Page 94 of The Burning

Seeing a couple of uncertain expressions, I press on. “Take into consideration everything we know about Milan Swanz, his pattern of behavior—hurting people, abusing children, engaging in amoral behavior.” I say the words with emphasis. “What if some bastardized version of the Schwertler Anabaptists is still around? What if this group took it upon themselves to protect the Amish community?”

Texting, Chambers looks up from his cell and hefts an incredulous laugh. “You mean like the Amish Mafia?”

I’m thankful when no one laughs.

“Kate, just to clarify,” the sheriff says. “Are you saying these Schwertler Anabaptist people may be living in or around Holmes County? That they planned and executed the murder of Swanz because he was a threat to the Amish community?”

“I’m putting forth a loose theory that warrants a closer look,” I tell him. “Anyone can call themselves a Schwertler Anabaptist. What we’re talking about here is motive.”

“One person?” This from Skid. “Or a group?”

“I don’t know, but I’m leaning toward the possibility that we’re looking for at least two individuals.”

Glock jumps in with the next question. “So you believe that the perpetrator or perpetrators are likely Amish.”

“Or formerly Amish or some denomination of Anabaptist,” I tell him. “Remember, the Anabaptists are comprised of three core groups: the Amish, the Mennonites, and the Hutterites.”

T.J. poses the next question. “How does this group find their victims?”

It’s a difficult question I’ve considered and not been able to answer. “It has to be word of mouth,” I tell him. “The Amish community is tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone. Word gets out. And this group catches wind of it.”

“So you don’t believe someone here in Painters Mill made contact with this group?” says Tomasetti. “The bishop? An elder?”

I think about the bishop and his wife, of the Amish community as a whole, and my own years growing up as one of them, and I shake my head. “I can’t see that.”

Chambers sighs as if he’s heard enough. “Chief Burkholder, with all due respect, how in the hell does burning a guy in a pile of pallets tie into some mysterious vigilante group and Amish history?”

“That method of execution was used to do away with Anabaptists during the Reformation. There are many cases documented in Martyrs Mirror.”

“‘Martyrs mirror’?”

“It’s an old book,” I explain. “Written in the seventeenth century. It depicts stories of persecution of the early Anabaptists. A lot of Amish keep this book in their homes.”

Smiling, he scratches his head, his expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Chief Burkholder, with all due respect to you and the Amish, that’s one hell of a stretch.”

A cacophony of ringing cell phones breaks the tension. Chambers glances down at his and rises. “Just a second,” he says, and leaves the room.

Next to him Rasmussen frowns at the display of his own cell and then swipes up without answering. Auggie Brock gives his iPhone the side-eye then quickly silences it.

“Shit,” Tomasetti mutters.

I look at him, puzzled, inexplicably alarmed, keenly aware that neither my cell nor Tomasetti’s rang.

The door swings open. Chambers strides in, cell phone in hand, and addresses Rasmussen without looking at me. “We got the warrant.”

Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Rasmussen gets to his feet. I watch him from where I stand, but he doesn’t make eye contact with me.

“Warrant for who?” I direct the question to the sheriff.

Chambers finally looks at me. “Jacob Burkholder for the murder of Milan Swanz.”

CHAPTER 25

It’s two P.M. and I’m sitting in my office, trying—and failing—not to feel betrayed. I want to believe I’m angry about the secrecy surrounding the warrant for my brother’s arrest. That I’m pissed because my counterparts didn’t trust me enough to even give me a heads-up, and then they sprang the news on me in front of my team. But, I’m not just angry. I’m hurt—and I’m worried as hell for my brother.

A mountain of foreboding threatens to overwhelm me when I think of what will happen to Jacob in the coming hours and days. I don’t believe he murdered Milan Swanz. I know him—his heart, his mind. The circumstantial evidence against him looks bad, but I know he isn’t a killer.

Miserable, I look out the window at the intermittent snow and I wonder if the sheriff’s department deputies have made the arrest. I wonder if Jacob blames me. If he thinks I betrayed his confidence. The wrongness of that is almost too much to bear.