Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(7)

I make eye contact with the deputy as I approach. I’ve worked with him before; we had Fourth of July parade duty last summer. He’s a good guy, a father himself, and a decent cop. We shake hands. “She say anything?”

“Been crying mostly, Chief. Said something in Dutch.” He shrugs. “Wants her mom, I think.”

I tell him about the possibility of a missing sister. “Best-case scenario she got scared and ran home.”

The door to the backseat stands open. I go to it and kneel so that I’m eye level with the girl. “Hi there,” I say. “My name’s Katie, and I’m a policeman. Can you tell me what happened?”

She looks at me, her face ravaged and wet with tears. “I want my mamm.”

She’s a tiny thing. Blue dress. Blue eyes. Light hair. Blood on baby hands. Smeared on the bottle of water, which she isn’t drinking. She’s shaking violently beneath the blanket. I switch to Deitsch, try to kickstart her brain. “Who did that to your grossmammi?”

“Da Deivel.”

The devil.

The words put a chill between my shoulder blades. They’re words no child should ever have to speak. A scenario no kid should ever have to witness or recount. “A mann?”

She nods.

“Do you know his name? Have you seen him before?”

She shakes her head.

“Is your sister with you?”

“Elsie.” She whispers the name as if she’s afraid to say it aloud. “He took her.”

“Do you know where they went?”

She closes her eyes; her face crumples. “I want my mamm.”

I ignore the tears, all too aware of precious minutes ticking away, and I press for more. “Just one man?”

A nod.

“What did he look like?”

She stares at me.

“Was he English? Or Plain?”

“I want my mamm.”

“Sweetheart, do you know where he went?”

She shakes her head.

I keep going. “Was he in a buggy or an Englischer car?”

The child begins to cry. Huge, wrenching sobs. I consider pressing, but back off. For now.

I reach out and squeeze her little knee. “I’m going to go get your mamm and datt.”

Rising, I dig my keys from my pocket, turn to Mona and the deputy. “We need to look around for the girl. Set up a perimeter. Protect the scene. We’ve got a male subject who’s possibly taken a little girl. I want all hands on deck.” I address Mona. “Tell T.J. and Pickles to canvass the area,” I say, referring to my officers by their nicknames. “Tell Glock and Skid to clear the barn and outbuildings, and fan out from there. Call the sheriff’s department, see if they have someone with dogs. I want the property searched and I want everyone on scene mindful of evidence. Everything gets marked and preserved.”

“Got it.”

Yanking out my phone, I hit the speed dial for John Tomasetti and start toward the Explorer. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s also my significant other and the love of my life. Painters Mill falls within his region. We’ve worked together on several cases. In fact, that’s how we met. He’s aggressive and thorough and good at what he does. At the moment, I’m glad I have someone like him to count on.

He picks up on the second ring. “I hear you’ve got a body and a missing juvenile on your hands,” he says without preamble.

“Word travels fast.” Some of the tension building in my chest eases at the sound of his voice. I lay out what little I know. “I think the five-year-old saw the killer, and I think she may have seen him take her sister.”

“One man?”

“I think so. This kid is traumatized, so I need someone good to come down and talk to her. I need to know what she saw and I need it five minutes ago.”

“I’m on it,” he says.

“Tomasetti, this woman wasn’t just stabbed. She was…” The image of Mary Yoder’s butchered body flashes in my mind’s eye. “She was cut to pieces.”

“Sounds personal.”

“And now he may have a little girl. I’m going to check with the parents, confirm it before we pull out all the stops.” I hit the fob to unlock the Explorer.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he says.

I hit END and drop the cell into my pocket. I’ve just opened the door when I spot the Amish man running toward me, a boy of about nine or ten hot on his heels. I recognize him immediately as Ivan Helmuth. More than likely he heard the sirens or saw the police vehicles pulling in, and came down to see what happened. His expression tells me he’s worried as hell.

“Chief Burkholder!” he calls out.

I go to him. “Mr. Helmuth—”

“What happened?” he says. “Why are all of these police here? Where are my children? My mother-in-law?”

“I’ve got one girl in the car, sir. She’s okay.”

“One? But…” Leaving the sentence unfinished, he rushes to the vehicle, pushes past Mona and the deputy, and looks into the car. “Annie.” He pulls the girl into his arms.

“Datt!” Sobbing, the little girl clings to him.

“Where is your shveshtah?” he asks. Sister. “Your grossmammi?”