Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,71

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.”

We exchange a look and then we fall silent. I’m not happy with Freda Troyer or the bishop. They were involved in something malapropos seven years ago. Even after the murder of Mary Yoder, and the abduction of Elsie Helmuth, they didn’t come forward. Even after I asked, they held their silence—and possibly information that might have prevented this most recent tragedy. With the bishop’s life hanging by a thread, I’m hard-pressed to castigate her.

“I can’t stay,” I tell her. “I have to get back out there and try to find the person responsible.”

The Amish woman nods. “Thank you for bringing me to be with my husband.”

She may be alone at the moment, but I know she won’t be for long. Word of the shooting and the bishop’s condition will spread through the Amish community like wildfire. I know that even as we speak, half a dozen buggies are already en route.

“Freda, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find the person who did this?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

I walk away, leaving her with her anguish, her fear, and the knowledge that the shooting of her husband isn’t the only tragedy that must be dealt with.

CHAPTER 19

Seventy-eight hours missing

I arrive at the intersection of County Road 150 and Township Road 104 to find Glock’s cruiser blocking traffic, his emergency lights flashing. He’s set out flares, but he’s nowhere in sight. A quarter mile ahead, a Holmes County cruiser is parked in the same fashion. The deputy is setting up a reflective wooden horse.

I tug my cell from the console and call Skid. Last I heard, he’d gone home to get some sleep. I’m loath to call him back to work, but I can’t spare him.

He answers with a groggy “Yeah.”

“Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” We laugh because we both know it’s not true.

I tell him about Bishop Troyer.

“Damn, Chief, the bishop? Is he—”

“He’s alive, but critical. The problem is I don’t know if the son of a bitch who shot him is finished. I need you to go out to the Helmuth place and keep