Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(39)

But like all of us mortals, the Amish are not perfect. Over the years, I’ve heard the whisperings of a belief system and traditions taken too far. When I was fifteen, an Amish girl not much older than me became pregnant out of wedlock. The father-to-be was nowhere to be found. The young woman’s mother and grandmother stepped in and conspired to get her married off to an acceptable Amish bachelor. The marriage was rushed. The dates were fudged. The baby was born “early.” The young woman’s husband—and most of the community—was never the wiser. A happy ending for all—unless you’re a fan of the truth. Did some situation with a social stigma attached bring about what happened with Elsie Helmuth?

A hundred questions pound my brain as I park in the gravel area behind the Troyer farmhouse. It’s after six P.M., fully dark, and a steady rain falls from a low sky. I discern the glow of lantern light in the kitchen window as I take the sidewalk to the back door and knock.

The scuff of footsteps sounds inside. A moment later the door swings open and I find myself looking at Bishop Troyer. He’s always seemed ancient to me, especially when I was a kid. I was as terrified as I was fascinated by him. I like to think I’m long past all that juvenile melodrama. Still, I have to bank a slow rise of nerves.

His hair is silver shot with black. His beard is the same, unkempt, and reaches the waistline of his trousers. He’s dressed in black—shirt, suspenders, jacket, and a flat-brimmed hat. He’s smaller than I remember, his body a little more bent. I heard he took a fall a couple of months ago. He’s using a walker now. None of those things detract from the power that radiates from those steely eyes.

“Katie Burkholder?”

“Bishop Troyer.” I look past him to see his wife standing at the kitchen table. By the light of a single lantern, I notice a half gallon of ice cream and two bowls in front of her. “I need to talk to you. Alone. It’s important.”

He glances past me as if expecting some unsavory non-Amish person at my heels. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

Gripping the walker, the bishop turns and trundles to the table.

The aromas of lantern oil and green peppers cooked earlier in the evening hang heavy in the overheated air as I follow him into the kitchen.

“Sie bringa zeiya funn da kind?” his wife asks, eyeing me with an odd combination of anticipation and suspicion. She brings news of the child?

I give her a hard look. “No.”

“Ich braucha shvetza zu Chief Burkholder,” he tells her. I need to speak with Chief Burkholder. “Laynich.” Alone.

The woman lowers her gaze in submission. “Voll.” Of course. Draping a kitchen towel over the back of a chair, she leaves the room and disappears into the shadows of the living room.

I make no move to assist as the bishop struggles into a kitchen chair. Before he’s seated, I say, “I know Elsie isn’t the biological child of Miriam and Ivan Helmuth. I need to know what happened and who was involved. Right now. Do you understand me?”

When the old man is seated, he sighs, then raises his gaze to mine, impervious to the words, my tone. “I don’t know what you think you know, Kate Burkholder, but chances are you are wrong.”

There were a dozen instances in my youth when my parents were at wits’ end about how to handle me and my unacceptable behavior. Several times I was put before the bishop, alone, and left at his mercy. I’ve always known my mind, and I wasn’t easily intimidated, but I can tell you facing off with this man was a fear-provoking experience. Even after all these years I see him as an elder. A man whose decisions are not to be questioned.

“What I know,” I say firmly, “is that you and Ivan and Miriam have been lying to me. Elsie’s abduction and the murder of Mary Yoder is likely related to what happened with Elsie seven years ago. You need to tell me everything so I can do my job and find her.”

“Miriam told you?”

“She didn’t have a choice. Neither do you. If you refuse to help me, I will arrest you for obstructing justice. You got that?”

“I can tell you what I know, Katie. It isn’t much.”

“Start talking.”

The old man takes my tone in stride. He isn’t shocked or rattled or even annoyed, but for the first time I see the wheels turning behind those cold steel eyes. “Seven years ago, I received a letter from the bishop down in Scioto County, Noah Schwartz. He asked for an emergency meeting. Said it was urgent. I agreed, of course, and the next day he came to me, here in Painters Mill. He said the Deiner had made an important decision and they needed my help.”

“Deiner” is the Deitsch word for “servants,” which is how the elected officials—the bishop, ministers, and preachers—are referred to. “Tell me about the meeting.”

He looks down at the tabletop where his hands, fingers twisted and swollen with arthritis, rest easily. After a moment, he meets my gaze. “Noah asked me if I knew of a couple who could take in a child and raise it as their own.”

I tug out my notebook and write down the bishop’s full name. “Why would an Amish bishop become involved in something like that?”

“According to Bishop Schwartz, the child had no one. No one. She needed a family. Parents. A safe place. A home.”

“You didn’t question him about the circumstances? Or ask where she came from? Didn’t you wonder about the parents?”