Page 88 of The Burning

The Amish woman looks down at her hands. “I filed for divorce. Told everyone he was the one done it.” Her mouth twists. “Milan didn’t like it one bit. Shortly after he got the final papers, Milan went after the bishop and his wife.”

“Had I known about that,” I tell her, “I would have arrested Milan.”

“For goodness’ sakes, you know how the Amish are.” She waves off the statement. “Last thing anyone wanted was for the English police to get involved.”

She shakes her head. “After the divorce was done, I didn’t hear from Milan for a time. I thought everything was going to be okay.”

She closes her eyes; the energy of the room shifts. Lester lowers his head, his chin against his chest, and he stares down at the tabletop.

“Milan came here to the house,” the Amish woman says. “Middle of the night. Kids were sleeping. He woke me up, pulled me out of bed, dragged me down the stairs by my hair. He had some bad things in his head that night. Talking like a madman. Blamed me for all his problems. Said I’d betrayed him. Betrayed our vows.” Her mouth draws tight. “He took me right there on the kitchen floor like we were a couple of farm animals.”

I feel myself sit up straighter, horrified by what she is telling me. “He raped you?”

“Oh, he said it wasn’t that. He said I was still his wife and in the eyes of God he had a right.” She shrugs. “I was so shook up. I remember being on the floor.” She motions to a place behind my chair. “His hands around my neck.”

Her breaths quicken, as if she can’t get enough air into her lungs. “Don’t know how long that went on. I think I must have blacked out once or twice. The next thing I know there were two strangers in my kitchen. Men. Dressed all in black. Big, strong men with the kind of eyes that mean business. It was the craziest thing. One of them helped me up. Put me in a chair here at the table. Didn’t say a word. But he was … kind. Gentle, you know. Then they took Milan…”

“Where did they take him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you recognize the men?” I ask.

“No, ma’am. Never seen them before in my life.”

“Were they Amish?”

Her brows crease. “Not Holmes County Amish. Their beards were trimmed up. Neat-like, you know, the way some of those Beachys do. To tell you the truth, they didn’t look like any Amish I’ve ever seen.”

The Beachy Amish are a progressive subgroup, some of whom have been known to use electronics, gas-powered tractors, even a motorized vehicle for transportation.

“Was Milan ever Beachy?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did he know the men?”

“I don’t think so.” She mulls that a moment. “I got the impression he was as surprised to see them as I was.”

“Do you know what they wanted?”

“No idea.”

“When did this happen?” I ask.

She makes a face as if to search her memory. “A week or two before Milan was killed.”

I puzzle over the incident as I write it down. “These men,” I say, “did they drive a vehicle?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I was in the kitchen and didn’t look out the window.” Her brows furrow. “But I do recall seeing lights.” She looks at me. “Headlights, maybe. Bright, you know, as if from a car or truck.”

I note it. “What happened next?”

“They took Milan outside and he went with them.”

“Willingly?”

“Seemed that way.”