Page 72 of Shamed

“Inside,” Rasmussen says. “I talked to her. She didn’t see anything.”

Outrage thrashes inside me, expands in my chest. I think about Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz. I think about Mary Yoder and now David Troyer. I think about Elsie Helmuth, terrified and alone and in terrible danger—if she’s still alive. And now the bishop’s wife, a woman who likely knows more than she’s letting on, has nothing to say.

“Mike, did you question her?” I ask.

“Of course I did.”

“I want a go at her.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrow. “You think she’s not being forthcoming?”

I lay out my theory, hating the quaver in my voice. That I’m angry and upset. As implausible as all of it seems, I know I’m right. “I think Bishop Troyer was involved with this … adoption.”

“If there was a newborn stolen, why wasn’t it reported to the authorities?” he asks, incredulity thick in his voice.

“Because they wanted to handle it on their own. Because they didn’t want to involve Children Services. They knew someone would try to stop them. All of the above.”

“Look, Kate, we’ll certainly take a hard look into all that, but—”

“The bishop in Crooked Creek was killed in a hit-and-run buggy accident two weeks ago, Mike. The midwife who was part of this was murdered in her home early this morning.” I motion toward the buggy. “Now Bishop Troyer has been shot. I believe they were targeted. I believe the person who abducted Elsie Helmuth is responsible. And I don’t think he’s finished.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. That determination will be made after we look at all the facts.”

I like Mike Rasmussen. He’s a good cop and a friend. He’s a decent sheriff who knows how to run his department. He’s not overly political, but he’s not opposed to scratching the occasional back to get what he wants. He knows how to get things done. He’s easygoing. Reasonable. I never have to wonder if he has my back; I know he does. None of those things come close to convincing me I’m getting ahead of myself.

I turn away from him and start toward the house.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’m going to talk to Freda Troyer.”

“She’s already been interviewed, Kate. That poor woman is trying to get to the hospital to be with her husband.”

“I’ll take her,” I say without breaking stride.

“Damn it, Kate.”

I turn so abruptly, the sheriff nearly runs into me. He sets his hand on my arm, but I shake it off. “You need to trust me on this, Mike.”

“That works both ways.”

“I’m right about this, so back off.”

“This is my jurisdiction.”

It was the one thing that didn’t need to be said. In the years I’ve been chief, Mike and I have never argued about turf. We’ve never had to. We work together well. My department covers county as much as it does Painters Mill. The certainty that I’m right won’t let me back down.

“Freda Troyer knows more than she’s letting on,” I tell him. “I’m going to talk to her because I want answers and I damn well want them now.”

I walk into the Troyer home to find Freda pacing the kitchen. She’s wearing a charcoal-colored dress, a black cardigan, practical shoes. She’s put a black winter bonnet over her prayer kapp. Dinner plates and flatware have been set out on the table. A cast-iron skillet sits atop the stove, filled with fried chicken in grease that’s gone white. Evidently, she’d been holding dinner for her husband.

“Freda?” I say as I enter.

She startles and turns to me. “Kate.” I see anguish in her face. Worry etched into her every feature. Dried blood on hands she didn’t think to wash. “How is he?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Ambulance took him to the hospital.” I approach her, trying to read her frame of mind. Calm on the outside, coming apart on the inside. Struggling for strength. Hanging on by a thread.

“Get your things,” I say. “I’ll take you.”