Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(76)

“I think we’re good to go,” Tomasetti says.

“Let’s do it.” The sheriff brings his hands together. “My deputy and I will ride together. You two follow.”

I stride to the TV stand, snatch up my shoulder holster and .38, shrug into it. I grab my jacket out of the closet. I gather the file. My laptop.

Tomasetti reaches for the keys and the four of us go through the door.





CHAPTER 25


One hundred eleven hours missing

It’s still dark with drizzle and fog as Tomasetti and I follow the sheriff’s cruiser to the Detweiler property, which takes twenty minutes. The lane entrance is overgrown, without a mailbox or any indication it’s a residence at all, and we drive by twice before realizing we’ve arrived at our destination.

The brake lights flash as they make the turn. Tomasetti follows, muttering a curse as he wrestles the Explorer over deep ruts and through hip-high grass and weeds. A hundred yards in, he jams the Explorer into four-wheel drive. We pass by a low-slung hog barn that looks abandoned. The ground is muddy and torn up, but there are no hogs in sight. No lights as far as the eye can see. A quarter mile farther in, trees encroach on the driveway. We climb a hill, and a small frame house looms into view. No shutters or landscaping. The downstairs window glows with light. Someone is awake.

Beyond the house, a falling-down bank barn leans precariously. It was once white, but the decades have eaten away most of the paint. A chicken house stands next to the barn. There’s a smaller hog barn with an attached pen where several dozen hogs mill about. Two horses stand inside a loafing shed, munching on a round bale of hay, watching us.

Tomasetti parks next to a black buggy, our headlights revealing the lack of a slow-moving-vehicle sign. There’s no reflective signage of any kind. But it’s the lack of a windshield and the sight of the dual kerosene lanterns that confirm what I already know. The Detweilers are Swartzentruber.

“Interesting that he’s got a driver’s license and a buggy,” I say.

“I guess all those Amish rules are a pain in the ass when you have a kid to abduct and she lives four hours away.” Tomasetti jams the Explorer into park and looks at me. “You got a vest?”

“Didn’t think I’d need it.”

Giving me a dark look, he swings open the door and gets out. “Keep your goddamn eyes open.”

The four of us meet next to the sheriff’s cruiser. I’m keenly aware of the silence. The whisper-hiss of drizzle. The totality of the darkness pressing down. The sense of abandonment that seems to permeate the place.

The sheriff slaps the rolled warrant against his palm, then addresses his deputy. “Stay here, keep an eye on things. Get on the radio, tell those guys in the back to stand by.” He looks at me and Tomasetti. “Let’s go serve this bastard.”

Cold drizzle floats down from a charcoal sky as we take a stone path around the side of the house to the front. We ascend the steps and cross the wooden porch. There’s a single large window that’s covered with a dark pull-down shade. Standing slightly to one side, Sheriff Pallant knocks on the door. Tomasetti and I stand behind him and to his right.

Footsteps sound and the door swings open. An elderly Amish woman blinks owlishly at the sight of us. “Oh my. What’s this?” She’s wearing a gray dress that falls nearly to her ankles. A kapp covered with a black bonnet. Black apron. Practical black shoes. A dish towel in her hands, fingers bent with arthritis.

I know immediately this woman isn’t Rosanna Detweiler. If Rosanna Detweiler had a child in 2012—even if she had a child late in life—there’s no way she could be much over fifty. This woman looks to be around seventy.

“Is something wrong?” she asks in an accent that tells me she speaks more Deitsch than English. “Has something happened?”

Pallant has his official ID at the ready. “Are you Rosanna Detweiler?”

“I’m Irene Detweiler.” The woman’s eyes flick from him to Tomasetti to me and back to the sheriff. “What’s this about?”

He identifies himself. “We’re looking for Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler. Are either of them here?”

“No.”

“Do they live here, ma’am?”

“No. This is my home.”

“Are you related to the Detweilers?”

“Vern’s my son. Rosanna is my daughter-in-law.” Rheumy blue eyes skate from Tomasetti to the sheriff to me and for the first time she looks alarmed. “Has something happened to them?”

Tomasetti and the sheriff exchange a look. “When’s the last time you saw them?” Pallant asks.

“I haven’t seen my son or his wife for several years. Not since the bishop put them under the bann. Said they were backsliders,” she tells him, using the Amish term for someone who doesn’t follow the rules set forth by the Ordnung. “I always hoped they’d change their ways, but they didn’t and they never came back.”

“Do you know where your son is living now?” I ask.

“Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.” Her brows furrow. “Did they do something wrong?”

This isn’t what I expected. “Your husband’s name was Vernon?” I ask.

“Yes.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that the property deed might be in her husband’s name, not her son’s. A rookie mistake. I kick myself for not anticipating it, for not checking.