Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,28

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.”

The old man looked past him as if to make sure. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ivan Helmuth walked into the house. The two men went to the kitchen. The bishop set the lantern on the table and then lowered himself into the chair. Ivan reached into his pocket, fished out the letter. He knew it was only paper and pencil scratch, but it felt dirty in his hand. Evil. He didn’t even want to touch it.

“You have news?” the bishop asked.

Ivan unfolded the note, set it on the table, and slid it over to the old man.

Anyone who steals must certainly make restitution, but if they have nothing, they must be sold to pay for their theft.

Bishop Troyer took his time, seeming to read the note two or three times. Trying to make sense of it. But Ivan could tell by his expression he knew exactly what it was. What it meant.

“Exodus,” the bishop said after a moment.

Ivan nodded. “Yes.”

“When did you get it?”

“It was in the mailbox this morning.” Ivan looked at the note. “At first, I didn’t realize what it was. Some foolishness. But now…”

“Did anyone else see it?” the bishop asked.

“Miriam.”

The old man stared at him, silent, his ancient eyes dark and troubled. “This is the work of the devil,” he said.

“Ja.” Ivan rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “Someone knows. About that night.”

“Unmeeklich!” Impossible! Urgency rang hard in the bishop’s voice. “No one has spoken of it. No one!”

The old man clung to the old tenacity, but Ivan saw through the veneer, thick and callused as it was. The truth of that terrified him anew. “All these years.” He whispered the words, fighting tears. “I need the truth, Bishop. All of it.”

CHAPTER 7

Seven hours missing

I’m behind the wheel and midway down the lane of the Helmuth farm when a set of headlights blind me. An unidentified vehicle barrels toward me at a high rate of speed. Black van. Ohio plates. The driver doesn’t bother dimming bright headlights. Satellite dish on top. Media, I think. The driver makes no attempt to move over to let my vehicle by. When we’re head-to-head, I cut the wheel, blocking him, and flip on my emergency lights.

Dust billows in the glare between our vehicles as I swing open the door. Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and approach the driver’s side. Before I reach it the driver starts to back away, but I raise my hand, ordering him to stop.

It’s a news van, a network out of Columbus. I reach the driver’s side and the window slides down. I have my badge at the ready. “It’s a courtesy in this town to dim your brights when you approach an oncoming vehicle,” I say by way of greeting.

“Sorry, Officer,” says the young man behind the wheel. He’s about thirty years old, with shoulder-length brown hair, a barely-there goatee, and a tattoo of a feather on his neck. He’s wearing a hoodie over a Hawaiian shirt and an expression that tells me he’s anything but sorry. Next to him, a young woman with platinum-blond hair and dark roots leans over to get a look at me. She’s wearing a green suit with a trench coat thrown over her lap.

“Our producer sent us out here to cover the murder and kidnapping,” she says, irritated because I’m interfering with their mission.

“This is private property. Unless you have permission from the homeowners, you need to back up and leave.” I motion toward the half dozen other media vehicles parked along the shoulder, wondering how they got through. “With the rest of the herd.”

“Look, we’re just doing our jobs. I know you are, too.” The young man is trying to charm me. The antic isn’t