Page 34 of Shamed

“Even him,” she whispers. “Da schlecht mann.” The bad man.

“If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

“Of course I will.”

“I’ll see myself out.” I’m midway to the door, everything that’s been said running through my head, a fast-moving stream of troubled waters. I stop in the doorway and turn to her. “Mrs. Troyer?”

She raises her head, her eyes finding mine.

“When I was at the Helmuth place earlier, one of the children told me Bishop Troyer was there the day Elsie was born. Is that true?”

She dismisses the statement with a wave. “Those little ones are confused and missing their sister is all.”

I wait, thinking she’s going to say more. Instead, she raises her mug and takes a sip of tea.

Under normal circumstances, it would be far too late for me to be rousing citizens from bed to question them about their association with Mary Yoder or the Helmuth family. With a little girl missing—ostensibly in the hands of a killer—I don’t have a choice.

I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Threadgill Creek Road. “Any luck with those impressions?” I ask.

“We got decent plaster on both the footwear and the tire tread,” he replies. “Footwear has a waffle-type sole. Probably a men’s work boot. Size thirteen.”

“Big guy.” In my mind’s eye, I see Big Eddie standing next to his father. “Same size as Eddie Graber.”

I tell him about the size-thirteen boot I saw in the mudroom of the Graber home. “Edward gave me permission to look around, which I did.” I tell him about the fresh cut on Big Eddie’s hand. “I don’t like him for this but he has a history with the Helmuths. I want a warrant.”

“I can have one within the hour. We’ll confiscate the boots and pick him up.” He pauses. “Where are you?”

“I’m talking with Mary Yoder’s known associates.”

“At midnight?”

“So sue me.” Rain begins to patter the windshield, so I flip on my wipers. “What about you?”

“I’m still at the Schattenbaum place. CSU is about to wrap it up.”

I hear voices in the background, telling me the place is still bustling, that he’s busy, and I miss him. “I’ll do my best to make it home tonight.”

“Me, too.”

I start to say something else, but he hangs up. Smiling, I drop my cell back into my pocket.

Martha Hershberger lives in a mobile home a few miles from the Helmuth place. As I pull into the driveway, I don’t see any lights on inside. I hesitate, but I hear that incessant tick of the clock that’s taken up residence in my brain since Elsie Helmuth disappeared, and I shut down the engine. Grabbing my Maglite, I throw open the door and hightail it to the covered wood porch.

Rain and wind lash me as I go up the steps. I’ve just knocked when I feel something brush against my ankle. Startled, I shift the beam of my flashlight, see a couple of cats come out of a small doghouse.

I’m in the process of shooing them back inside when the door to the mobile home opens.

“What are you doing to my cats?” comes a coarse voice in Deitsch.

I rise, brush cat fur from my hands onto my trousers, and pluck my badge from my pocket. “Martha Hershberger?”

She eyes me up and down. “What is it?”

Holding the badge so she can see it in the beam of my flashlight, I introduce myself. “I’m the police chief of Painters Mill. I need to—”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

I guess Martha Hershberger to be in her mid-to-late seventies. She’s wearing a floor-length flannel sleeping gown with white socks. A blue scarf covers her hair, a silver mane that reaches the midpoint of her back.