what they deserve.
And the third.
Anyone who steals must certainly make restitution, but if they have nothing, they must be sold to pay for their theft.
“I should have told you.” Miriam begins to sputter. “I was scared. Ivan didn’t want to tell. He didn’t—”
“Who has handled these notes?” I ask, my voice sharp.
“Me. Ivan. That’s it.”
“Do the passages mean anything to you?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “The first is a proverb. The second is a psalm. Ninety-four, I think. The other … Exodus.”
I stare at her, letting the full force of my anger come through. “What else haven’t you told me?”
“That’s it. That’s everything. I promise. I was just so scared. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Miriam, listen to me. If we’re going to find Elsie. If we’re going to find the person responsible, you have to trust me. You have to be honest. You have to tell me everything. Do you understand?”
“I do.” She looks down at her hands, where they’re knotted in front of her. “Chief Burkholder, I don’t know who the mother is. Who the parents are. I don’t know where they’re from or why they did what they did.” A sob escapes her. “All I know is that when I took Elsie into my arms, she was mine. She was home.” She goes to pieces. “I want her back. My sweet baby girl. Please. Chief Burkholder, find her for us. Find her before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 11
Twenty-five hours missing
My head is reeling on the drive to the Troyer farm. Twice I pick up my cell to call Dispatch to find out if there was a missing child in the area seven years ago; twice I put it down without making the call. I need more information. I need to talk to the bishop, find out if he was, indeed, involved, and get all the facts—if there are facts to be had.
Why would a child be taken from her birth mother and placed with another family? Was the mother afflicted with Cohen syndrome, too? Of course, it’s possible she’d passed away or had some other health issue. Usually, if there’s some kind of disability—mental or physical or both—the Amish take care of their own without question. But if that was the case, why all the secrecy?
The possibility that the bishop was involved shakes my world. He’s been a fixture in my life for as long as I can remember. To the Amish girl I’d been, he was revered and feared in equal measure. Is it possible he played a role in placing Elsie with the Helmuths? That he did, in fact, take part in what boils down to an illegal adoption?
I believe Miriam is telling the truth. In terms of the abduction, it could explain a lot. The big question now is who are the parents? What’s their story? Were they knowing participants?
Having grown up Amish, I know that as a general rule, they are decent, law-abiding citizens. They’re family-oriented, hardworking, and they consider children a gift from God. Most Amish couples are exceptional parents. Their children grow up with the support not only of their families, but of the community as a whole.
But like all of us mortals, the Amish are not perfect. Over the years, I’ve heard the whisperings of a belief system and traditions taken too far. When I was fifteen, an Amish girl not much older than me became pregnant out of wedlock. The father-to-be was nowhere to be found. The young woman’s mother and grandmother stepped in and conspired to get her married off to an acceptable Amish bachelor. The marriage was rushed. The dates were fudged. The baby was born “early.” The young woman’s husband—and most of the community—was never the wiser. A happy ending for all—unless you’re a fan of the truth. Did some situation with a social stigma attached bring about what happened with Elsie Helmuth?
A hundred questions pound my brain as I park in the gravel area behind the Troyer farmhouse. It’s after six P.M., fully dark, and a steady rain falls from a low sky. I discern the glow of lantern light in the kitchen window as I take the sidewalk to the back door and knock.
The scuff of footsteps sounds inside. A moment later the door swings open and I find myself looking at Bishop Troyer. He’s always seemed ancient to me, especially when I was a kid. I was as terrified as I was fascinated by him. I like to think I’m long past all