The Pact: A Detective Locklear Mystery Read online

  “Does she spend a lot of time staring up at her farm?”

  Helena Wyss looked upwards as though she could see the pinnacle of the Fehr farm from her kitchen table.

  “Yes, but only the Lord knows why. She’s been with me a long time now. Seems like she does that every time her brother’s been to visit.”

  “Andrew?”

  “No, not Andrew. I meant Luke.”

  The mention of Luke Fehr caught Locklear’s attention. He hadn’t yet figured out where the eldest Fehr sibling fit into the picture.

  “Would you tell me about Luke ... please? I know you ... people ... don’t like talking outside of ...”

  “We are not Mennonite, sir. My family were shunned a long time ago – my husband’s too.”

  Locklear automatically licked his lips. It was an odd quirk he had developed and a show of when he knew he was about to make progress. He’d found someone outside of the community who might talk to him, someone other than Carter who was as almost as secretive as the Mennonites themselves.

  “So, just like the Fehrs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me about it?”

  “It was such a long time ago – why is it important?”

  Locklear didn’t know why it was important but he trusted his instincts. He knew that if he was to understand what was happening in this community now, he needed to understand what happened to the Fehrs in the past.

  Helena Wyss ran her lined hands over her equally lined face.

  “It was just after the Civil War that the community shunned my family. My great-great-grandfather, Isaac Falk, joined the Union Army to fight against slavery. The Fehrs too.”

  “And Virginia was a Confederate state?”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t why we were shunned. Mennonites are against slavery but also against war. Mennonites are not allowed to join the army, to fight. Isaac died in battle only a few weeks after he joined the army and his wife and son received a medal of honour from Abraham Lincoln himself – but it caused a rift in our family that exists to this day. The story of how grief-stricken she was has been passed down through the generations. She carved his initials deep into an old tree in the woods behind this farm the year he fell. With no body to bury, it was the best she could do to honour a husband that she had chosen herself.”

  She stood and took a small wooden box from a drawer. Inside was a discoloured medal hanging from a faded, threadbare ribbon. She held it out proudly for Locklear to see.

  “When Isaac went to war, his wife Hannah suffered terribly. She was shamed and her father cut off all ties with her. He was the pastor here.”

  “What was his name?” Locklear asked for no real reason.

  “Shank. Abe Shank.”

  “So, you’re related to Samuel Shank?”

  Wyss pursed her lips. “A distant cousin ... but Samuel Shank passes my husband and me by in the street. He owns the creamery here and much of the land around it. He won’t buy milk from our farm, wouldn’t buy it from the Fehr farm back then either, so the land is worthless for us. We only keep what cows we need for ourselves and grow what food we need. That’s why my husband is working in an office in Harrisonburg. It was not the life he wanted.”

  Locklear looked out the kitchen window at Abigail Fehr who had not moved from the spot he had found her in.

  “When did you foster the Fehr kids?”

  “Seven years ago. We had no children of our own. Luke was too old, a man, and poor Sara – she was so beautiful. Did your trooper ever tell you he was sweet on her?”

  Locklear shook his head.

  “Well, he was. He was very much in love with Sara Fehr. Of course, Luke would have none of it. Warned young Carter off. Beat him up bad. They had been friends at high school. It was a real shame it went that way. Poor Lee went to pieces when Sara was hurt in the accident and Luke wouldn’t even let him visit. Eventually he met someone else and got married but I don’t think he ever got over losing Sara, as young as he was.”

  Locklear thought back to how scared Carter was when they saw Luke Fehr the day before. It made sense now.

  “What a loss she was to the family. She looked after those children so well, and she was really only a child herself. When she had her ... accident …”

  Locklear locked on to the tone she used when she said ‘accident’. She had deliberately accentuated the word, as though it meant something.

  “Esther was seventeen so she only stayed with me a year before going to Pastor Plett and his wife. Andrew was fourteen. He was with me until he turned eighteen. And Abigail, I think she’ll be with me always. She’s sixteen now but she’s like a child.”

  “Sixteen?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I know – she looks so much younger.”

  “What happened to Sara?” he asked abruptly in the hope of getting a straight direct answer.

  Helena Wyss looked out the window and her gaze rested on her foster child.

  “Her car went over the bridge and into the water. She wasn’t even fully licensed to drive and it wasn’t even her car. It was her late father’s. She was turning twenty-one – she should have been celebrating, looking forward to her future. It’s sorrowful to see her tied to all those tubes in that bed. I can hardly bring myself to visit. I do, sometimes, for Abigail’s sake, but it would have been better if she’d died. I really do think so.”

  She turned her head and Locklear saw tears welling up in her eyes.

  “The night of Andrew’s ... attack …” he said.

  Helena Wyss looked away again and fixed her eyes on the cupboard.

  “Pastor Plett said he was here. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he come here if you are no longer part of the church?”

  Helena Wyss straightened her spine as though Locklear had hit a nerve. “Pastor Plett is a good man. He buys eggs from me and bread. He knows we need the money.”

  “He’s allowed to do business with you?”

  “No, he shouldn’t come here at all. But the pastor has changed things around here. He’s made things better.”

  “What time was he here?”

  “Around dusk. Why?”

  Locklear thought for a moment. Carter also felt that Plett was a decent human being but Locklear had a sense that he was hiding something.

  “Were you expecting him?”

  “No.”

  “Would that be a normal time for him to call?”

  Helena Wyss looked at her folded hands on her worn wooden kitchen table. Locklear could sense that the shunned woman was becoming nervous – afraid perhaps of losing the only Mennonite who would grace her table. She stalled and Locklear could see her inner turmoil. She opted for the truth.

  “No.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Mrs Plett was with him.”

  Locklear had caught Plett, who had said he was alone that night, in a lie but the reason why he’d lie about the presence of his wife that night was puzzling.

  He stood and made his way to the door. Helena followed.

  On a small table by the door sat a present wrapped in green tissue paper. A card tucked underneath the ribbon said, “With Love to Our Andrew.”

  Helena lifted it and smoothed her hands over the tissue paper.

  “He was supposed to come here that night. I’d made a cake for his birthday and bought him a book I knew he’d love.”

  A book? So he liked to read? Wasn’t he supposed to have some kind of learning disability? Locklear would have asked but didn’t want to distract her from the main issue.

  “Who would want to hurt your son, Helena?” Locklear used the word son in the hope of unleashing the maternal instinct in the woman, the overwhelming need to protect her young from danger.

  She shook her head and Locklear could see a genuine look of confusion on her weary face.

  “Everyone loved Andrew,” was her only response as she opened the door.

  “Did anyone else know Andrew
was coming here that night? Would anyone else know he’d be walking along the road?”

  Helena Wyss thought for a moment. “Just my husband, Abigail and Pastor Plett.”

  Locklear moved outside, still absorbing the information.

  “Do you miss it? Being part of the church?” he asked.

  “No man can take God from you, even if you aren’t allowed to worship with your neighbours. We still live a good life, a simple life. What I miss is being part of something.”

  As he passed Abigail he bent down to meet her eyes. She blinked.

  “It’s a good year to put things right,” she said.

  He looked back at Helena Wyss who shrugged.

  “She’s back,” she said.

  Locklear walked up the steep hill towards the Fehr farm. He deliberately took the dirt track to see how long it took to walk the distance that Plett said he drove in four minutes flat and discovered a second lie from the preacher. The walk had taken Locklear ten minutes of uphill climbing on foot so it would not have taken Plett four minutes to drive to the spot. The discovery of this second lie did not tell Locklear anything – yet.

  When he reached his troopers he found Carter was practising his swing against the side of the Fehr barn with a ball he always seemed to have in his possession while Mendoza, who was sitting on the dusty ground, wrote up her notes.

  “Carter, confine your baseball activities to teaching little league to your sons, will you?”

  Carter swung around and the look of hurt on his face jolted Locklear.

  “What?” Locklear asked.

  Carter did not answer. He stuck the ball into his pocket.

  “Forensics called,” he said quietly. “The tyres in the driveway and barn match the type used in dozens of vehicles around there – it’s a dead end.”

  “And the rope?”

  “The only prints they found belonged to Andrew. It was clean.”

  Mendoza stood and dusted the earth from her bottom.

  “This place gives me the creeps, sarge. I feel like I’m being watched.”

  Locklear knew what she meant. He felt it too.

  “You notice the holes around here?” Mendoza asked.

  Locklear had noticed signs of digging around the yard the day before when he’d evicted Plett and his congregation off the lot. It was hard to believe that that was only yesterday. He felt weary.

  Mendoza beckoned for him to follow her further uphill. She stood at a spot until Locklear arrived, panting from the heat. Carter followed with a furrowed brow, still sore from whatever insult Locklear had unknowingly thrown at him. Beneath their feet were the remnants of several large holes. Someone had made an effort to fill them in but their scars on the dry earth were still visible. They walked further uphill and found more and more holes.

  “There must be a hundred of them – more,” Carter offered.

  “Some of the land disturbance looks old, perhaps years old, decades even,” Mendoza said. “The ground has hardened over it but you can see it was disturbed. Other holes are fresh – I’d go as far as to say only days old. What do you suppose someone was – is digging for? Wells?”

  Carter shook his head. “The land around here is irrigated and the rainfall is pretty high. The house is on a mains supply. Government did a huge project here back in the fifties.”

  “How d’you know all this, Carter?” Locklear asked.

  Carter looked away and swung his arm around – in mock preparation for the throw of his life.

  “I majored in local history, anthropology … and sport at college,” he replied.

  Carter’s skills were an opportunity Locklear had been looking for. Now that he knew about the trooper and Sara Fehr, he didn’t like to ask Carter to accompany him to the hospital to see her but he now knew exactly what he’d have him do. Something even more useful.

  “Someone was looking for something that was buried,” he said, more to himself than his troopers.

  “Treasure?” Mendoza laughed.

  “Something like that,” Locklear replied. “Carter, I want you to go to the local library and research the involvement of the Fehrs in the Civil War – what they did then and what happened after it.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.Mendoza, you’re coming with me.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  Chapter 5

  After dropping Carter off at the Massanutten Regional Library in Harrisonburg, Locklear swung the car back towards Dayton and the Kindred Spirit Hospital on South Edwin where Sara Fehr had remained for seven years.

  Locklear was surprised by the expensive-looking facility and had expected Sara Fehr to be cared for in less salubrious surroundings.

  At the entrance to the plush foyer he waited for a consultant to speak with them. Mendoza whistled at the grand design of the open-plan area which looked more like the entrance to an upmarket hotel than a hospital. The back wall was staffed by three women behind an expensive oak desk that ran the width of the reception area. Deep-pile carpet covered the huge area and porters stood on hand to carry the luggage of wealthy patients coming and going from the flamboyant facility.

  “How are the family paying for this?” Mendoza asked.

  “I doubt they are,” Locklear whispered.

  Mendoza smiled when a young, pretty, female doctor approached.

  “This’ll be good,” she muttered to Locklear.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I’m just wondering how you’ll cope talking to another intelligent, assertive female. Don’t piss her off!”

  “Maybe I’ll turn on my charm?”

  “If you’ve got some of that I’d like to be introduced to it,” Mendoza said.

  Locklear showed Doctor Laura Miller his identification and explained the purpose of his visit.

  Mendoza took a quick glance at his name: O Locklear. She wondered what the O stood for.

  The doctor smirked. “Sergeant Locklear, are you really expecting to ask Sara Fehr questions about her brother?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you want to see her?”

  “I just do. It’s important,” he lied.

  The doctor led Locklear and Mendoza down a series of less impressive corridors and into what appeared to be an older, shabbier wing of the facility.

  She opened a door at the end of a corridor and led them into a tiled room with only one bed in the far corner under an open window. There was no air conditioning in this part of the building and the heat in the room was stifling. An open doorway gave some reprieve from the heat and led to a small patio area at the back of the hospital. There was a chair beside the bed which was occupied by a young nursing assistant. Apart from the bed and a couple of chairs, the room held only hospital machinery, all beeping and buzzing, recording the signs that Sara Fehr was still alive. Locklear noticed the absence of photos, of colour, of anything personal that would make the sparse room look homely.

  He looked the woman over. She was not intubated but a feeding tube ran from her nostril and was taped onto her ghostly pale face. In the dimly lit room, a monitor stuck under the loosely tied hospital gown recorded the rhythm of her heart which appeared steady and strong.

  “Can she hear us?” Locklear asked.

  “Most unlikely.”

  Locklear noticed a quick arm jerk from the assistant, as though the young woman had something to say.

  “How long have you been caring for her?” he asked the doctor.

  “I’ve only been here about a year but her presentation has not changed in that time. In fact, her condition hasn’t changed in the whole time she has been here.”

  “But people can come out of a coma even after all that time, right?” Mendoza asked.

  “Sara’s in what’s known as a vegetative state – not a coma. She sustained a brain injury during her accident. She was a while under water by the time she was rescued so she was oxygen-deprived. Approximately fifty per cent of people
in her situation recover consciousness. Sara is not one of them.”

  “Will she live?” Locklear asked. “I mean, a normal life span?”

  “Do you call this living? She’s strong but eventually ... in most of these cases, pneumonia, severe infection, kills them. Maria here has been looking after Sara for most of the seven years she’s been here. She can tell you anything you need to know. If you need anything else I’ll be in my office on the third floor.”

  She smiled and left, wiping her brow as she left the heat of the room.

  Maria Whieler stood and shyly offered her hand. She wore no make-up or jewellery and the shoes beneath her long nursing outfit were old-fashioned and comfortable.

  “I normally work nights – someone called in sick though.”

  “You’ve been here since last night?” Mendoza asked.

  “I don’t mind. I ... I love being with her ... and Dr Miller is wrong. Sara can hear us. I talk to her and I know she hears me.”

  “Did you know her before the accident?” Locklear asked.

  “Yes, we were at school together. We were best friends.”

  Locklear suppressed an overwhelming urge to ask a ridiculous question about the colour of Sara Fehr’s eyes.

  “So you are a Mennonite?”

  Maria Whieler bit down on her lip. “My father was but not my mother. When he died, we left. I was about twelve. Mama was never happy living in the community. She died seven years ago and so I came back. I hadn’t anywhere else to go and Samuel Shank, the old pastor, got me this job and somewhere to live. He’s even paying for me to go to nursing school by day.”

  “Does Sara get any visitors?” Mendoza asked.

  Maria locked her eyes on Locklear. “Why do you ask?”

  Locklear could hear the apprehension in her voice. “No reason.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, why would you say that?”

  “I do almost everything Mr Shank asks of me. Just sometimes ...”