Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(85)

The Amish man chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part gasp. “It was God’s will,” he whispers. “The way things should have been all along.”

“We have to let her go,” the woman says.

He sways, sets his hand against the stall door. A collage of emotion infuses his face. Grief. Resignation. All of it overridden by pain, both physical and psychological.

Movement at the door draws my attention.

“Drop the rifle! Do it now! Drop the weapon!” Tomasetti stands at the sliding door, his Kimber leveled on Vernon Detweiler. “Drop your weapon and do not move. Do it or I will shoot you where you stand!”

For an instant, I think the Amish man is going to follow through on the feral light in his eyes; he’s going to raise the rifle, kill his wife, finish me—or Tomasetti. For an interminable moment he stands frozen, labored breaths hissing between clenched teeth, eyes wild, rifle steady in his hands.

He looks at the woman. “They shamed you.”

“I am not ashamed,” she whispers.

Another flash of emotion in his eyes, sharp edges cutting.

The rifle clatters to the ground.

“Get your hands up!” Tomasetti is halfway to us, crouched, moving fast, cautious. “Do not move! Get on your knees! Do it now!”

Never taking his eyes from the woman, Vernon Detweiler raises his hands and drops to his knees. Beaten, he lowers his head as if in prayer.

I get to my feet. My body quakes with such intensity I have to grab on to the rail as I make my way to the stall door.

Weapon trained on Vernon Detweiler, Tomasetti nudges the rifle away with his foot, out of reach. “Get down on your belly,” he tells the Amish man. “Spread your hands and legs.”

Vernon Detweiler obeys.

Tomasetti casts a look at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. The deputy is down.”

He curses. “County is on the way.”

I cross to the woman. “Rosanna Detweiler?”

“Yes.” The Amish woman raises shaking hands, like a child reaching out to break a fall, and looks at me. “Where’s Nettie?”

A hundred questions boil in my brain. But I’m ever cognizant of my status as a civilian here in Boyd County, Kentucky. I can’t Mirandize her. I can’t ask the things I so desperately need to know. Conversely, neither can I keep her from speaking if she so wishes to do so.

“Safe,” I tell her.

While Tomasetti puts the zip ties on Detweiler, I perform a cursory pat-down on Rosanna. Finding nothing, I motion to the ground directly in front of the stall. “Have a seat and do not move.”

She obeys.

Tomasetti walks over to me. “Keep an eye on him. I’m going to stay with the deputy until the paramedics get here.”

Turning slightly, I position myself so that both Detweilers are readily visible and accessible if I need to reach them. While Tomasetti attends to the deputy a few yards away, I fish the speed loader from my duty belt, load the rounds into the empty cylinder of my .38, and I place the gun back in its holster.

“You treated the girl well,” I say in Deitsch.

“Of course we did. We’re not monsters.”

The irony of the statement burns. I think about Mary Yoder. Noah Schwartz. Sadie Stutzman. Bishop Troyer. Three lives snuffed out, a fourth irrevocably changed. And for what?

The Amish woman looks up at me. “You’re Amisch?”

“I was,” I say, hoping she’ll talk to me, willing her to talk.

In the distance, sirens wail. Vernon Detweiler lies prone and unmoving just a few yards away. Outside the sliding door, Tomasetti kneels, speaking quietly to the injured deputy.

I look at Rosanna Detweiler and I feel a hundred unasked questions pushing against the floodgate.

“I know what it’s like,” I say to her. “All those rules. All the expectations.”

She stares at me, saying nothing.

“There’s a lot of pressure to conform when you’re Amish,” I say slowly. “A lot of cultural norms. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t abide. I couldn’t be the girl they expected me to be.”

“The Amish and all their morals.” Bitterness rings hard in her voice. “How moral were they when they took my baby?”

I wait, hoping she’ll continue.

Her gaze settles on her husband. Pain flashes in her eyes at the sight of him facedown in the dirt, the blood on his clothes. Tears squeeze between her lashes. “All he ever wanted was to have a family,” she whispers. “Little ones, you know. It was the one thing I couldn’t give him. I tried, but … He went to them, you know.”

“The Helmuths?”

“Vern went to see Mary Yoder. A week ago in Painters Mill. He asked her to return the girl. The child that was rightfully ours.” Her mouth tightens. “The old woman refused. She threatened to go to the bishop. The police, even. Such a selfish, stubborn woman.” Her lips tremble. Tears stream down her cheeks. “I realize this must sound crazy now, but had things worked out differently, Vern would have been a good datt.”

It’s an outrageous statement, but I let it go without a response.

“Sadie thought I was hurting the babies.” She whispers the words as if she’s sharing some secret that’s so forbidden it cannot be uttered aloud. “She never said as much, but I knew. I could tell by the way she looked at me. All the questions.