The dairies were now boycotting
all
Amish milk. It wasn't easy to make a living as a farmer anymore. Many Amish youths had to get jobs in construction or tourism or anywhere else they could find them. Dairy was an important chunk of what was left of traditional Amish farming. This would be devastating.

“We want to show people just what is bein' wasted. We want people to feel the waste—the heartbreak and the sin of it, and to know that the milk is perfectly safe. So we brought our milk here.” He waved to the barrels. “All of this milk was tested. The farmers, their families, and those in our community, all drank some of every single batch of this milk two days ago and never got sick. So if you want to add your voice to the protest, you're welcome to have some milk from the open barrels we'll put out. There's no obligation to do so. Please, only take some if God moves your heart. Now I'd like to offer up a prayer that He will give us wisdom in this matter, that He will open people's eyes and hearts, and bless this demonstration.”

The elder's prayer was long. Ezra figured most of the English people present were not religious, but no one made a peep. What happened afterward had the intimate air of communion.

The Amish women started to sing. They chose hymns that
would be familiar to everyone, not the German hymns they sang at church. “Amazing Grace” began soft and low and swelled as people joined in. Amish men opened up two large barrels at the front of the crowd. Amish women stood by them with dippers and a stack of plastic Dixie cups. First the Amish went up to the barrels and received cups of milk, which they drank. But soon everyone was lining up. And as the slow lines moved forward, a dozen or so Amish men began to open the rest of the barrels, one by one, and dump rich milk into the running stream.

“Amazing Grace” turned into “We Shall Overcome.” And Ezra was enveloped with a thick, sacred sense of community. It had been a long time since he'd felt that, felt the invisible webbing that bound him to other people with its sticky threads. That binding could chafe. He knew that better than anyone. But it could also be a wonderful feeling, to be part of something so much bigger than yourself—a way, a people, a place, and a time.

For a moment, he glimpsed it again and was grateful.

With a faint smile, Jacob squeezed Ezra's shoulder and moved away to get into the milk line, his hand clasping Leah's. Before anyone else in their group could move, Ezra stepped forward and followed.