Page 104 of The Burning

“No one has proof of anything,” I say, leaving the statement purposefully vague. “You’re not wanted. You’re not even a person of interest.”

He ignores me, keeps walking.

“It’s not too late to stop this,” I say. “You can still get away. With my brother in jail, no one will come after you.”

I glance over at him, find his eyes on me, cold and skeptical and mildly amused.

“No one?” he asks. “Even you?”

“They fired me, remember?” I try for flippant, but I don’t manage. “It’s not easy to be loyal to someone who’s stabbed you in the back.”

“You are, however, loyal to yourself, no?”

I don’t respond.

He hefts the coil rope more solidly onto his shoulder. “I understand you because in some ways you and I are alike.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“People like us … we don’t give up. We don’t know how to give up. We are driven. Sometimes by demons. Sometimes that’s a strength. Sometimes it’s a weakness.”

Keep him talking. Engage him.

“I do what I have to do to survive,” I tell him.

A smile whispers across his mouth. “That’s why you’re here, Chief Burkholder. That’s why you’re a problem. That’s why both of us find ourselves in this situation.”

“Let me go,” I tell him. “I won’t come after you. You have my word.”

He scoffs. “You insult my intelligence.”

My mind zigs and zags as we continue up the trail. I’m aware of the quarry below. The binds at my wrists cutting into my skin. That we’re getting farther away from the SUV—and the shotgun. I glance down at my waistband, but I can’t discern if my folding knife is there.

We ascend a dozen rock steps. I glance right to see that the water’s surface is twenty feet down now. The trail widens and we enter a clearing. It’s the kind of place that’s probably pretty in the summertime, rife with wild raspberry and goldenrod. A perfect spot for a picnic or photos. This evening, it feels like a deathtrap.

“I know about the Schwertler Anabaptists,” I tell him.

He stops, turns to me, studies my face, and I realize I’ve surprised him. “You did your homework.”

“I know why you do what you do,” I say.

No response.

Get him talking. Sympathize with him. Gain his trust. Make him think you’re an ally.

“Milan Swanz hurt people,” I say. “He hurt them physically. Emotionally. He destroyed the lives of a lot of people, especially the ones who cared for him.”

He nods as if reluctantly impressed, saying nothing.

“I know you were in Lancaster County in July of 2012,” I say.

No response.

“Lena Stoltzfus murdered her babies. She smothered them. Three innocent infants. She got away with it by saying it was SIDS. She would have done it again. You stepped in because it was the only way to stop her.”

He raises his hand as if to silence me.

I speak faster, my mind spinning through everything I’ve learned in the past days, and all of it comes pouring out.