The Pact: A Detective Locklear Mystery Read online

  Bonnie placed the money in her apron pocket. “It’s a small single-storey about two miles out of town. Red tin roof – green door.”

  Locklear pushed forward, placed his crutches on the ground and stood.

  “You have a lovely day, honey,” she said as he inched past her with Mendoza on his heels.

  “Honey?” Mendoza teased as she helped her boss into the car.

  It was not hard to find Eric Stoll’s green-doored house in the sparsely populated outskirts of the village. Stoll had picked a good place to rent. Right next door was a police station – a one-manned outpost with a large hound stationed outside on a long chain.

  “Smart,” Mendoza mused as they parked the car far enough away from the dog for safety.

  A plain black bicycle lay flat on the ground at the front door and a long line of crisp linen sheets blew in the light breeze at the side of the house. Mendoza knocked and waited until a woman answered.

  Rebecca Stoll epitomised the kind of woman Locklear had expected to find living in the town of Dayton. She wore a long, plain grey dress and a white lace bonnet covered her fair hair. The woman wore no make-up or jewellery save a narrow silver wedding ring on her left hand.

  Locklear was immediately taken by her smile and the radiance that oozed off her. He expected her to speak, to enquire what their business was but the beautiful woman simply stood and waited for them to do the talking.

  Mendoza quickly and very briefly flashed her badge and, aware that their presence might cause the woman difficulties, asked to speak with her husband. Locklear stood back and let Mendoza take the lead and watched the light in the woman’s face slowly dim. She stepped outside and closed the door tightly behind her.

  “Come this way,” she said as she directed Locklear and Mendoza around the back of the house.

  Locklear walked beside the two women and watched Mendoza push her jacket back and place her hand on her gun which was placed in a shoulder strap. His trooper was always ready for conflict even when he himself could see no cause for alarm. He glared at Mendoza until the trooper moved her hand into her pocket.

  Around the back of the house Locklear waited in the background and watched Eric Stoll, dressed in a plain black trousers and a white, collarless shirt, mending a broken bicycle. They listened as Rebecca Stoll nervously told her husband of the English strangers who had come to ask him questions about a life he had chosen to forget. They could not understand the language but it was clear to Locklear that Eric Stoll was refusing to speak with them. Locklear moved forward, inching his way painfully on the uneven terrain.

  Eric Stoll stood up to his full height and placed his black hat firmly on his head. He did not move.

  “Andrew Fehr is lucky to be alive and we believe your grandfather is involved,” Locklear said.

  The couple looked at each other and then returned their gaze to Locklear. Eric spoke but not to Locklear. He stared at his wife and the couple seemed to be arguing. Locklear watched to determine which of the couple was on his side. Rebecca Stoll, he decided, was trying to encourage her husband to tell the visiting police what he knew. Locklear wished it was the other way around. Eric Stoll wasn’t budging.

  “Please, husband,” Rebecca Stoll said in English. “Please tell him and maybe someday we can go home.”

  Eric Stoll threw down his spanner and moved towards Locklear from whom his gaze never wavered. As he neared, Locklear realised how big the man was. He stood a good four inches taller than Locklear and was a good deal younger and stronger. However, Locklear had no intention of fighting him so the man’s size was of no consequence to him.

  “Come,” the giant said when he reached Locklear.

  They entered the house through a back door. Two teenage girls were busy preparing lunch in the kitchen. Stoll glanced at them and they disappeared down the corridor without a word.

  Stoll directed the visitors to sit. Rebecca Stoll took glasses from a cupboard and poured cold lemonade for the visitors. Locklear watched as her small hands shook around the large pitcher. Her husband reached forward and wrapped his huge hands around hers to steady her grasp. Something about the scene roused feelings in Mendoza – feelings of loss – the awareness that in front of her was something she wanted but had never found. Love.

  When all the glasses were filled, Rebecca Stoll took the seat beside her husband but kept her eyes firmly fixed on the table top. Eric Stoll placed his hat down in front of him and stared at Locklear. He did not look at Mendoza who sat beside her boss, directly across from Rebecca. Locklear took in the kindly visage of the Mennonite, his sandy-coloured hair and his eyes, the same eyes as the Fehrs and as Bethany Stoll.

  “You have the same eyes as your sister,” Locklear said.

  “My sister is lost,” Stoll replied in a quiet, Low German accent.

  “I saw her recently in Harrisonburg,” Locklear offered.

  Mendoza touched her boss’s arm, knowing that that was not what the softly spoken man meant.

  “She is lost to God,” Stoll explained.

  Locklear nodded. He looked around the simple room and wondered where he’d begin.

  “Can I ask why you left Dayton?”

  Rebecca Stoll moved her hands to her husband’s and held them. He searched her face and she smiled at him. Mendoza felt her heart lurch.

  “We could not live in peace there anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Stoll stalled and took a deep intake of breath. “How did you find us?” he asked.

  “Tax returns,” Mendoza replied.

  “Ah, the English world,” Stoll replied, his voice almost a whisper.

  “You could have changed your name,” Mendoza replied.

  “We are honest people.”

  “I understand ... but if we could find you, then so can others,” Mendoza said.

  “But if your family wanted to harm you, they would have done so by now,” Locklear added, hoping to reassure the gentle couple. He glanced at Mendoza, hoping she understood his point. He needed the Stolls and reminding them of how much danger they could be in wasn’t conducive to getting them to talk.

  “My sister and I – our parents died when we were young,” Stoll said. “I was almost fourteen but Beth was only nine. Uncle Jacob took us to live with him and his wife but we were not happy. He lived a different life to the one our parents lived.”

  Locklear waited for Stoll to continue. He could see the retelling of his story was painful for the gentle man.

  “When I was eighteen I returned to the farm and began to manage it on my own. Beth was too young so she remained with our uncle and aunt. They had no children. Their son died in infancy. Now …” Stoll fixed his eyes on his large, work hardened hands, “now I wish I had taken her with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Uncle Jacob poisoned her heart and her mind, sent her to college to learn things a woman did not need to know, things she did not need to be exposed to.”

  Mendoza stiffened and Locklear touched her leg with his, hoping she would understand that now was not the time to express her feminist opinions.

  Stoll focused his eyes on Mendoza. “In our faith men and women are equal. But we avoid all things that darken the heart and the mind – men and women alike.” He paused. “When I refused to be part of his life, uncle and grandfather refused to buy milk from my farm. I just wanted a simple life. I wanted to farm, go to church, love my family and honour God. This is the life I wanted but they would not let me have it, they would not leave me in peace. I was already married and had a family to care for. I sold the cattle and made furniture but my workshop was burnt to the ground. I walked to Harrisonburg to work on other farms and my windows were broken with my wife and daughters inside. We had no choice. We had to leave. My wife had to leave her sister and I had already lost mine.”

  “But you moved to a place that does not have a Mennonite church or pastor?”

  Rebecca Stoll’s eyes filled with tears. “We could not risk being found.”
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  “Do you know why your grandfather has a grudge against the Fehrs?”

  “Because they shamed his family,” Stoll replied.

  “It happened a long time ago and it wasn’t them – it was their ancestors,” Locklear replied.

  Stoll remained quiet for a moment. “Many generations past, my ancestor Eli Shank cursed the Fehrs. They had shamed him. They wronged him but he had no forgiveness in his heart. He cursed them and said their land would never bear fruit and would dry out.”

  “Do you believe that is possible?” Mendoza asked.

  “It was true. Their soil turned to sand and the grass does not grow. It is worthless.”

  “Do you know what it is that your grandfather thinks they have buried on their farm?”

  Eric Stoll pushed his fair eyebrows downwards. Deep long lines appeared above his nose and narrowed his eyelids around his extraordinary pupils.

  “I do not know.”

  Locklear believed him.

  “Luke Fehr is not a godly man,” Stoll replied.

  Rebecca turned to face him. “Husband, he is a burdened man.”

  Stoll lowered his eyes and nodded. “Forgive me.”

  Mendoza tapped on the table, anxious to ask any questions that might move the case forward.

  “How close were you to Sara Fehr?”

  “The family were shunned so we were not permitted to be in the Fehrs’ company,” Stoll replied.

  Mendoza expelled her breath through her nostrils. “And the same with the Wyss family?”

  Rebecca nodded. There was a look of guilt on her face. “Helena Wyss is a kind and godly woman. We feel her loss.”

  “And now you are in the same boat,” Mendoza said. “But you didn’t feel the same about the Fehrs?”

  Stoll shifted uneasily on his seat. “I have told you – Luke Fehr is not a man of God.”

  “Did you know that Eli Shank fought in the Civil War?”

  Rebecca Stoll turned swiftly and stared questioningly at her husband.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I made a promise to my uncle never to repeat this.”

  Rebecca Stoll squeezed her husband’s hands.

  “Eli was not a good man even before he witnessed cruelty in battle. It was my mother who told me this but, to Uncle Jacob and my grandfather, Eli was wronged by the Fehrs. When he returned from war, his heart had darkened even more. He had lost something given to him by his mother and was not permitted to return to the family until it was returned.”

  “Do you know exactly what it was?”

  “I only know that it was something my ancestors brought with them to this country when they fled persecution from their homeland. An heirloom. I was never told what it was. I was ... out of favour with my grandfather when it was time for me to know.”

  “Out of favour?” Locklear asked.

  “Not trusted,” Stoll replied.

  “What happened when Eli returned to Dayton?”

  “He was shunned by his father and was not permitted contact with his family until the heirloom was returned.”

  “But he didn’t know where it was?” Locklear interjected.

  “He said it was stolen from him and that the Fehrs assisted the thief.”

  “I don’t think that’s quite what happened,” Mendoza offered.

  Stoll did not argue. “I am simply telling you what I was told. Eli’s father was an old man and he was very sick. He had many daughters and his two sons were born last when he was already an old man. Eli did not return the item and lived alone in the woods. My mother said he had poor thoughts. Eli found out that his father was planning to put his younger brother forward as pastor.”

  “What did Eli do?”

  Stoll looked at his wife and then lowered his eyes to the ground. Locklear noticed how guilty the man now looked, as though the sins of his ancestors were also his.

  “The old man died suddenly and ... Eli’s younger brother was found hanging from a tree in the woods.”

  “You think …?” Locklear began.

  Stoll’s eyes met the sergeant’s. “I cannot bear false witness against a man when I do not know the truth but Eli told the community that the Fehrs had killed his brother.”

  “Do you believe that?” Mendoza asked.

  Stoll returned his eyes to the table top. “No.”

  “And his mother welcomed him back?”

  “Yes. He became pastor immediately even though ...”

  “Yes?”

  “In my heart I believe Eli Shank had blood on his hands and not just the blood of those he met in battle.”

  “Yet you hold a grudge against the Fehrs?” Locklear said. “Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I don’t know what happened back then, Sergeant Locklear, but if the Fehrs had helped my ancestor, if they’d stopped him from being robbed, history would have been different for generations of Shanks and Fehrs. We would have had peace.”

  As they drove the car out of the Stoll driveway, Locklear waited on Mendoza’s appraisal. With Eric Stoll out of the picture, his childless uncle was reliant on Beth to continue on with the evil empire and it looked like the woman was shaping up to do the job well.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Eric Stoll is a good man. He’s telling the truth about not knowing exactly what the feud is about. His heart is broken about his sister. He misses home, they both do – and, like me, he doesn’t trust Luke Fehr.”

  “You’re right about everything, Mendoza, except one thing – Luke Fehr is not a bad person. He’s simply trying to survive in a place that you either submit to or leave and he’s applying his own brand of justice that these gentle people just don’t understand.”

  “OK, sarge, but when I’m proved right you owe me a beer,” she said as she rocked the car back down the narrow road towards the highway.

  “It’s a deal. Now, take it goddamn easy on the road.”

  As they merged with the highway, Locklear’s tension eased and he removed his hands from the roof of the speeding car.

  “Where to now?” he asked.

  “Christiansburg. It’s about an hour further south.”

  “OK, shoot.” Locklear pushed the seat back into a semi-supine position and closed his eyes to block out the sun.

  “You sure you’re comfortable?”

  Locklear grunted in response.

  “OK – next are the Yoders. They’re a retired sister and brother, neither married. No kids. No jobs.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “Well, I figured that at one point they were farming here so I checked property registration records. The Yoders sold a very valuable farm halfway between Dayton and Harrisonburg to Jacob Shank around the same time that he and his sister left the area. Now get this – they sold the fifty-acre farm for $120,000. I checked local prices and it was worth twice that much.”

  “Good work. Got a contact number?”

  “I only have a building and street name. No number. I tried to Google it – oh, for you older people that means search for it online.”

  “Very funny.”

  Mendoza drove steadily down the highway, her mind focused on the affection and intimacy she had witnessed passing between the Stolls. When her divorce came through, she thought that her son and her job would be enough to fill her life but there was an emptiness that neither her child nor her career could fill.

  “You ever get lonely, Locklear?” she asked but her question was answered only by quiet snores rising from the seat beside her.

  Chapter 19

  “It’s a nursing home,” Mendoza said as she stood on the pavement outside Mercy Building.

  Locklear stood back and ran his eyes as far as the long, grey building would allow.

  “It’s a dump.”

  When the pair entered the reception area, they were met with the smell of urine and boiled cabbage.

  “Jesus!” Locklear exclaimed.

  When a tall, stern woman approached them, Locklear took out
his badge and asked to speak with the Yoders.

  The woman, who introduced herself as Joseph, seemed surprised to hear the name.

  “They’re not here.”

  “Well, where are they, Joseph?” Locklear asked, accentuating the name which he thought was ridiculous.

  “Well, that was years ago. They never arrived.”

  Locklear blew out and took a seat beside an old man who was laughing into thin air. He took off his shoe and stretched his painful foot. He had abandoned the crutches, probably too soon.

  “You’d better come into my office.” She led them to the door and, ushering them in, said, “I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “Do you think this a Mennonite nursing home?” Locklear asked Mendoza as they waited in the office for the woman to join them. Mendoza snorted and pointed to a large statue of St. Joseph in front of the stained-glass window above them.

  “You’re an idiot, Locklear. This is a convent-run home. Joseph is a nun.”

  Sister Joseph returned with another, older woman who wore a long brown habit and veil. Joseph sat at the desk while the more formally dressed nun stood behind her with a pile of small brown envelopes in her hand.

  “This is Sister Thomas. She manages the patient records here.”

  Sister Thomas then told the story of the siblings who had come to see the facility years previously. They had booked two rooms, side by side, and paid a deposit for their care which would be then paid monthly from a bank account in the brother’s name.