Page 93 of Shamed

“Interesting that he’s got a driver’s license and a buggy,” I say.

“I guess all those Amish rules are a pain in the ass when you have a kid to abduct and she lives four hours away.” Tomasetti jams the Explorer into park and looks at me. “You got a vest?”

“Didn’t think I’d need it.”

Giving me a dark look, he swings open the door and gets out. “Keep your goddamn eyes open.”

The four of us meet next to the sheriff’s cruiser. I’m keenly aware of the silence. The whisper-hiss of drizzle. The totality of the darkness pressing down. The sense of abandonment that seems to permeate the place.

The sheriff slaps the rolled warrant against his palm, then addresses his deputy. “Stay here, keep an eye on things. Get on the radio, tell those guys in the back to stand by.” He looks at me and Tomasetti. “Let’s go serve this bastard.”

Cold drizzle floats down from a charcoal sky as we take a stone path around the side of the house to the front. We ascend the steps and cross the wooden porch. There’s a single large window that’s covered with a dark pull-down shade. Standing slightly to one side, Sheriff Pallant knocks on the door. Tomasetti and I stand behind him and to his right.

Footsteps sound and the door swings open. An elderly Amish woman blinks owlishly at the sight of us. “Oh my. What’s this?” She’s wearing a gray dress that falls nearly to her ankles. A kapp covered with a black bonnet. Black apron. Practical black shoes. A dish towel in her hands, fingers bent with arthritis.

I know immediately this woman isn’t Rosanna Detweiler. If Rosanna Detweiler had a child in 2012—even if she had a child late in life—there’s no way she could be much over fifty. This woman looks to be around seventy.

“Is something wrong?” she asks in an accent that tells me she speaks more Deitsch than English. “Has something happened?”

Pallant has his official ID at the ready. “Are you Rosanna Detweiler?”

“I’m Irene Detweiler.” The woman’s eyes flick from him to Tomasetti to me and back to the sheriff. “What’s this about?”

He identifies himself. “We’re looking for Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler. Are either of them here?”

“No.”

“Do they live here, ma’am?”

“No. This is my home.”

“Are you related to the Detweilers?”

“Vern’s my son. Rosanna is my daughter-in-law.” Rheumy blue eyes skate from Tomasetti to the sheriff to me and for the first time she looks alarmed. “Has something happened to them?”

Tomasetti and the sheriff exchange a look. “When’s the last time you saw them?” Pallant asks.

“I haven’t seen my son or his wife for several years. Not since the bishop put them under the bann. Said they were backsliders,” she tells him, using the Amish term for someone who doesn’t follow the rules set forth by the Ordnung. “I always hoped they’d change their ways, but they didn’t and they never came back.”

“Do you know where your son is living now?” I ask.

“Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.” Her brows furrow. “Did they do something wrong?”

This isn’t what I expected. “Your husband’s name was Vernon?” I ask.

“Yes.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that the property deed might be in her husband’s name, not her son’s. A rookie mistake. I kick myself for not anticipating it, for not checking.

Stepping back from the door, Pallant frowns at us and lowers his voice. “Someone get their information wrong here?”

“She could be covering for them,” Tomasetti says in a hushed tone.

Pallant holds his gaze for a moment, then goes back to the door and passes the warrant to the Amish woman. “I’ve got a warrant to search your house and your farm, ma’am. I suggest you read it carefully.”

“A warrant? But…” She takes the paper, and looks down at it as if it’s covered with some lethal virus. “What on earth are you looking for?”

“Everything you need to know is in the warrant.” Opening the door wider, the sheriff pushes past her.