Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I don’t recall saying anything like that.” The bishop shovels another pitchfork of manure and wood shavings into the spreader.

I can’t tell if he’s lying and I have no way of knowing if the deputy who talked to him misspoke or misunderstood. Still, I press on. “It was in the course of an interview you did with one of the Geauga County sheriff’s deputies after the murder.”

The bishop sets down the pitchfork and leans on it, giving me an assessing look. “What exactly is your intent with these questions, Kate Burkholder?”

“All I want is the truth,” I tell him.

“Or maybe you have an ax to grind against the Amish?”

“I have nothing but admiration and respect for the Amish.” I meet his gaze head-on. “Unless they break the law.”

“It’s always a little bit more spectacular when it’s the Amish, though, isn’t it?”

“Not for me.”

He contemplates me thoughtfully, as if seeing me for the first time. “There are times when the truth is a painful thing. Times when it will hurt people. There are times when silence is best.”

“My mamm was fond of glay veis leek.” Little white lies. “She used them to keep the peace,” I tell him. “To keep people from getting hurt. Police don’t have that luxury.”

“Luxury?” The Amish man’s eyes are cold. “Joseph King is dead. Naomi is dead. What does it matter now?”

“It matters because if I’m right, someone got away with murder.”

“You know nothing,” the bishop hisses. “Nothing.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Aeckt net so dumm.” Don’t act so dumb.

“Why are you so certain Joseph killed his wife, Bishop?”

“Joseph King was no innocent.” He looks at me as if I’m something to be pitied. “I believe the devil climbed into his heart and left the black stain of evil. I believe he killed his wife in a fit of rage. And I believe he thought he had reason to do so.”

“What reason?”

For the first time the bishop looks uncertain. “Naomi is not here to defend herself.”

That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Why would she need to defend herself? She was the victim.”

He looks at the pitchfork as if he’d forgotten it was in his hands, jabs it into the trampled manure and wood shavings, and tosses it into the spreader. “What exactly are you going to do with this information?” he asks.

“I’m going to stop a killer.”

“And if it hurts someone? Innocents?”

“Would you rather someone get away with murder?”

He sets down the pitchfork, leans on it. “I have struggled with this. I’ve asked God for guidance.” Clenching his jaw as if against a powerful wave of emotion, he shakes his head. “Naomi came to me. For counsel. A few weeks before she was killed.”

“What happened?” I ask.

He stares at me for a long time, as if he’s trying to come to a decision. I wait, staring back, aware that my pulse is up because I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear something that’s going to change everything.

“She was tearful and troubled and … deeply ashamed,” he whispers.

“Ashamed? Of what?”

“Naomi King had gone down a dark road.” He pauses, looks away, his mouth quivering. “She’d been unfaithful to her husband. Betrayed her vows. Not once, but … many times.”

It’s the first I’ve heard of infidelity on Naomi’s part and the words shock me. “Naomi was unfaithful?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“She wouldn’t say. Just that he was not Amisch. She came to me seeking guidance. And forgiveness.” He shakes his head. “Normally, with a transgression, I would ask the person to confess before the congregation and ask God for forgiveness. But with this…” The Amish man shrugs. “Knowing what I did about Joseph and all the trouble he’d caused with his infidelities and the law …

“Naomi and I prayed. I told her to ask God for forgiveness. I asked her to confess her sin to her husband and from this point on to remain faithful to him. She assured me she would do those things. A week later, she was dead.”

He closes his eyes tightly, trying to hold back tears, not quite succeeding. In all the years I’ve known the Amish, lived with them, lived apart from them, I’ve never witnessed a bishop breaking down.

“Naomi must have done as I advised,” he whispers. “She must have confessed to her husband that she had broken her vows, that she’d been unfaithful. Because of my counsel … I believe Joseph flew into a jealous rage and took her life.”

The rain continues in a relentless deluge, pounding the roof and slapping against the ground. The noise inside my head is every bit as deafening. I don’t know what to think. I’m not sure how to feel. The bishop’s theory makes perfect, terrible sense. The weight of the guilt I see in his eyes is crushing. Have I been wrong about Joseph? Did I let my past, my feelings for him, blind me to the truth?

“That’s why you told the police you thought Joseph had done it,” I say after a moment.

He nods. “I still do.”

In the dim light slanting in through the open Dutch door behind him, I see tears on his cheeks and I’m moved by them. “This was my doing,” he says. “At least in part. But I am just a man. Imperfect. Flawed. Unworthy.”

“The only person responsible for Naomi’s death is the person who pulled the trigger,” I tell him.

He considers that for a moment. “That may be true. But if I hadn’t told Naomi to confess her sin to Joseph, would she still be here?” He offers a sorrowful smile. “Neither you or I will ever know, of course. It’s a question I’ll take to the grave.”

“Not if I have a say in the matter.” Surprising myself, I reach out and set my hand over his forearm. “Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy. I’ll safeguard the information to the best of my ability.”

“Be careful in your search for the truth, Kate Burkholder.” Easing his arm away from me, he goes back to his mucking. “You may not like what you find.”





CHAPTER 20

Be careful in your search for the truth, Kate Burkholder. You may not like what you find.

The bishop’s words follow me as I take the Explorer down the lane and start toward home. If he’s telling the truth—and I have no reason to suspect a lie—he just handed me a motive for murder. Jealousy over an illicit love affair.

Maybe Tomasetti is right, and I’m seeing Joseph King through the eyes of the young Amish girl I’d been. An innocent girl with a bad case of hero worship and in the throes of her first crush. Is it possible? After all this time and after all of my law enforcement experience, I’m unable to look at this with an objective eye? The thought makes me feel like a fool.

I rap my palm against the steering wheel hard enough to hurt. “What the hell did you do, Joseph?” I whisper.

I’m passing through Parkman, deep in thought, when I drive past a small restaurant called the Sweet Rosemary Café. I recall Jonas telling me that Naomi King had worked part-time at a restaurant in town. On impulse, I hit the brake, turn around in an alley, and pull into the gravel lot.