Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(61)
I walk with Freda to the surgical intensive care waiting area, where a family with small children stares at the television tuned to some mindless sitcom. I leave Freda there, find a vending machine down the hall, and buy two coffees. When I return, she’s sitting in the same place, her head bowed in prayer, tears streaming.
I’ve known Freda since I was six years old and she smacked my behind with her horse crop when I clobbered one of the other Amish kids. She has always been a strong woman, is much respected by the community, and nearly as formidable as her husband. Tonight, seeing her like this, touches a place inside me I don’t want prodded.
Steeling myself against the sight of her broken and weeping, I approach and hand her the steaming cup. “Fortification,” I say, offering a smile.
She takes the paper cup and sips. “Good Lord, that’s the worst coffee I ever had.”
“That’s only because you haven’t been to the police station.”
We exchange a look and then we fall silent. I’m not happy with Freda Troyer or the bishop. They were involved in something malapropos seven years ago. Even after the murder of Mary Yoder, and the abduction of Elsie Helmuth, they didn’t come forward. Even after I asked, they held their silence—and possibly information that might have prevented this most recent tragedy. With the bishop’s life hanging by a thread, I’m hard-pressed to castigate her.
“I can’t stay,” I tell her. “I have to get back out there and try to find the person responsible.”
The Amish woman nods. “Thank you for bringing me to be with my husband.”
She may be alone at the moment, but I know she won’t be for long. Word of the shooting and the bishop’s condition will spread through the Amish community like wildfire. I know that even as we speak, half a dozen buggies are already en route.
“Freda, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find the person who did this?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
I walk away, leaving her with her anguish, her fear, and the knowledge that the shooting of her husband isn’t the only tragedy that must be dealt with.
CHAPTER 19
Seventy-eight hours missing
I arrive at the intersection of County Road 150 and Township Road 104 to find Glock’s cruiser blocking traffic, his emergency lights flashing. He’s set out flares, but he’s nowhere in sight. A quarter mile ahead, a Holmes County cruiser is parked in the same fashion. The deputy is setting up a reflective wooden horse.
I tug my cell from the console and call Skid. Last I heard, he’d gone home to get some sleep. I’m loath to call him back to work, but I can’t spare him.
He answers with a groggy “Yeah.”
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” We laugh because we both know it’s not true.
I tell him about Bishop Troyer.
“Damn, Chief, the bishop? Is he—”
“He’s alive, but critical. The problem is I don’t know if the son of a bitch who shot him is finished. I need you to go out to the Helmuth place and keep an eye on things. Keep your radio handy. Wear your vest.”
A thoughtful silence and then, “You got it.”
I end the call and I’m reminded that I’ll need to pick up another sidearm when I get back to the station. Around me, the area is heavily treed, except to the south where yellow cornstalks shiver in a brisk north wind. The temperature is falling fast and I suspect it’ll dip into the twenties by morning.
Hitting my emergency lights, I park behind Glock’s cruiser, grab my Maglite, and go in search of him. I spot the cone of a flashlight just inside the tree line and start that way.
I call out to him. “Find anything?”
Glock motions toward the road where there’s a smattering of tiny orange cones. “Got blood on the road there, Chief. Starts right there where I’m parked. I’m pretty sure this is where the shooting took place.”
“Brass?”
“Nada.”
“Anyone else on scene?”
He motions toward the deputy at the end of the road. “County arrived a few minutes ago. Pickles and T.J. started a canvass.”
We both know with so many trees and the neighboring houses set back from the road and separated by miles of fields, the chances of finding a witness are slim.
We reach the cones. Glock shifts his Maglite. The yellow beam reveals the red-black gleam of blood on the asphalt; additional spatters the size of half-dollars stand out against the yellow line. A few larger pools. Too much, I think, and I pull the mini Maglite from my pocket and kneel. Our beams merge.
“A lot of blood,” he mutters. “How’s the old guy?”
“They just took him into surgery.”
“He able to tell you anything?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he’s going to be talking any time soon.”
We study the blood for a moment, our beams sweeping left and right, from puddle to puddle, trying to figure out exactly where the shooting took place.
“According to his wife,” I say, “the bishop was on his way home from the Helmuth place.” I set my beam on the ground, find a spot of blood that’s been run over by a buggy wheel. Glock drops a cone next to it.