Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(18)

The older man nods. “He worked out here in the barn all day, morning and afternoon. Midday I sent him into town to pick up feed.”

“Do you know the Helmuth family?” I ask, aware that Glock has quietly made his way into the barn for a look around.

The elder Nisley tilts his head. “Why are you asking us these questions?”

I don’t respond; I don’t look away from the younger man and repeat the question.

“Ivan and Miriam?” he says. “Yeah, I know ’em.”

“Not well,” the elder Nisley cuts in. “My wife took a cake to them when Ivan broke his leg last year. I helped when the wind blew their barn down. That is all.”

I don’t look away from Lester. “What about the children?”

He laughs. “They got a bunch, that’s for sure.”

“Do you know them?” I ask. “Have contact with them?”

I feel the older man’s eyes on me, but I don’t look away from his son. I stare at him hard, waiting.

“No.”

I add a harsh note to my voice. “You sure about that, Lester?”

“I don’t deal with them. I have no use for kids.”

“Lester.” I lower my voice. “I know you’re a registered sex offender.”

The young man’s eyes widen. “She wadn’t no little kid!”

“You were convicted of having a sexual relationship with a thirteen-year-old girl when you were nineteen.”

“The Englischer police don’t understand our ways,” the elder hisses.

“Ways?” I say. “What ways is that?”

“They were going to marry,” he tells me. As if that makes any difference whatsoever.

I look at Lester. “Let me see your hands,” I snap.

Looking bewildered, he puts out his hands, turns them over. “What are you looking for?”

His hands are dirty, but unmarked. No blood or cuts. I don’t comment.

The old man’s eyes narrow on mine. “Why are you asking my son about the Helmuth family? Why are you interested in his hands?”

I give them the basics of what happened at the Schattenbaum farm, watching them closely for reactions. The elder’s mouth falls open. “Mary Yoder?” he gasps. “Doht?” Dead?

“Elsie Helmuth is missing,” I tell them.

Comprehension flickers in the elder man’s eyes; he knows why I’m here. “Someone took a child?” he asks.

I turn my attention to Lester, who has fallen silent. “Lester, did you see any of the Helmuth family earlier today?”

The younger man’s eyes dart left and right, as if he’s looking for an escape route in case I attack. He’s just realized where this is going and he doesn’t like it. “No!”

“You were convicted of sexual misconduct with a minor. I’m obligated to ask you about Elsie Helmuth. You are obligated to answer. Do you understand?”

Lester looks at me, mouth open, eyes wide, frightened now. “Yes, but … that was different. Edna was young, but … we’re married now!”

The urge to tear into Lester Nisley is powerful, but I don’t. As much as I dislike him on a personal level—as much as I despise what transpired between him and a minor six years his junior—I understand how and why it happened. It was immoral; it was against the law. Unfortunately, some of the Old Order Amish don’t see it that way.

The age of consent in Ohio is sixteen. Most Amish couples marry in their late teens or early twenties. Some of the Swartzentruber and Old Order marry younger. Even with Ohio’s “Romeo and Juliet” law, which would have protected Lester from prosecution if he was less than four years older than the minor female, the six-year age difference made the so-called courtship a crime, hence his two-year stint in the Mansfield Correctional Institution.

The Amish church district looked the other way for the most part. In the eyes of a few, the only thing Lester had done wrong was have premarital sex. As long as he confessed his sins before the congregation, he was not held responsible. Most of the Old Order supported him. That’s one of several Amish tenets I couldn’t live with and one of the reasons I never fit in—and ultimately left.

The elder Nisley moves forward. “They’re married now, in the eyes of the Lord. Edna is sixteen. A grown woman.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to Elsie Helmuth?” I ask Lester.

“I don’t speak to her at all. I don’t even know which one she is.” Lester says the words with a great deal of defensiveness, as if my questions offend some moral sensibility. The irony doesn’t escape me.

I pause, let the silence ride. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Glock approach from the shadows of the barn. The older man looks over his shoulder at him, suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Mr. Nisley, we believe Elsie Helmuth is in extreme danger. As you can imagine, her parents are worried. If you know something you need to tell me right now.”

“We don’t know anything,” the older man tells me.

“Do you mind if I take a look inside your house?”

“We have nothing to hide.”

“Thank you.” I send Glock a nod, and he starts toward the house.

I turn my focus back to the men. “Have you seen any strange vehicles or buggies in the area?” I ask. “Anything unusual?”