Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(36)

I go back to the Missing flyer, trying to figure out what had caused that weird flutter in my brain. Have you seen me? Elsie Helmuth. Seven years old. Female. Special Needs. Born: March 14, 2012. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Height: 3′9″. Weight: 60 lbs.

“Wait,” I mutter.

A tremor runs through my body when I look at the birth date. March 14, 2012. I stare at the date, take off my cheaters, put them back on. The date stares back at me in black and white. I go back to the birth certificates and look at the birth dates of the other children. If Elam was born in November of 2011 and Becky was born in December of 2012, there’s no way Miriam could have given birth to Elsie in March of 2012.

“Jodie?” I call out to reception.

She appears at the door to my office. “Yeah, Chief?”

“Call the Ladies’ Club and find out who put together the information for the Missing flyer. I’m specifically looking for Elsie Helmuth’s birth date. Find out where they got the information and confirm that it’s correct.”

“Sure. When do you need it?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Okeydoke.”

Leaning forward, I rub my temples, trying in vain to jump-start a brain in dire need of sleep.

I’ve just finished writing the names of the children and their birth dates when Jodie appears in the doorway. “I just talked to Kelly Hernandez with the Ladies’ Club. She got the girl’s birth date from Miriam Helmuth.”



* * *



I pull into the driveway of the Helmuth farm and barrel down the lane. Though it’s dark and pouring rain, I pass several men on horseback braving the weather. Half a dozen more are walking along the shoulder; some are wearing slickers and holding flashlights, others are soaked to the skin and carrying lanterns. Despite the fact that they’ve had no luck, that they’ve already covered the area a dozen times, they’re still looking. I wonder if they know that Miriam and Ivan Helmuth are keeping secrets.

It’s possible one or more of the children’s birth dates are incorrect—a typo or computer error—but not likely. I didn’t take the time to check. If my suspicions are correct, Miriam Helmuth didn’t give birth to El sie. But if not Miriam, then who? Does it have anything to do with the abduction?

I park a few yards from two buggies parked side by side, the horses hunched against the rain, and I hightail it to the door. I enter the house without knocking. The smells of lye soap and bleach greet me as I pass through the mudroom, where two Amish women are operating the old wringer washing machine. A third woman hangs boys’ trousers on a clothesline that’s stretched across the room. I nod at them as I duck beneath the clothes and I head for the kitchen.

I find two of the children sitting at the kitchen table. Miriam is at the stove, stirring something in a heavy saucepan with a wooden spoon. She looks exhausted and pale, with dark half-moons beneath eyes that don’t meet mine.

“Hi, Chief Katie!” Annie calls out.

“Did you bring Elsie?” Luke asks simultaneously.

“Hello back at you.” I muster a smile that feels plastic on my face. “We haven’t found Elsie yet, but we’re looking hard.”

“We miss her!”

“She’s probably hungry!”

“And cold!”

The words strike like punches to a place that’s tender and bruised. I look at Miriam to find her eyes already on me. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “Privately.”

The woman twists off the burner knob and sets down the spoon. Looking at her children, she brings her hands together. “Pudding’s just about done,” she tells them. “Go wash your hands and faces. Luke, go get your brother in the barn.”

The kids scramble from their chairs. Luke grins at me as he heads for the back door.

“That’ll buy us a few minutes.” Grabbing a mug, Miriam walks to the table and sinks into a chair. “You bring news?”

I take the chair across from her. I’m hyperaware of that ticking clock that has embedded itself in my brain. An unbearable amount of time has passed since the girl went missing; there’s no time for niceties. I’m too tired to make the effort. Worse, I’m pissed off, because I’m pretty sure this woman has been lying to me, so I get right to the point of my visit.

“Elam was born in November of 2011,” I tell her. “Becky was born in December 2012. Miriam, there’s no way you could have had Elsie in between.”

The woman blinks at me. “But … she came early, you know. Just four pounds of her.”

“When was Elsie born?”

For the first time she looks flustered. “The babies came so close together sometimes I lose track.…”

“Stop lying to me.” I smack my hand against the table. “Your little girl’s life is in danger and all I’m getting from you are lies.”

“I’m not. I just … I got a little confused on the dates is all.”

I rise, go to her, bend, so that my face is less than a foot away from hers. Now that I’m close, I see the telltale signs of sleepless nights and stress piled atop of stress. The whites of her eyes are a road map of capillaries. Lips dry and cracked. Breath that smells of coffee and sour milk. Worst of all is the abiding terror that’s got its claws sunk deep into her, a relentless beast devouring her from the inside out.