Page 74 of The Burning

The question elicits the shadow of a smile. “When I was a boy, my grandfather regaled me with tales of the Schwertler Anabaptists.”

“Who are they?” I ask.

Another smile, this one darker, a cruel child exulting in tearing the wings off an insect, poking a needle into its center. “My mamm scolded him, of course. She assured me they didn’t exist. And she forbade my grandfather from speaking of them.”

“So the Schwertler Anabaptists are nothing more than a fairy tale,” I say.

The kindly-father persona returns and he smiles at me, crow’s-feet deepening, eyes sparkling. “You have remained Anabaptist, no?”

“For the most part,” I say, aware that we’ve edged into an area that’s too personal. “A Mennonite minister officiated my wedding.”

He nods in approval. “I like you, Chief Burkholder. Yours is a face that has seen hardship. And despair, I think. You have courage and a lion’s heart. When you trust, you trust deeply. You’re smart, and yet here you are, out here in the snow and mud and cold, all alone with a man you don’t know and probably shouldn’t trust.”

I think about telling him I have a .38 revolver beneath my coat, but I don’t. “Tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists.”

“I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can.” Stepping away, he closes the door of the dump truck. “If there’s more to be learned, you’ll have to do it on your own.”

“How do I do that?” I ask.

He starts to turn away, ostensibly to return to the social hall, but I reach out and touch his arm. “Mr. Hofer, is there someone I can get in touch with who might—”

Touching his sleeve is an innocent gesture, not overly assertive, but he swivels to me. There is a fierceness to his expression. His eyes flash. Out of the corner of my eye I see his left hand clench. His right comes at me as if to reach for my throat. He stops short of touching me.

“Beware the monsters that are familiar to you, Kate Burkholder.”

I blink at him, taken back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve said my piece.”

“Give me a name,” I say. “Someone I can talk to.”

Eyes blazing, he leans closer. So close I smell tobacco and menthol on his breath, the unpleasant redolence of coffee, and I resist the urge to step back. “You think you’re tough. Strong. You trust your instincts implicitly. Perhaps this is the time for you to rethink all of that and go home.”

“This isn’t about me,” I say, grasping for calm. “I have a job to do and I intend to do it with or without your help.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Mr. Hofer, I’m trying to find out who murdered Milan Swanz,” I tell him. “I was told the Schwertler Anabaptists may have been involved and that you might be able to help me.”

“All I can tell you about the Schwertlers, Chief Burkholder, is that if you draw their attention, you won’t like the results. And you won’t see them coming.”

“Who are you talking about?” I snap.

He speaks over me. “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.”

At that, he turns away and slogs through the mud and snow to the mouth of the path. I listen to the snow pellets strike the dump truck, the shoulders of my coat, and I watch him go.

CHAPTER 19

I’ve experienced my share of the bizarre and I’m no shrinking violet when it comes to dealing with hostile individuals. But I’m shaking when I reach the Explorer and slide behind the wheel, partly from anger, partly from the sheer disconcerting nature of the encounter. I sit there for a moment, trying to regain a sense of calm. What the hell am I supposed to make of Isaiah Hofer and the ominous if vague threats he’s made to me?

I learned nothing substantive about the Schwertler Anabaptists, but I’m exponentially more curious. I rack my brain, trying to think of someone who might be able to fill in the blanks. It’s a short list. Freda Troyer gave me just enough for me to find Hofer. Hofer left me with the uneasy impression that the group is, at the very least, worth looking into. I can’t think of a soul I can turn to for information.

That’s the thing about the Amish. Sure, they’re good neighbors. They’re hardworking. Family oriented. Generally speaking, they’re quiet and cooperative and will go out of their way to help you if you need a roof on your house or a chicken coop or a new barn because yours burned to the ground. The Amish are a lot of good things, but they are not always forthcoming. There are certain subjects that are taboo, particularly when it concerns their brethren, and they will not speak of it, especially to the English and even if it means lying to the police.

Cursing the Amish aversion to cell phones, I jam the Explorer into gear and start for Painters Mill.

It’s late afternoon when I pull into the lane of my brother’s farm. I’m midway to the house when the back door opens. I look up to see Jacob trotting down the porch steps.