Page 104 of Shamed

“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.”

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.”