Page 8 of Shamed

“Sweetheart, do you know where he went?”

She shakes her head.

I keep going. “Was he in a buggy or an Englischer car?”

The child begins to cry. Huge, wrenching sobs. I consider pressing, but back off. For now.

I reach out and squeeze her little knee. “I’m going to go get your mamm and datt.”

Rising, I dig my keys from my pocket, turn to Mona and the deputy. “We need to look around for the girl. Set up a perimeter. Protect the scene. We’ve got a male subject who’s possibly taken a little girl. I want all hands on deck.” I address Mona. “Tell T.J. and Pickles to canvass the area,” I say, referring to my officers by their nicknames. “Tell Glock and Skid to clear the barn and outbuildings, and fan out from there. Call the sheriff’s department, see if they have someone with dogs. I want the property searched and I want everyone on scene mindful of evidence. Everything gets marked and preserved.”

“Got it.”

Yanking out my phone, I hit the speed dial for John Tomasetti and start toward the Explorer. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s also my significant other and the love of my life. Painters Mill falls within his region. We’ve worked together on several cases. In fact, that’s how we met. He’s aggressive and thorough and good at what he does. At the moment, I’m glad I have someone like him to count on.

He picks up on the second ring. “I hear you’ve got a body and a missing juvenile on your hands,” he says without preamble.

“Word travels fast.” Some of the tension building in my chest eases at the sound of his voice. I lay out what little I know. “I think the five-year-old saw the killer, and I think she may have seen him take her sister.”

“One man?”

“I think so. This kid is traumatized, so I need someone good to come down and talk to her. I need to know what she saw and I need it five minutes ago.”

“I’m on it,” he says.

“Tomasetti, this woman wasn’t just stabbed. She was…” The image of Mary Yoder’s butchered body flashes in my mind’s eye. “She was cut to pieces.”

“Sounds personal.”

“And now he may have a little girl. I’m going to check with the parents, confirm it before we pull out all the stops.” I hit the fob to unlock the Explorer.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he says.

I hit END and drop the cell into my pocket. I’ve just opened the door when I spot the Amish man running toward me, a boy of about nine or ten hot on his heels. I recognize him immediately as Ivan Helmuth. More than likely he heard the sirens or saw the police vehicles pulling in, and came down to see what happened. His expression tells me he’s worried as hell.

“Chief Burkholder!” he calls out.

I go to him. “Mr. Helmuth—”

“What happened?” he says. “Why are all of these police here? Where are my children? My mother-in-law?”

“I’ve got one girl in the car, sir. She’s okay.”

“One? But…” Leaving the sentence unfinished, he rushes to the vehicle, pushes past Mona and the deputy, and looks into the car. “Annie.” He pulls the girl into his arms.

“Datt!” Sobbing, the little girl clings to him.

“Where is your shveshtah?” he asks. Sister. “Your grossmammi?”

“Da Deivel got Grossmammi!” the little girl cries. “He took Elsie!”

“What?” The Amish man is so startled by the assertion that he presses his hand against his chest and stumbles back. “Took her? Da Deivel?” His eyes find mine. “Where are they, Chief Burkholder? What’s happened here?”

“Mr. Helmuth.” I set my hand on his arm, let my eyes slide to the little girl. “I need to speak with you privately.”

His eyes connect with mine; then he looks down at the boy who’d followed him over. “Bleiva mitt die shveshtah.” Stay with your sister.

Looking shell-shocked, he lets me lead him a few feet away. When we’re out of earshot of the children, I stop and turn to him. There’s no easy way to tell him what needs to be said. There’s no way to cushion the blow or ease the deluge of terror that will follow.