Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(84)

He doesn’t obey my command.

I raise the .38 and fire three times.

The man wobbles, goes down on one knee. He looks my way. Face a mask of rage. He raises the rifle. The gunshot sears the air. I turn and run. Thoughts of Tomasetti and the girl flash. But I know he heard the gunfire.

I look wildly for cover, sprint to the nearest stall, throw myself inside and to the floor. I speed-crawl to the front rail, peer between the wood planks. The shooter stands silhouetted at the door, rifle in hand, looking around. He’s a large man, tall and heavily built. Black jacket.

Vernon Detweiler.

He doesn’t see me, but I’m not well hidden. Slowly, trying to stay quiet, control my breathing, I kneel and shift into position for a shot. The light is bad; the angle is worse. He’s forty feet away. This is my only chance. I have two bullets left. I set the .38 between the planks.

If he looks in my direction, he’ll spot me. I’m visible between the rails. I take a deep breath, release it slowly. He walks into the barn and stops thirty feet away. He glances at the stairs to the loft, tilts his head, listening.

He looks right at me, brings up the rifle. I pull off two shots. The man goes to his knees. Blood blooms on his shirt, but he doesn’t fall.

I watch in horror as he struggles to his feet. Blood streaks down the right leg of his trousers. A red stripe on his hand where he holds the stock. He starts toward me.

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy,” he says.

Panic slams down on me. I’m out of ammo and facing an armed killer. No place to hide. My only chance is to run and pray I don’t get shot in the back.

I scramble to my feet, fling myself to the Dutch door that will take me to the pens outside. I slap off the hook latch. Hit the door with both hands. It doesn’t budge. I ram my shoulder against it. I step back, kick it. The door refuses to open. Something blocking it on the other side. I unfasten the hook latch of the top door, slap my hands against it, shove. The door doesn’t move. I glance to the next stall, but there’s no way to reach it. Boards go all the way to the ceiling. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

I hear him at the stall door, just ten feet away. I glance over my shoulder, see him standing in the doorway of the stall, looking at me, the rifle at his shoulder, finger inside the guard.

Dear God he’s going to kill me.

A horrific sense of helplessness assails me. I turn to face him, raise my hands, knowing they won’t stop a bullet.

“Ich vissa si nemma deim bobli!” I scream the words. I know they took your baby!

A tremor passes through his body. He lowers the rifle, cocks his head, stares at me as if I’m some apparition that can’t be explained.

I don’t know if it’s my use of Deitsch or the mention of his daughter that kept him from pulling the trigger. All I know is it worked. I’m alive. I keep talking.

“I know they took Nettie.” My voice is breathless and high, my breaths labored. I’m shaking so violently, I can barely stand. I can’t believe I’m still alive.

“They shouldn’t have taken her,” I choke.

Confusion suffuses his expression. “They told us she died. Our sweet Nettie. But they took her. They left us to mourn the way we’d mourned the others. All this time. Such a wicked thing. They knew, and yet they said nothing. They let us suffer.”

I stare at him, my mind racing for the right words. “Vernon, I don’t blame you for being angry. I would be, too. But this isn’t the way to make things right.”

“Some things cannot be made right. Too much time has passed. Too much grief.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “The cruel things they said about my wife. All the talk. So vicious. I cannot stand for it.”

“Put down the gun,” I say.

“I won’t let you take her.”

“I’m not going to take her. I’ll help you. Please put down the rifle so we can talk.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your daughter. Do it for Nettie.”

“Too late for talk, Kate Burkholder. You should’ve stayed in Painters Mill.” He raises the rifle, levels it at my chest.

Everything grinds to a horrifying slow-motion clip. His finger curls inside the guard. On the trigger. Tomasetti …

“No!”

The scream shatters the air. An Amish woman runs to him from behind. Forty years old. Gray dress. Black winter bonnet. Rosanna Detweiler.

“No more killing,” she cries.

Detweiler looks at her over his shoulder. “They are going to take Nettie from us.”

A gasp escapes her when she notices the blood on his jacket. “This is not the way,” she says breathlessly. “It’s not our way. Not this.”

When he doesn’t lower the rifle, the woman steps around him. Even from ten feet away I see her shaking. Her hands. Legs. Shoulders. Tears streaming, she levers down the nose of the rifle.

“Those who use swords are destroyed by swords,” she says.

“We are her parents.” He shakes off her touch, raises the rifle. “They cursed our lives. Caused us untold grief.”

“What about the grief you’ve caused?” she cries. “All this killing. When will it stop?”

“I did it for you, Ros. For us. All of it.”

“It’s too late.” The words are the howl of a wounded animal. “That poor child has been crying for her mamm since the day she arrived. We’re not her family. I’m not the one she needs. We are not the ones she loves.”