Six hours missing
There were too many people around—police and Amish alike—for him to risk taking the road, so he cut through the field on foot and ran until he could go on no more. Ivan Helmuth couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When he was fourteen and broke his leg after jumping from the hayloft and landing on the plow. When his datt died. Now, alone and under cover of darkness, he fell to his knees and wept like the child he hadn’t been for a long time. The tears were a loud, ugly ordeal but, dear God, he’d never felt such agony. He’d never been so frightened in his life.
Sweet Elsie.
Please deliver her back to us.
He knew God always listened, but His ways were sometimes mysterious. Still, Ivan had always had his faith. It was his strength. The thing he could hold on to during times of trial. This was different. He prayed, of course, but the words didn’t come easily. The old lie rang hollow in his voice and he couldn’t help but wonder: Was he finally being punished for what he’d done?
Rising, Ivan trudged to the edge of the plowed field, which put him on the township road that would take him to the Troyer place. The bishop had come to them the moment he’d gotten word. He’d been at their farm most of the day. He’d prayed with them. Comforted them. But they hadn’t had the chance to talk. Not privately. There’d been too many people around asking too many questions. Ivan needed to be alone with the bishop. He needed to show him the note.
He tugged the handkerchief from his pocket and took a minute to wipe the tears and snot from his face and beard. By the time he reached the house, he’d caught his breath, regained some semblance of control. There was no glow of lantern light inside. They were already in bed. It didn’t matter. He went directly to the back door, knocked, and waited.
Around him, the night was restless. The wind ebbed and flowed through the trees. A cow bawled from its pen. In the distance, a lone coyote yipped.
Where are you, 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.”