Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(53)

The Bible quote was from Deuteronomy 32:35. She’d found it in her mailbox the morning after Bishop Schwartz was killed. Most people would have laughed at such a thing, imagining some harebrained teenager playing tricks. Not Sadie. She’d known right away it was no joke. She knew who’d written it, and she knew why.

She flipped to the second note.

If a thief is caught breaking in at night and is struck a fatal blow, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed …



The threat was not lost on Sadie. The question foremost in her mind was: How did they find out? Only a handful of people knew what had been done. None of them would have talked about such a thing. Not by choice.

A seven-year-old little girl is missing. She’s Amish. Innocent.

Those were the words she couldn’t get out of her head. The words that were a knife to her heart. Sadie cursed Kate Burkholder for saying them. She cursed herself for what she’d done. For what she’d let happen. For not having the courage to tell the truth.

“You are with me, Lord, so I won’t be afraid. What can human beings do to me when I have You?” She recited the psalm from memory as she tucked the notes into the envelope. Untying the strings of her winter bonnet, Sadie slipped it from her head and set it on the rocking chair in the corner. Picking up her mug, she blew out the lantern and left the bedroom.

She knew the English policewoman would be back. Kate Burkholder didn’t have a timid spirit. Next time, Sadie would tell her the truth. She would end this. Deliver that sweet child from evil—if it wasn’t already too late.

Sadie was midway down the hall when she felt the cold air wrap around her ankles. She stopped, listening, her heart jumping in her chest. Door’s open, she thought, and she knew.

“Du dauerte iahra,” came a whispered voice from the living room. You took her.

She saw him then, a silhouette in the dim glow of lantern light. A mountain of a man, standing there, stone still. Eyes like tiny fires.

“I saved her life.” Despite the fear crawling over her, Sadie held her ground. “You’d best take her home.”

“She is home.” He started toward her. Purpose in his strides. Intent in his eyes.

Dear God.

Sadie turned and ran. But she was old. Two steps and he was upon her. A predator on prey. No chance of escape.

“I was trying to help you!” she cried.

The first blow fell upon her, sent her to her knees. Pain streaked across her scalp. The cup flew from her hand, warm tea splashing on the wall, her dress, her legs. Then she was on the floor, the carpet scratchy against her cheek. Head reeling, she looked up at him. “Please don’t hurt her!”

“Thou shalt not steal,” he said.

Before she could retort, he raised his foot, brought it down hard, and the night swallowed the day.





CHAPTER 16


Sixty-five hours missing

I wake a little before seven A.M. to two inches of snow and a sunrise of monochrome gray. By eight A.M. I’m back on the road. I swing by a small grocery store, grab a cup of coffee, and an extra for Sadie Stutzman along with a dozen blueberry muffins; then I take the county road south toward the river. I’m not above plying a potential witness with food and caffeine.

I drive past the same properties as yesterday. Something about the snow makes them look not quite so dilapidated. Muddy tire tracks mar the driveway of the Stutzman place. As I pull up to the house and shut down the engine, I wonder who’s already been here so early. She doesn’t seem like the kind of individual who gets a lot of visitors.

Grabbing the cardboard tray containing the coffee and muffins, I wade through snow and mud and take the steps to the front porch. A dusting of snow on the concrete reveals footprints. None are clear, but judging from the size, they belong to a male and they haven’t been there long.

I move the storm door aside and knock. “Sadie?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

I wait a full minute. There’s no sound from inside and no one comes to the door. Undeterred, I head around to the rear in case she’s up early and working on her earthen levee project. The horse whinnies at me from its pen. Waiting for hay, I think, and I wonder why it hasn’t yet been fed. I glance toward the mound of earth Sadie was working on yesterday, but the snow hasn’t been disturbed. I take the steps to the tiny porch to knock. A thread of worry goes through me when I find the door open a few inches.

“Sadie? Hey, it’s Kate Burkholder. Is everything all right?”

No answer.

I stand there, holding the cardboard tray, thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway, the footprints on the porch, debating. I call out her name again, but no one answers.

“Damn it.” Setting the tray on the concrete, I push open the door. The interior is dimly lit and so quiet I can hear the wind whistling through the eaves. The smell of something burning and overripe bananas float on cold air.

“Sadie?”

I step into the kitchen. It’s small. Lots of clutter. Something sizzles to my right. There’s a low-burning blue flame beneath an old-fashioned teapot. The water has boiled over. The source of the smell. Evidently, it’s been burning for some time. I twist off the gas.

The house is a boxy structure with narrow doors and low ceilings that lend a slightly claustrophobic ambience. I pass through the kitchen, pause in the doorway that opens to the living room. Like the rest of the house it’s a small, messy space. Lanterns, paperback books, bundles of yarn, and various knitting projects are scattered atop a rustic coffee table. An orange and green afghan that looks as if it’s been mauled by a pride of cats is draped over a sofa the color of pea soup. A hook rug covers threadbare carpeting. There’s a darkened hallway to my left.