Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel by Linda Castillo

a hunched back hustles around the front of the vehicle and meets me at the side. She gives me a quick once-over. “You Miller?”
    “Yep.”
    She wrenches open the sliding side door. “You can put the suitcase on the seat. I got a bad back, can’t lift nothing these days.”
    I load both and climb in.
    “Where you headed?”
    “Swamp Creek Road.”
    “I know it. You must be renting Bowman’s old trailer.”
    “I’m supposed to meet her there.”
    “We’d best get moving then.” She slams the door.
    I’m no stranger to the dynamics of a small town. Still, it’s disconcerting that the first person I meet knows where I’ll be living before I do. She puts the van in gear and pulls onto the road. The interior smells of exhaust and cigarette smoke. She’s got the radio on, but the reception is bad and there’s more static than music. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the rattle of something loose and the thump of wipers that need replacing.
    On the outskirts of Roaring Springs, she glances at me in the rearview mirror. “I know most of the Amish in the area.” She pronounces the word “Amish” with a long A . “Ain’t seen you around before.”
    “I just arrived from Ohio.”
    “We don’t get too many new ones.” The brakes screech when she stops for a traffic light. “What brings you all the way up here?”
    “Bishop Schrock.”
    “The bishop, huh?” Her eyes go back to the mirror, narrow on mine. “You heard about him all the way from Ohio?”
    “I hear he’s a good bishop. A strong leader.”
    “I guess that’s one way to put it. You one of them Swartzenrubbers, or what?”
    I don’t bother correcting her mispronunciation. “My family was, but over the years we’ve drifted from the old ways. My church district in Ohio … the bishop had become mild.”
    “I reckon sometimes the old ways are the best,” she says.
    “Do you know Bishop Schrock?” I ask.
    “He don’t speak to us English folks. I seen him in town a time or two, though,” she replies. “Kind of stands out in a crowd. Always wears black. Never seen him smile. Or heard him say hello, for that matter. I mean, if you ain’t Amish, anyway. And he’s got that stare. Sorta scares people off, if you ask me. I hear he runs a tight ship out there.”
    “My datt always told me that to be worldly is to be lost.” It’s the first truthful thing I’ve said so far.
    When she looks at me in the mirror, her expression is perplexed. “If that’s the case, you should be happy here because Schrock is strict with all them rules.” She indicates my dress. “That gray dress you’re wearing’ll do fine, I suppose. A lot of the women wear black. That’s about all in the way of color. From what I hear, he likes the womenfolk to wear their skirts extra long.…”
    I look out the window, but I feel her studying me in the mirror.
    “You all alone?” she asks.
    “My husband passed away,” I tell her. “Cancer.”
    “Hate to hear that.” She clears her throat, motions to her left. “Grocery’s right there, by the way. They’re open till ten every day ’cept Sunday when they close at five.”
    Through the driving snow, I see the facade of a Big M grocery set close to the highway.
    She makes another turn, heading north. We pass a cemetery with grass left uncut, some of the headstones leaning. A farm where a dozen or so cattle stand beneath the overhang of a tumbling-down barn.
    The driver makes a sound low in her throat when we approach the sign for Swamp Creek Road. “County don’t clear the gravel roads when it gets bad.” She hauls the wheel right, hits the gas with enough force to send the van into a fishtail. “Should be okay as long as I don’t stop.”
    I’m holding on to the armrest, wondering how she plans to drop me off without stopping.
    She cackles as she barrels through the snow and I realize she’s not kidding. “Mrs. Bowman meeting you out here?” she asks.
    “Yes,” I