Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(82)

“So if you’re on the cops’ radar and trying to stay off the grid, where would you go?” he says.

“A relative,” I tell him. “Someone with a different last name. Not closely connected. Not easily tracked.”

“In the middle of fucking nowhere.” He sighs. “Kate, getting a warrant might be tricky. State line is going to complicate things, but I can get it done. Let me get on the horn, see what I can do.”

He’s already tugging his phone from his pocket as he walks down the steps.

I stand there a moment, looking out over the property. I’m thinking about walking the perimeter of the house when I notice the small fenced area twenty yards away. The picket fence was once white, but the elements have eroded the paint and turned the wood gray. The enclosure is about thirty feet square, with an arbor-type gate covered with winter-dead climbing roses.

I hear Tomasetti talking to someone on the cell as I start that way. I’m midway there when I realize it’s a family cemetery plot. They’re not uncommon in this part of the country. There are five markers—small wooden crosses—arranged in two neat rows. The hinge screeches with unnatural sound as I let myself in. I pass beneath the arbor, go to the first marker, and kneel. The cross is covered with lichens and mold. A name and dates are burned into the wood. Reaching out, I brush the surface with my fingertips, and read aloud.

“Ruby Marie Mullet. Born May 22, 1938. Died February 2, 2019.”

The owner of the property. Rosanna Detweiler’s grandmother. If she’s been dead since February, who’s been living here?

I go to the next marker.

MARTIN ROY MULLET.

BORN APRIL 30, 1932.

DIED NOVEMBER 23, 2012.



The next marker gives me pause.

AMOS WAYNE DETWEILER.

BORN JULY 17, 2008.

DIED AUGUST 19, 2008.



An infant, I realize, and my conversation with Irene Detweiler floats through my mind.

The Lord never blessed them with little ones. She was ime familye weg once or twice, but … no babies.

Or were there?

I go to the next marker.

BONNIE ANN DETWEILER.

BORN OCTOBER 2, 2010.

DIED JANUARY 3, 2011.



The final marker slants at a severe angle. The grave has been disturbed, the earth freshly turned. Either this small grave has recently been dug or someone has done something unthinkable. Dread rises inside me when I look into the shallow hole. There’s nothing there—no casket or remains—just the wet, black soil of a pit that’s about three feet deep. I kneel next to the marker and read.

NETTIE MAE DETWEILER.

BORN MARCH 14, 2012.

DIED MARCH 14, 2012.



For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the tinkle of rain against the treetops, the rumble of thunder in the distance, and the white noise of my brain as I ponder the possibilities.

“Warrant is in the works.”

I straighten, turn to see Tomasetti standing at the gate, just outside the cemetery. His eyes moving from me to the markers and back to me.

“I never understood why an Amish bishop, an Amish midwife, would remove a baby from its mother,” I say.

He comes through the gate, goes to the nearest marker, and reads.

“According to Irene Detweiler, the Amish community was suspicious of Rosanna. The women gossiped about her. Said she was unfit to be a mother.”

Tomasetti says nothing.

“I don’t want to be right about this.” I look around. “If Sadie Stutzman was concerned about the welfare of the children, if she thought Rosanna was somehow unfit, I can understand her going to the bishop. I can see the bishop stepping in.”

He looks away as if digesting the dark undercurrents, his eyes skimming the surrounding land, the fields, the woods beyond. “We don’t know what happened here.”

“No, but we have a theory.” A theory that’s so hideous, neither of us says the words aloud …

Tomasetti’s phone chirps. He looks down at it. “Kentucky Department of Criminal Investigation. Hang tight.” Turning away, he sets it to his ear.

I glance toward the barn. The big sliding door stands open. There’s no sign of the deputy. I leave the cemetery and walk back to the house. The curtains at the window are parted by a couple of inches, so I go to it and peer inside. The interior is murky. I see light blue cabinets. An old-fashioned porcelain sink. Gas stove. Farther, I can just make out the corner of a kitchen table. I’m about to turn away when I hear a resonant thump from inside the house.

Turning my head, I set my ear against the glass. I hold my breath and listen. The faint sound of pounding reaches me. Cupping my hands, I look, try to see past the grime and dim light. There’s no one there, but I’ve no doubt I heard something.

Muttering a curse, I try the knob, find it unlocked. I push open the door and step inside. There’s a row of windows to my right. A bench seat to my left. The room is dirty. There are clumps of dried mud, leaves, and grass on the floor.

“Hello?” I call out loudly. “I’m a police officer. Is someone there?”

The house reeks of mildew and dust and day-old garbage. I con tinue on, enter the kitchen. It’s tidy and a bit cleaner, with a table and four chairs. A dozen or so mason jars sit on the counter next to an old-fashioned bread box. A towel is draped over the edge of a sink.