Page 38 of The Burning

As I park in the gravel area at the back of the house, I notice there’s no light in the windows. Snow brushes against my face as I take the walkway to the porch. Opening the screen door, I knock, knowing it may take him a while to answer. As I wait, I listen to the yip of coyotes in the field behind me. The whisper of wind through the treetops. The hushed tap of snow against the siding. I’m thinking about knocking a second time when the door creaks open.

The wrinkled face of the bishop’s wife, Freda, peers out at me through the gap. “Katie Burkholder? What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” she asks in Deitsch.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mrs. Troyer,” I respond in kind. “This is an official visit. I need to speak with the bishop. Is he around?”

“This is about Milan Swanz.” It’s not a question.

“Yes, it is.”

She stares at me, unspeaking, for a beat too long, then opens the door the rest of the way. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

Freda Troyer may be a scant five feet tall, but despite her diminutive stature, she’s formidable, a woman who is comfortable in her skin, knows her mind and doesn’t hesitate to speak it. She makes no effort to engage in small talk as I follow her through the mudroom to a large kitchen. The room is dark, the only light coming from the lantern in her hand. I’m thankful when she lights a second one on the counter. As a kid, having grown up without electricity, I wouldn’t have noticed the lack of light. Now that I’m English, I’m aware of how much I’ve come to rely on it.

The Amish woman motions to the table and chairs. “Sitz dich anne.” Set yourself there. She goes through the doorway and disappears.

I slide into a chair at the table, glad for the warmth, taking in the smells of lantern oil and something that was baked earlier in the day. To my relief, the bishop doesn’t keep me waiting. He’s dressed in black—shirt, suspenders, jacket, and a flat-brimmed felt hat. He leans heavily on a four-prong walker as he enters the kitchen.

“Now that you’re a married woman, I thought you might set all of this police business aside,” he says.

No matter how many years of life experience I have under my belt—that I’m now a grown woman and the chief of police—invariably the nerves of the Amish girl I’d once been tense at the low timbre of his voice, and I find myself sitting up a little straighter.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Bishop, but there’s been a homicide and I need to ask you a few questions.”

His hair is mostly silver with a few black strands throughout, and unevenly cropped. His beard is white, unkempt, and dangles to the waistband of his trousers. He seems smaller than when I last saw him, his posture stooped, his legs bowed. The frailty doesn’t detract from the steel in his eyes.

“I heard about Milan Swanz.” He shakes his head. “It’s a terrible thing.”

“I’m trying to find the person responsible.” I pull out the copy I made of the list of addresses. “I went to Milan’s house and found this.” I slide the sheet in front of him. “Do you have any idea why he might’ve had your address written down?”

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out wire-rimmed glasses, looks down at the paper, and shrugs. “I have no way of knowing such a thing.”

“Did he ever do any work for you?” I ask. “Cabinets? Odd jobs? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Do you see any connection between these other addresses, your own, and Milan Swanz?”

“No.”

“Has Swanz been to see you here at the house?” I ask.

“No.”

“Bishop, I know he was excommunicated. Was he upset about that?”

“He wasn’t happy about it, of course. No one would be. But Milan knew the rules and he broke them.”

“What about before he was excommunicated?” I ask. “When you initially placed him under the bann?”

“That was a long time ago.” The old man shrugs. “More than a year now.”

“Anger can fester over time,” I say.

The bishop says nothing, his eyes holding mine, his expression impassive.

In the Painters Mill church district, an Amish person who has been placed under the bann can make things right by changing his or her behavior and confessing to the congregation, in which case he or she will be reinstated. If they refuse to change the offending behavior or confess, however, they will be permanently excommunicated, a status from which there is no return.

I rephrase the question. “How angry was Milan when you excommunicated him?”