Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(25)

“You have news?” the bishop asked.

Ivan unfolded the note, set it on the table, and slid it over to the old man.

Anyone who steals must certainly make restitution, but if they have nothing, they must be sold to pay for their theft.



Bishop Troyer took his time, seeming to read the note two or three times. Trying to make sense of it. But Ivan could tell by his expression he knew exactly what it was. What it meant.

“Exodus,” the bishop said after a moment.

Ivan nodded. “Yes.”

“When did you get it?”

“It was in the mailbox this morning.” Ivan looked at the note. “At first, I didn’t realize what it was. Some foolishness. But now…”

“Did anyone else see it?” the bishop asked.

“Miriam.”

The old man stared at him, silent, his ancient eyes dark and troubled. “This is the work of the devil,” he said.

“Ja.” Ivan rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “Someone knows. About that night.”

“Unmeeklich!” Impossible! Urgency rang hard in the bishop’s voice. “No one has spoken of it. No one!”

The old man clung to the old tenacity, but Ivan saw through the veneer, thick and callused as it was. The truth of that terrified him anew. “All these years.” He whispered the words, fighting tears. “I need the truth, Bishop. All of it.”





CHAPTER 7


Seven hours missing

I’m behind the wheel and midway down the lane of the Helmuth farm when a set of headlights blind me. An unidentified vehicle barrels toward me at a high rate of speed. Black van. Ohio plates. The driver doesn’t bother dimming bright headlights. Satellite dish on top. Media, I think. The driver makes no attempt to move over to let my vehicle by. When we’re head-to-head, I cut the wheel, blocking him, and flip on my emergency lights.

Dust billows in the glare between our vehicles as I swing open the door. Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and approach the driver’s side. Before I reach it the driver starts to back away, but I raise my hand, ordering him to stop.

It’s a news van, a network out of Columbus. I reach the driver’s side and the window slides down. I have my badge at the ready. “It’s a courtesy in this town to dim your brights when you approach an oncoming vehicle,” I say by way of greeting.

“Sorry, Officer,” says the young man behind the wheel. He’s about thirty years old, with shoulder-length brown hair, a barely-there goatee, and a tattoo of a feather on his neck. He’s wearing a hoodie over a Hawaiian shirt and an expression that tells me he’s anything but sorry. Next to him, a young woman with platinum-blond hair and dark roots leans over to get a look at me. She’s wearing a green suit with a trench coat thrown over her lap.

“Our producer sent us out here to cover the murder and kidnapping,” she says, irritated because I’m interfering with their mission.

“This is private property. Unless you have permission from the homeowners, you need to back up and leave.” I motion toward the half dozen other media vehicles parked along the shoulder, wondering how they got through. “With the rest of the herd.”

“Look, we’re just doing our jobs. I know you are, too.” The young man is trying to charm me. The antic isn’t sincere, which only serves to annoy me.

I don’t cut him any slack. “Back up your vehicle. Now. Or I will cite you. Do you understand?”

The woman leans forward and catches my gaze. “Any comment on the murder? Or the missing girl?”

“There will be a press release tomorrow.” I point toward the mouth of the lane. “You’re in the way so back it up now.”

“Fine!” The man throws up his hands. “Jeez.”

Before he can get the window up, I hear the woman hiss, “Bitch.”

I’m smiling when I get back in the Explorer.



* * *



It’s midnight when I pull into the gravel lane of the Troyer farm. Despite the hour, I’m not surprised to find the windows aglow with lantern light. The bishop may be getting up in years—last time I saw him he was using a walker—but neither age nor his purported arthritis has slowed him down. I pull up to the house, park next to the bishop’s buggy, and start toward the door.

Gas hisses in the lamppost as I take the steps to the small porch. The door stands open, but the screen is closed, which is odd. I knock, wait a full minute, and tap the wood jamb with my key fob.

“Bishop Troyer?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”

Another minute passes and I finally hear the floor creak. In the semidarkness, I see a woman’s form approach. Freda Troyer shoves a lantern my way and glares at me through the screen. “En hand foll funn geduld is veaht may vi en bushel funn der grips,” she mutters in a crushed-gravel voice. A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.

The bishop’s wife may be barely five feet tall and a scant hundred pounds, but the force of her persona adds both height and weight. She’s wearing a dark gray dress, a black apron, and a white kapp, all of it draped with an oversized cardigan she’s thrown over thin shoulders. Both she and the bishop are well into their eighties, but no one—Amish or English—treads on Freda Troyer without the risk of being dressed down—or swatted with the horse crop she’s rumored to keep on her kitchen counter.