Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(56)

As the doe begins to lick the afterbirth from her offspring, I find myself thinking of the bond between a mother and her offspring. I think about the woman who gave birth to Elsie Helmuth and I wonder: How far would a parent go to get their child back?

I look at the bishop and motion toward the aisle outside the stall. “Kann ich shvetza zu du e weil?” I ask. Can I talk to you awhile?

“Kannscht du Deitsch schwetze.” You can talk Dutch. The Amish man grins, as pleased as he is amused. “That’s two miracles in one day,” he exclaims. “First triplet goats and then an Englischer speaking Deitsch!”

Breaking into laughter, he follows me from the stall. Once we’re in the aisle, I hand him the cookies. “From your wife.”

Smiling down at the plate, he rubs his fingers together and selects the biggest one. “She’s stingy with the sweets.”

“Probably for your own good.”

“It is.”

Narrowing his eyes, noticing the bruises on my face, he proffers the plate. “You look like you could use a little kindness.”

I take a cookie without answering and we eat in silence for a moment. I don’t know this man from Adam, but I find myself liking him. He’s got gentle eyes filled with jollity and a discerning intelligence.

“I understand you’re the newly ordained bishop,” I say.

“The voice of the church spoke, and I was struck by the lot,” he says, referring to the Amish practice of selecting their bishop from the ordained leaders by lot.

“I’m working on a case, Bishop, and I need your help.” I tell him about the murder of Mary Yoder and the kidnapping of Elsie Helmuth.

His expression sobers. “I will pray for them,” he says quietly.

“I think Bishop Schwartz may have been involved in … an unofficial adoption of a newborn infant seven years ago.”

“Unofficial adoption?”

“I have reason to believe a baby born here in Scioto County was, for unknown reasons, taken from her mother and transported to Painters Mill to be placed with another Amish family. Bishop Schwartz and a midwife, Sadie Stutzman, were involved.” I pause, grapple with the words. “As you know, Bishop Schwartz was killed a couple of weeks ago. Sadie Stutzman was murdered sometime this morning.”

“Sadie? Mein Gott.” My God. The Amish man steps back, presses his hand to his chest. “You know this for certain?”

I nod. “I just left the scene.”

He looks down at the ground, troubled, his brows knitting. “Sis en gottlos ding.” It’s a godless thing.

I watch him carefully, gauging his responses, trying to discern if he’s already familiar with the information I’ve relayed. The only emotions that come back at me are shock and the grief of a man who already bears a heavy load.

“I believe someone living in this area knows what happened seven years ago,” I tell him. “I believe that person traveled to Painters Mill, murdered the girl’s grandmother, and took the child. I think this individual may be a family member or parent. That little girl is in grave danger.”

The bishop lowers the cookie he’d been nibbling and sets the plate on a bale of hay next to him. “I will pray for her safe return.”

“Does the name Marlene Byler mean anything to you?” I ask.

He sags, as if the memory is a physical weight on his shoulders. “Her story is a sad and terrible one.” He raises his gaze to mine. “It was a long time ago. Do you think what happened to Marlene has something to do with this missing child?”

I tell him what little I know. “She was Mary Yoder’s sister.”

The bishop sighs, resigned. “I didn’t know Marlene, but I heard the stories. She was … disturbed.” He taps his temple with a fingertip. “Here. She suffered with headaches and fevers. Thought she was possessed by the devil. Narrisch, you know.” Insane.

“Did she seek treatment?”

“From Amish healers mostly. A local chiropractor. I heard she went to the Brauch-Doktor in Pennsylvania a couple times.”

“Brauch-Doktor” is the Deitsch term for “powwowing,” which is basically faith healing, using incantations, amulets, or charms to heal. The rituals are mysterious, often used as a last-resort type of treatment. Most Amish today condemn the practice; many of the young aren’t even aware of its existence.

“There were all sorts of rumors,” he tells me.

“What kind of rumors?”

“About men. English, Amish. She wasn’t living a godly life.”

“Does she have any children?”

“Rumor had it when she jumped from that bridge, she took her last child with her.”

It’s a tragic, haunting tale. The question foremost in my mind is: Does it have anything to do with the abduction of Elsie Helmuth and the murder of her grandmother?

“Do you know if Bishop Schwartz kept any writings or letters?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve not seen such a thing. Noah’s death came so suddenly … no one was prepared. You’ve checked with Lizzie?”

I tell him as much as I can without revealing anything she wouldn’t want disclosed.

The smile that follows is so heavy and filled with grief that I feel the weight of it in my own heart. “There’s a saying among the Amish. Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.” Where there is smoke, there is fire. “I will ask around, look for the answers you need. If I find something, I will let you know.”