Page 74 of Shamed

“I was there the night they brought her,” she whispers. “David told me I was to never speak of it. I took those words to heart.”

“Who brought her?”

“Bishop Schwartz and a midwife. They brought her here to the house. A tiny little girl. Hours old. She was desperately hungry. I fed her, held her in my arms…”

“Do you know who the parents are?” I ask. “I need names.”

“No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “They did not say, and I did not ask. It was a night filled with worry and tears and many things left unsaid.”

“Why did they do it?”

“There is a saying among the Amish.” She looks at me. “Die besht vayk zu flucht eevil is zu verfolgen goot,” she whispers. The best way to escape evil is to pursue good.

“The bishop, my husband, and that midwife were pursuing good, Katie. All they wanted was to place that innocent baby in a loving home, where she would be safe, and so she would be raised Amish.”

“The baby came from an Amish family?”

She shrugs. “I assumed so. Why else would they do such a thing?”

“Freda, why did they take her?”

“I don’t know, Katie. They were … secretive about all that.” The woman shrugs. “I suspected there was something wrong in the home. Some … problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Something bad, or they never would have done what they did. I know my husband. He is a good man, a godly man, and a good bishop. He does not overstep. If there is something I need to know, he will tell me.” She shakes her head. “Katie, it would have been unseemly for me to ask questions at such a time. Some of the things the bishop does are … delicate. You know, private.”

“Was the baby brought here with the blessing of the family?”

“I do not know.”

Everything she’s told me grinds in my head like shards of glass in a kaleidoscope. I already knew or suspected most of it. What I need more than anything is a name. That’s when it occurs to me that Crooked Creek is four hours away by car. There’s no way they would have transported a baby in a buggy.

“Freda, did they use a driver?”

She nods. “They came in a van.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. He stayed outside.”

As I make the turn into the hospital parking lot, the Amish woman tosses me a knowing look. “You believe the parents or some relative of the baby are responsible for the bad things that have been done?”

“I do.”

She thinks about that a moment. “I’m glad I told you, Katie. It was the right thing to do. God willing, David will give you the name you need when we talk to him.”

According to the emergency room physician, Bishop Troyer was rushed to surgery upon arrival. He sustained a single gunshot wound to his abdomen; it’s a life-threatening injury, the seriousness exacerbated by his age. All the doctor can tell us at this point is that the bishop is in extremely critical condition and not yet stable.

I walk with Freda to the surgical intensive care waiting area, where a family with small children stares at the television tuned to some mindless sitcom. I leave Freda there, find a vending machine down the hall, and buy two coffees. When I return, she’s sitting in the same place, her head bowed in prayer, tears streaming.

I’ve known Freda since I was six years old and she smacked my behind with her horse crop when I clobbered one of the other Amish kids. She has always been a strong woman, is much respected by the community, and nearly as formidable as her husband. Tonight, seeing her like this, touches a place inside me I don’t want prodded.

Steeling myself against the sight of her broken and weeping, I approach and hand her the steaming cup. “Fortification,” I say, offering a smile.

She takes the paper cup and sips. “Good Lord, that’s the worst coffee I ever had.”

“That’s only because you haven’t been to the police station.”