Page 31 of Shamed

“What are all of you still doing up? Staying up past bedtime isn’t going to help us find Elsie now, is it? You’ll just be sleepy in the morning.”

The Amish woman brings her hands together. “Come on now. Up to bed. All of you.” She shakes her head with exaggerated admonition. “Eating breakfast at ten o’clock at night. My word.”

Chairs scrape against the floor. Irma takes a final bite of cereal and then gathers their bowls, takes them to the sink. The others clamber to the door. The little boy goes to his mamm and throws his arms around her hips, lets his cheek sink into her skirts. “Night.”

She sets her hand on his head. “You say a prayer for Grossmammi and Elsie,” she says to all of them.

When the children are gone, Miriam goes to the nearest chair and collapses into it as if her legs are no longer strong enough to support her. She raises the coat to her face and breathes in deeply. “Smells like her,” she whispers, then adds beneath her breath, “I know God always has a plan. For the life of me I can’t figure out what it might be this time.”

I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “We’ll be searching through the night.”

She raises her gaze to mine. Her eyes are tired, the energy behind them depleted. “I don’t know what to do, Chief Burkholder. I keep … searching the house, going room to room like a crazy person. I go to her room and look in, thinking she’ll be there.”

I’m still pondering the odd moment with the children a few minutes ago. Something Bonnie said. I look at the Amish woman sitting across from me. “Are Elsie and Becky twins?” I ask. “They’re both seven years old?”

“They’re not twins.” Miriam offers a wan smile. “The children came … quickly.”

I wait a beat, my thoughts circling back to Mary Yoder. “Was your mother close to anyone in particular? Did she have a best friend? A confidante?”

“Mamm spent most of her time with us, here at home. She was always cooking or baking. But she was a social bird, too, and liked to visit with the widow down the road, Martha Hershberger.” Miriam’s brows furrow. “She was friendly with the bishop’s wife, too. Sometimes the three of them would sew together after worship.” She makes a sound that might’ve been intended as a laugh, but comes out like a sob. “I suspect they did more gossiping than sewing.” The words are not unkind and followed by a wistful smile. “Those ladies could talk a blue moon.”

I pull out my notebook and scribble the names. “Your mamm was a widow?”

Miriam nods. “Going on eight years now.” She cocks her head, narrows her eyes on mine. “I don’t see how Mamm’s friends could have anything to do with what happened, Chief Burkholder.”

“It’s helpful to know the backgrounds of everyone involved. You never know when something from someone’s past can come back to haunt them.”

“We’re Amisch, Chief Burkholder. We’ve no ghosts to speak of.”

Over the course of my career in law enforcement I’ve heard a thousand variations of those words. Experience has taught me, they’re rarely true, even among the Amish.

CHAPTER 6

Six hours missing

There were too many people around—police and Amish alike—for him to risk taking the road, so he cut through the field on foot and ran until he could go on no more. Ivan Helmuth couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When he was fourteen and broke his leg after jumping from the hayloft and landing on the plow. When his datt died. Now, alone and under cover of darkness, he fell to his knees and wept like the child he hadn’t been for a long time. The tears were a loud, ugly ordeal but, dear God, he’d never felt such agony. He’d never been so frightened in his life.

Sweet Elsie.

Please deliver her back to us.

He knew God always listened, but His ways were sometimes mysterious. Still, Ivan had always had his faith. It was his strength. The thing he could hold on to during times of trial. This was different. He prayed, of course, but the words didn’t come easily. The old lie rang hollow in his voice and he couldn’t help but wonder: Was he finally being punished for what he’d done?

Rising, Ivan trudged to the edge of the plowed field, which put him on the township road that would take him to the Troyer place. The bishop had come to them the moment he’d gotten word. He’d been at their farm most of the day. He’d prayed with them. Comforted them. But they hadn’t had the chance to talk. Not privately. There’d been too many people around asking too many questions. Ivan needed to be alone with the bishop. He needed to show him the note.

He tugged the handkerchief from his pocket and took a minute to wipe the tears and snot from his face and beard. By the time he reached the house, he’d caught his breath, regained some semblance of control. There was no glow of lantern light inside. They were already in bed. It didn’t matter. He went directly to the back door, knocked, and waited.

Around him, the night was restless. The wind ebbed and flowed through the trees. A cow bawled from its pen. In the distance, a lone coyote yipped.

Where are you, my sweet child? he thought, and he fought another hot rush of tears, the ache that went all the way to his bones.

He’d just knocked a second time, with urgency, when lantern light flickered in the window. He heard the shuffle of shoes. The door swung open. Bishop Troyer stood there, gripping the walker he used these days, still wearing his sleep shirt. His ancient face was gaunt in the light from the lantern he held, his eyes sunken and owlish and knowing. He’d been the Amish bishop since Ivan was a boy. As the leader of the congregation, he wielded his position with uncompromising authority.

Ivan didn’t bother with a greeting. “We must talk,” he said.

“You are alone?” Bishop Troyer asked in his old man’s voice. “No one followed?”

“I’m alone.”