Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(47)

“Close enough.” She straightens. “He was the bishop, after all.”

“Did you ever travel with him to Painters Mill?”

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in her eyes. “Can’t say I did.”

Despite the cold and rain, I’m starting to sweat beneath my coat from the effort of my chore. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Stutzman? I understand you and Bishop Schwartz transported an infant to Painters Mill.”

“Don’t recall anything like that.” She holds out her hand for the shovel. “Give it here.”

I ignore her, keep working. “How long have you been working on the levee?”

“A few weeks now.” She doesn’t seem to notice that her efforts have garnered little more than a pile of earth that will likely wash away with the next downpour.

“The river floods?”

“Every few years. It’s the way things are here.”

“Do you know Bishop Troyer in Painters Mill?” I ask.

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Kate Burkholder? Coming down here and asking all these nosy questions.”

I set down the shovel and upend the wheelbarrow, dumping the remaining dirt and mud onto the mound. “I’m asking you questions that need to be answered.”

“Go get me some more dirt then.” She motions toward a section of the yard that’s been inexpertly excavated. The place from which she’s getting dirt for her levee.

Holding her gaze, I bend and lift the wheelbarrow, roll it over to the shallow hole. “A seven-year-old little girl is missing,” I tell her. “She’s Amish. Innocent. Someone took her two days ago. I think it’s related to something that happened here seven years ago.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

I bank a rise of irritation, and put the energy into filling the wheelbarrow. For the span of several minutes the only sound comes from the grate of steel against wet earth, the birds in the trees along with river, the din of rain against the barn roof a few yards away.

“They killed him, you know.”

I stop digging, turn to her. “What? Killed who?”

Another flash in her eyes, an unexpected wiliness, a cognizance of exactly what we’re talking about and what she’s saying. But there’s fear there, too. “Bishop Schwartz. That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

I pick up the shovel and cross to her. “Bishop Schwartz was killed in a buggy accident.”

She stares at me as if I’m some dense child. As I regard her, I’m reminded once again of Adam Fisher’s words. Narrisch, he said. Insane. Considering the project we’re working on, I suspect this woman may be well on her way. I don’t believe she’s arrived at that destination just yet.

“Was it an accident?” she asks.

“Are you saying you believe someone did that to him on purpose?”

“I’m saying I knew something wasn’t right all along,” she whispers in that rusty-steel voice. “Knew it for a long time. Everyone did. Kept their mouths shut like good Amish. Such a terrible thing. Sin piled atop of sin. I couldn’t abide by it.”

The old woman hobbles to the wheelbarrow, realizes the shovel isn’t there, and returns to where I stand. “He said I was never to speak of it. So I held my tongue.”

“Mrs. Stutzman, do you know who was driving the vehicle that struck Bishop Schwartz’s buggy?”

“The English police said it was druggies that killed him.” She hefts a harsh laugh. “That ain’t who done it and it wadn’t no accident. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. I’m just a crazy old woman after all.”

“Who killed him?”

A light enters her eyes, like a smile, only she’s not smiling. “The father of the child.”

The earth seems to tremble beneath my feet. The doubt I’d felt earlier about being here flees. “Give me a name.”

“I may be old, Kate Burkholder, but I still value my life.” She looks around, motions toward the river, her eyes scanning, seeking something unseen. “He listens through the water, you know.” The old woman lowers her voice. “If he finds out I’m talking to you, he’ll kill me, too. Just like the others.”

“I need a name,” I say firmly.

She tries to take the shovel from me, but I don’t release it.

“I can keep you safe,” I tell her. “I’m a police officer.”

“The way you kept that girl safe? The bishop?”

I relinquish the shovel. “I need your help.”

“You can’t stop him. No one can. It’s in God’s hands now.”

I’m losing her, so I try another tactic. “Tell me about the baby. Who is her mamm?”

“They shamed her. She couldn’t handle it. And just look what happened.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Those poor babies.” The woman makes a sound that’s part grief, part disgust.

“What babies?” I ask, the words spiraling in my brain. “Who are you talking about?”

Ignoring me, she jams the shovel into dirt, pushes it deeper with her shoe.

“What about Marlene Byler?” I ask.