Page 100 of The Burning

I recall the story about her summer in Shipshewana when she was thirteen years old.

Druvvel-machah …

Hanged himself in the barn.

… someone did that to him.

Tied him up and hung him up by his neck.

Everyone was talking about the Schwertlers.

And it never got told to the police.

When I’d pressed her on the number of years that had passed since the summer of 1951, she’d responded with:

New blood for every generation.

And then she’d given me Hofer’s name.

I flip the page, stop at the notes I jotted after my interview with Hofer.

… you won’t see them coming. If you cross them, they will come for you. They will find you. They will devour you. And they will spit out the residue. The pieces of you will never be found. There will be no resolution. No closure. Consider that the next time you look into the eyes of the people who love you.

It was a threat. Even now, the words chill me. Is it possible some modern-day version of the Schwertler Anabaptists does, indeed, exist? That the only attribute the two groups share is an endorsement of violence? Was Milan Swanz murdered because this group had identified him as a modern-day heretic?

The last thing I should be considering is driving to Dundee to talk to Isaiah Hofer. The notion has BAD IDEA written all over it in flashing red neon. Chances are, the guy in the video looks like Hofer. On the outside chance that it is him, he may have been there for something as benign as a wedding or funeral. That’s not to mention the small inconvenience of my having been removed from the investigation. Interference by me at this juncture could jeopardize the case, especially if it goes to trial.

The problem is, my brother is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Chambers doesn’t necessarily care if Jacob is guilty or innocent as long as he scores a win for himself. My cop’s sensibilities won’t allow me to sit this out. The question now is, what the hell am I going to do about it?

“Not a damn thing,” I mutter.

Even as I say the words, I know I’m not going to follow my own good advice. Not giving myself time to debate, I snatch up my keys and head for the door.

I call Tomasetti as I back out of my parking spot. He picks up quickly. “Where are you?” I ask without preamble.

“I’m still at the sheriff’s office. Jacob was processed an hour ago. They’re interviewing him now.”

“They cut you, too.” It’s not a question.

“I’m his brother-in-law, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected.”

I think of my brother alone in a room with Chambers and Rasmussen. I know Jacob won’t talk about what happened between Swanz and my nephew. I also know his silence will be considered a lack of cooperation at best. An outright lie at worst.

“Does Jacob have a lawyer?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.”

“Tomasetti, he probably doesn’t know enough about the way the law works to understand that he has a right to one.”

I hear muffled voices on the other end and he lowers his voice. “Look, I know a good criminal defense lawyer in Wooster. Went to college with him a couple hundred years ago. I’ll give him a call.”

I close my eyes against an unwelcome rush of emotion. “Thank you.”

“You at the farm?” he asks.

“Not exactly.” I tell him about recognizing Hofer on the video and lay out my suspicions. “Tomasetti, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“What are you going to do about it?”