Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(59)

“The bishop in Crooked Creek was killed in a hit-and-run buggy accident two weeks ago, Mike. The midwife who was part of this was murdered in her home early this morning.” I motion toward the buggy. “Now Bishop Troyer has been shot. I believe they were targeted. I believe the person who abducted Elsie Helmuth is responsible. And I don’t think he’s finished.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. That determination will be made after we look at all the facts.”

I like Mike Rasmussen. He’s a good cop and a friend. He’s a decent sheriff who knows how to run his department. He’s not overly political, but he’s not opposed to scratching the occasional back to get what he wants. He knows how to get things done. He’s easygoing. Reasonable. I never have to wonder if he has my back; I know he does. None of those things come close to convincing me I’m getting ahead of myself.

I turn away from him and start toward the house.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’m going to talk to Freda Troyer.”

“She’s already been interviewed, Kate. That poor woman is trying to get to the hospital to be with her husband.”

“I’ll take her,” I say without breaking stride.

“Damn it, Kate.”

I turn so abruptly, the sheriff nearly runs into me. He sets his hand on my arm, but I shake it off. “You need to trust me on this, Mike.”

“That works both ways.”

“I’m right about this, so back off.”

“This is my jurisdiction.”

It was the one thing that didn’t need to be said. In the years I’ve been chief, Mike and I have never argued about turf. We’ve never had to. We work together well. My department covers county as much as it does Painters Mill. The certainty that I’m right won’t let me back down.

“Freda Troyer knows more than she’s letting on,” I tell him. “I’m going to talk to her because I want answers and I damn well want them now.”



* * *



I walk into the Troyer home to find Freda pacing the kitchen. She’s wearing a charcoal-colored dress, a black cardigan, practical shoes. She’s put a black winter bonnet over her prayer kapp. Dinner plates and flatware have been set out on the table. A cast-iron skillet sits atop the stove, filled with fried chicken in grease that’s gone white. Evidently, she’d been holding dinner for her husband.

“Freda?” I say as I enter.

She startles and turns to me. “Kate.” I see anguish in her face. Worry etched into her every feature. Dried blood on hands she didn’t think to wash. “How is he?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Ambulance took him to the hospital.” I approach her, trying to read her frame of mind. Calm on the outside, coming apart on the inside. Struggling for strength. Hanging on by a thread.

“Get your things,” I say. “I’ll take you.”

“Our neighbor is going to take me. He’s harnessing the buggy horse now.”

“I’ll ask one of my deputies to let him know you got a ride.” When she hesitates, I add, “I’m going anyway; you may as well ride with me. I’ll get you there a lot faster.”

While Freda gathers her things—a canvas bag filled with what looks like knitting supplies, a small devotional book—I radio Glock and ask him to tell the neighbor that I’ll be driving the bishop’s wife to the hospital.

“You guys figure out where the shooting took place?” I ask him.

“Deputy followed the blood trail,” he tells me. “Looks like it happened where County Road 150 intersects with Township Road 104.”

I know the area. It’s rural, not many houses. The perfect place for an ambush. “Anyone see anything?”

“We’re canvassing now.”

“Tire marks? Anything like that?”

“Still looking around, Chief.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I drop the cell into my pocket, turn to see the bishop’s wife standing in the doorway, clutching her bag, staring at me. “Let’s go,” I say.

She follows me outside. I feel the stares track us as I make my way to the Explorer, but I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I open the passenger door for her, and then I round the front of the vehicle and get in. I don’t see Tomasetti anywhere. I put the vehicle in gear and we start down the lane.

I raise my hand to the deputy at the road, then make a right and head toward Millersburg. I only have a few minutes to ask the questions that need to be asked. I have no idea what we’ll find when we arrive at Pomerene Hospital. Glock had said it’s bad. The one thing I am certain of is that this woman may hold the key.

“I know Bishop Schwartz from Scioto County brought a newborn baby to Bishop Troyer seven years ago,” I say as I pull onto the highway. “I know the baby was taken to Miriam and Ivan Helmuth.”

She looks over at me, anguish churning in her eyes. “I don’t know what that has to do with what’s happened to my husband.”

“It has everything to do with it, Freda, and if you know anything at all that will help me get to the bottom of it, you need to speak up right now.”

I tell her about the eyeglasses, my trip to Crooked Creek. “Freda, look at my face. I was ambushed and beaten. Bishop Schwartz is dead. The midwife who helped bring that child up here was murdered this morning. Now your husband has been shot. If you care one iota about that little girl, you need to start talking.”