Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(57)

CHAPTER 17


Seventy-four hours missing

It was nights like this that tested a man’s faith. Nights that were as dark and cold as the devil’s heart—if indeed, the beast possessed any semblance of a heart at all.

Bishop David Troyer didn’t think so. Mary Yoder was dead. The little girl was probably gone, too. He didn’t know how it had come to this. He didn’t know what he could have done to stop it or change it. He’d prayed for God to send him the wisdom and the strength he needed to make things right. Somehow, he’d failed. He’d failed all of them. God. Himself. The Helmuth family. He’d especially failed little Elsie.

He left the Helmuth farm just ten minutes ago. Miriam and Ivan had spent most of the day praying for the safe return of their daughter. They’d prayed for Mary Yoder. For their children. The bishop thought maybe they should pray for forgiveness, too—all of them—but he didn’t say it. That was on him and he would bear the load alone—even if it crushed him.

His faith was the one thing that had always made him strong, given him joy in times of sorrow, light when there was only darkness. He held his faith dear and he used it to serve. It made him a better man, a better father and husband; it made him a better bishop. His faith in the Heavenly Father was his whole heart. It was his peace. His guidance.

This evening, Bishop Troyer was troubled and questioning decisions he’d once been so certain of, namely the decision he’d made seven years ago regarding the fate of an infant at risk. Had he done the right thing? Had he been honest with God? Had he been honest with himself? The questions pummeled him and yet he had no answers.

Clucking to the horse, he snapped the lines against the gelding’s rump and sent the animal into an extended trot. Around him the early evening was windy, cold, and damp. The kind of cold that seeped to the bone.

“God, this hidden sin eats away at my heart.” He whispered the words from memory. “I have no peace because of it. Help me to give it to You.”

At the intersection of County Road 150 and Township Road 104, he made the turn toward home and headed north. The clip-clop of the horse’s shoes echoed among the treetops. A gust of wind made the branches clatter like bones.

He was thinking about the notes, about a little girl who might have left this world all too soon, when a tremendous slug of pain exploded in his side. He thought he heard a crack of thunder. The breath left his lungs. Fire burned and spread, hot wax boiling in his chest.

He slumped forward, reached out, tried to break his fall. The strength leached from his muscles. One of the reins slipped from his hands. Then he was falling. His right shoulder struck the floorboard. An earthquake of pain in his chest. The cold grit of dirt and wood against his face. Blood on his hands, running like rain.

The buggy stopped. Cold silence all around. The hiss of the wind. A volley of pain with every drumbeat of his heart. He couldn’t move. Wasn’t sure what had happened.

Footsteps sounded, heavy on the asphalt. The labored breaths of someone nearby. The scuff of shoes. The bishop opened his eyes. Relief washed over him when he saw the Plain man. He tried to speak, but there was too much blood, and he managed little more than a gurgle.

The man came to him. Hands touching his arm, his coat. “If thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain,” the man said in Deitsch.

Only then did the bishop realize the man wasn’t there to help. Words flared in his brain. He had to stop this terrible thing he himself had helped put into play. “Forgive them,” he ground out. “For they know not what they do.”

“Avvah shpoht,” came the voice. Too late.

“Kumma druff!” The man slapped the horse’s rump.

The buggy leapt forward.

The bishop listened to the horse’s shoes against the ground, frightened and moving fast. Take me home, my heavenly Father, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.





CHAPTER 18


Seventy-five hours missing

I’m eastbound on US 62 west of Killbuck when my Bluetooth jangles. Glock’s name pops up on the display screen, so I hit answer.

“Auggie didn’t send out a search party for me, did he?” I ask.

The beat of silence that follows lasts an instant too long, and I know the news is bad. “Chief, I’m out at David Troyer’s place. He’s been shot. Wife found him twenty minutes ago. It’s bad.”

The words hit me like the blade of a shovel in my chest. “Shot?” I repeat dumbly. “Bishop Troyer?”

“He’s alive. Ambulance just left. He’s en route to the hospital. I’m here at their farm, trying to figure out what the hell happened. Tomasetti’s on the way.”

“My God.” I almost can’t wrap my mind around the notion of Bishop Troyer becoming a victim of violence. He’s been a constant in my life—for better or worse—for as long as I can remember. He’s larger than life. Untouchable. Impervious to all the ills that plague us mere mortals. In the back of my mind, a little voice reminds me that he was there the night Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman brought a baby to Painters Mill.

“I’m ten minutes out.” I hit my emergency lights, crank the speedometer to eighty. “What’s the bishop’s condition?”

Another hesitation. “I don’t know yet. But it’s serious, Chief. Get here as quick as you can.”