The Pact: A Detective Locklear Mystery Read online

  “It was Esther. Esther told me.”

  Esther Fehr was a textbook example of a hostile witness. In a stuffy, cramped back room in Dayton police station, she sat at the table facing the open window with her arms folded and her lips pulled tight into a thin, defiant line. The sun filled the room and reflected off the light in her stormy grey eyes. Tiny gold flecks in her mousy brown hair shone in the stifling room. Beads of sweat trickled down Locklear’s face and body and on the female cop whom he had brought in from reception to witness the interrogation. Soaked with perspiration, the trooper stood against the open window, hoping to cool herself in the light breeze. Fehr, on the other hand, looked cool and calm. Her abrupt arrest did not seem to upset the young woman. She stared coldly at Locklear and nestled back into the chair, ready obviously for a long day of questions she would not answer. Locklear tried Mr Nice Guy but she sneered at him as though accustomed to such tactics. He tried coming down heavy on her, tried the age-old threats of charges, court, prison, but nothing worked. Esther Fehr was not afraid.

  After an hour of trying to make her talk, Locklear sat back and returned the woman’s stare for what seemed to be an eternity.

  “I didn’t have any brothers and sisters,” he said at last. “It was just my mother and me, living from hand to mouth. It was hard. I spent a lot of time on my own, waiting for my mother to finish work. I couldn’t tell you how many times back then I would have given anything for a brother or a sister. But you – you have four other people who I’d say care very much about you.”

  Locklear saw the slight thaw in the woman, a quiver of the lip so minute he might have imagined it.

  The cop shifted her weight slightly, hoping that the nerve the sergeant touched in the ice-cold detainee might result in her escaping the heat of the room sooner than she’d thought.

  “Someone tried to kill your little brother and now he’s fighting for his life. That’s gotta mean something to you.”

  Esther Fehr moved her lips slightly.

  Locklear leaned forward.

  “He’s got Sara,” she whispered.

  Locklear moved closer.

  The door opened and there stood the fleshy-faced cop minus the hot dog.

  “Her lawyer’s here,” he said and, as he moved his girth sideways, a young, smartly dressed women entered. The style of her hair and the lack of make-up instantly identified the woman as Mennonite but her suit – sharp, grey, tailored – painted a different picture.

  “Beth Stoll,” she said as she threw her card on the desk in front of Locklear.

  Esther Fehr stood and backed away. Locklear could see the terror in her eyes. It was the first time he had seen her show any sign of emotion – apart from rage.

  “I did not tell anything!” she pleaded in a heavy Germanic accent.

  The woman showed no sign of emotion and did not look at Fehr. Locklear noticed something else – her eyes. They were exactly the same as Esther’s. This woman was a relative. A relative Esther was terrified of.

  “Is she being charged with anything?” Stoll asked coldly.

  “We’re just asking Ms Fehr some questions.”

  “Then interview over,” Stoll declared as she threw a document onto the table.

  Esther backed further into the room, a look of panic on her face. Stoll moved forward and roughly grabbed her arm. Esther wrenched herself away.

  “I don’t think she wants to go with you,” Locklear said as he stood and blocked the lawyer’s path.

  The assisting cop straightened and put her hand on her firearm, ready for whatever would happen next.

  Stoll looked Locklear up and down, and a sneer washed over her face.

  “Esther knows what’s good for her – and for her family. You want to come with me, don’t you, Esther?”

  Esther nodded meekly and seemed to shrink before Locklear’s eyes – the angry woman who had thus far treated him with contempt looked pleadingly at him as she was pulled from the room.

  He followed the pair along the corridor, all the time looking at Esther who did not take her eyes off him.

  She mouthed something as she was pulled out the station door.

  Ask Abigail. Locklear was sure that was it.

  Locklear watched from the station door as Stoll’s driver got out and opened the back door to the blacked-out SUV.

  Then a pickup truck, old and dusty, screamed into the lot, and halted in front of the SUV.

  Luke Fehr was at the wheel.

  Luke sat in his truck for what seemed to Locklear an eternity, his hat pulled forward, covering his eyes. He reached forward and took an item from the glove box. It was a small book, old, torn and tattered. He raised the book up and placed it tight against the windscreen and held it there for Stoll to see.

  Luke opened the door and slowly got out of the truck, holding the book in his left hand. He pushed his hat upwards, revealing his eyes. Locklear squinted at the man – it looked like he had those same stunning eyes as his siblings and the woman in front of him. Locklear could not see what the book was but the expression on Stoll’s face told him that Luke Fehr had just showed his hand and it was full of aces. Without removing his gaze from Stoll, Luke Fehr stretched his arm out and took two sideways steps towards the station as though his intention was to deliver the tome to the police.

  Locklear heard a small yelp escaping from Stoll’s throat.

  Luke stared down the well-dressed lawyer who still held a tight grip on his sister’s arm.

  “No!” Stoll pleaded.

  Luke did not speak but Stoll knew what it would take to stop him from handing the book over. She instantly loosened her grip on her captive who ran towards her brother and jumped into the truck.

  Luke stood for a moment longer looking at Stoll but did not utter a word. He was sending her a message – a message she clearly understood. Slowly, he backed himself into his truck, the book still held tightly in his hand, and reversed out of the lot in a cloud of dust, almost crashing into Carter as he drove in.

  Within seconds, the truck, and Esther, disappeared from view.

  Locklear knew that it would be the last he’d see of Esther Fehr for some time. She was in danger and it would no longer be safe for her to be with the Pletts.

  Carter parked and, armed with several documents from the library, looked briefly at Stoll but walked forward until he stood by Locklear, waiting to find out what was going on.

  Stoll smoothed down her jacket and slid into the back seat of her car. She rolled down the window as her driver slowly moved forward.

  “You haven’t seen the last of me!” she called as they exited the lot.

  Locklear sat down on a small wall at the front of the station house.

  “Who was she?” he asked Carter.

  “Bethany Stoll – she’s Samuel Shank’s granddaughter. What was she doing here?”

  Locklear pulled at his thick mane in frustration. He had put Esther Fehr in danger by bringing her here. Carter was right – things had to be handled differently. Someone had told Shank that Locklear had taken Esther in for questioning and he sent his legal eagle granddaughter to silence the girl. Locklear had also brought the normally nocturnal Luke Fehr from his hiding place, placing the young man in danger also. It was also clear that someone was talking to Luke – someone told him Esther was here – Plett was an obvious choice. Locklear reasoned that it was probably Luke who helped Plett cut Andrew down from the rafters that night. What was also clear was that this was a feud between two families – the Shanks and the Fehrs – once part of the same kin but divided now by something Locklear could not get to grips with. Plett, for his part, was in the middle, trying to keep on the side of right but losing his battle against the might of the wealthy Shanks. Whatever Locklear did from here, it would have to be done quietly. He would have to have patient. He would have to listen to Carter.

  As he pulled himself up from the wall, the fleshy-faced cop came out.

  “The hospital phoned. Andrew Fehr is awake.”r />
  Chapter 8

  The short drive to Rockingham Memorial Hospital seemed to take an eternity as Carter weaved through the late-afternoon traffic. En-route, Carter tried to update Locklear on his research into the Fehr family but gave up when it became clear that his boss’s mind was elsewhere.

  Locklear’s mind was on the book Bethany Stoll obviously valued and, more urgently, the safety of Andrew Fehr. Now that he was awake, those responsible for his attempted murder had a lot to fear – that was if the boy’s brain wasn’t too damaged to point any fingers. Locklear lifted the radio and was put through to Harrisonburg’s station. He waited three minutes to be put through to the station’s chief and requested a twenty-four-hour guard be posted outside Fehr’s room.

  At the foot of Andrew Fehr’s bed, Locklear was disappointed to find that the boy was asleep – deliberately tranquillised by Dr Bosch – reportedly due to the high state of agitation he displayed upon waking. Locklear walked up to the bed and ran his hand along the two tubes which fed sedatives into Andrew Fehr’s veins.

  “Which one is keeping him asleep?” he asked.

  Bosch approached the bed and pointed to the clear liquid that dripped steadily into the boy’s arm.

  “Turn it off,” Locklear demanded.

  “But, he’s –”

  “Turn it off,” Locklear repeated.

  Bosch slowly turned down the medication and turned to Locklear.

  “Often people who experienced a trauma wake remembering what they last experienced. He was terrified. I had to sedate him immediately. If he is to recover mentally, he needs to feel safe. He needs time to adjust.”

  “I understand that but I need to speak with him. After that, I plan to keep this boy very safe.”

  Locklear sat at the foot of Andrew Fehr’s bed. Carter took the remaining chair while Bosch left to continue his rounds.

  The pair sat together in silence, waiting for the boy to stir. Neither spoke as the clock ticked loudly above the door of the hospital room. Five hours passed slowly and by the time the heavy sedation began to wear off, Locklear had mentally mapped the case so far – who was involved, who might help him and who definitely would not – but most of all he thought about the book Luke Fehr had held up to Bethany Stoll and how the threat of it being handed over to the police had induced fear in the cold woman. The book, and its obvious value to the Shanks, was now the centrepiece in his puzzle.

  Locklear’s thoughts did not alter when he saw a slight flicker of movement from Andrew Fehr’s little finger. Neither did they change when the boy’s foot jumped twice before resting beneath the crisp linen sheet or when his left arm shot out in tremor and his teeth protruded as he began to gasp. It was when the boy opened his eyes that Locklear stood to meet the same amber-flecked Fehr eyes staring at him.

  Fehr, now fully awake, began to thrash about, pulling at an invisible cord around his neck and gasping for breath. Carter jumped from his seat and stood over the boy, anxious to show him a familiar face.

  “Andrew, it’s Lee,” he said but the boy did not appear to hear him.

  Locklear pulled on the bell, hoping to summon Bosch. As much as he wanted to hear what Andrew had to say, he did not want the boy to suffer.

  “You’re safe,” Locklear said.

  A gurgle bubbled up from the Andrew’s throat.

  “Es ist …” he whispered, his voice muffled and hoarse.

  Lee Carter lowered his ear towards his mouth. “What Andrew?”

  “Es ist ... ein gutes ...”

  Andrew Fehr began to cough. Lee lifted his head and, without knowing if it was OK, put his own water bottle to Andrew’s mouth.

  Locklear could see the fear in the boy’s eyes.

  “Es ist ... ein gutes Jahr … un die ... Dinge ... richtig ... zu machen …”

  Locklear watched as Carter mouthed the words over, as if trying to make sense of them.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said ... I think it was ...”

  “What? God damn it, Carter. What did he say?”

  “He said ‘It’s a good year to put things right’.”

  Locklear sank back down into his chair. Andrew had uttered the exact same words as his sister coming out of her absence.

  When Bosch returned, he glared at the cops and rushed to the boy’s bed, turning the drip back on. Andrew Fehr looked at Locklear as his eyes began to slowly close.

  “Birthday,” he muttered in English, as his eyes slowly closed.

  “Well, did you get what you wanted?” Bosch asked sharply.

  Locklear walked to the bed and held Andrew Fehr’s hand. The boy’s eyes jolted open again but this time he did not seem afraid.

  “No. I don’t think the boy’s going to be much use to us,” he lied, hoping Andrew Fehr understood and would keep up the charade. Locklear had no idea who to trust in the town and wasn’t going to take any chances.

  He remained with Andrew until a cop was placed outside the room and he felt it was safe to leave.

  He returned to the station and completed his first task which was to phone Kowalski and have Andrew Fehr transferred to a hospital in Richmond until it was all over – until he had put all of the pieces of the sorry puzzle together. Several of those pieces were still missing but he knew where he might find the next one.

  By the time he returned to Dayton, word of Locklear’s visit to the Pletts’ home and of the arrest and subsequent disappearance of Esther Fehr had spread among the homes and farms of the hinterland. As he drove slowly down the small country roads, he was deprived of the tipped hat from the men who had so far been polite, albeit wary, of him. Women working in fields or selling their vegetables to passing ‘English’, turned their back to him, afraid no doubt that he might stop to ask them questions and sentence them to the same fate as Esther Fehr. As he neared the Wyss farm he caught a glimpse of Helena Wyss pulling Abigail Fehr roughly from the roadside where she had been selling eggs.

  In the car beside him, Carter sulked, no doubt angry with how Locklear was handling the investigation. The trust the small-town trooper had established with the community over years had been lost in one single day and it was Locklear’s fault.

  Locklear heaved himself out of the car and knocked lightly on Helena Wyss’s door. Carter remained in the car and Locklear did not ask him to accompany him. When she didn’t answer he knocked again. He was about to leave when a note was slipped from inside the door to his feet. He looked towards the entrance to the farmhouse and noticed a small crowd of Mennonites gathered on the roadway, watching. He bent down and pretended to tie his shoelace and hoped that they could not see the note from their viewpoint. Locklear slipped the note into his pocket and returned silently to the car.

  As Carter pulled away Locklear took the small white note from his pocket. He read it aloud.

  “Mr Locklear, you have betrayed the trust of the people here. I cannot let you place Abigail in danger. She depends on me to keep her safe and I will not let her down. Please, please, for Abigail’s sake, leave us alone.”

  Locklear sighed.

  “What now?” Carter asked.

  “I don’t know,” Locklear replied. He was stumped. There was no one left to talk to. He was facing a brick wall with no clue how to climb it or get around it.

  “Where do you suppose Luke took Esther?” he asked.

  Carter drew in a deep breath. “He has a shack out at Silver Lake but everyone knows that’s where he does his poaching – he wouldn’t go there.”

  “Have they any other family – anyone else they’d go to?”

  Carter shook his head. “Just that old grand-uncle in the hills. Like I said, there’s no way they’d go to him. Guy’s as mad as a cut snake anyhow. Just speaks gibberish.”

  “How does he live?”

  “Elder Shank runs a charity – they visit anyone in need of help, bring food, clothing, that kind of thing.”

  “And in return he expects?” Locklear asked.

  Carter sigh
ed. “Look, sarge, you’re never going to get these people to go against Shank. I tried to tell you earlier – his people have been the pastors here for generations. You should see the references to the family in the archives. And he’s rich. I mean rich. He provides scholarships, medical care, funds the elementary school, food for those in need – you name it, he does it.”

  “But yet he was demoted. He was pastor here until Plett arrived. How would something like that come about?”

  Carter shrugged.

  “Do you think he’s clean, Carter? You don’t say much. I gotta know which side you’re on.”

  The look of hurt on Carter’s face told Locklear everything he needed to know.

  “No, I don’t think he’s clean,” Carter said. “I think he’s got his filthy paws into just about everything he can so that he can keep these people where he wants them. I heard he’s even connected to a casino in town – he bought up a major shareholding in it. Now, gambling is something Mennonites definitely shouldn’t be involved in. But one bad apple doesn’t make the barrel useless.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’ve been going around here treating everyone like they’re suspects. It frightens these people. You’ve got to know how to speak with them. They’re gentle people but they’re not stupid, sarge, and they deserve respect.”

  “OK, Carter. From now on I’ll take your lead. Should have listened to you from the start.”

  Carter looked startled at this pronouncement.

  They drove on, both pensive.

  “Guess you know about me and Sara Fehr, huh?” Carter said then, breaking the silence.

  Locklear nodded but did not look at the trooper.

  “We were very young but I really liked her. She was smart and had her feet on the ground but she was terrified of Shank. She really believed that his ancestors had put a curse on her family and on the farm. We were together for a few years at high school and I thought because her family were shunned I might have a future with her, you know?”