Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

I barely notice the snow-covered field or the cattle huddled at the round bale of hay as I zip up the lane of my brother's farm. I've relived my meeting with Rasmussen and Chambers a dozen times during the short drive; I've picked it apart. Analyzed what was said. Critiqued my every response. None of what's happened sits well. The one thing I keep coming back to is the thin line between right and wrong and how easily that line can be blurred. On a professional level, I'm keenly aware that I'm not helping matters. On a personal level, it hurts that Mike Rasmussen, whom I've always considered a friend, waffled when it came to supporting me.

The pain of that pounds hard in my chest as I park adjacent the chicken coop and get out. The door to the barn stands open a few feet. Hoping to catch Jacob alone, I head that way.

I find him in one of the horse stalls, mucking. I watch him work for a moment, remembering that I did the same chore hundreds of times as a girl and that once upon a time—before the summer when Daniel Lapp tore apart our lives—Jacob and I were as close as a brother and sister could be.

"Some things never change," I say.

Straightening, he looks at me, pushes up the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, and smiles. For an instant he looks so much like the brother I'd once idolized that a pang tolls in my heart.

"You were always better at this than me," he says.

"I was happy to pass the torch."

He goes back to work and for a few minutes, we simply enjoy the moment, being in each other's company, the earthy smells of the barn, content to remember without all the complications of our adult lives.

"I need to know what happened between you and Milan Swanz," I say.

The pitchfork freezes mid-toss; then he empties the tines and scowls at me as if he has no idea what I'm talking about. "I told you," he says. "Milan did some work for me. On that fence at the side of the property. I paid him. That was the end of it."

"I know you argued with him, Jacob. I know it was heated. I need you to tell me what that was about."

He stares at me as if trying to figure out how I could possibly know, and how I have the gall to ask him about it.

"A witness came forward," I tell him. "He overheard the argument. He saw you with Swanz. In fact, he went to BCI after I spoke to you, and he's claiming I'm protecting you. I need you to come clean and tell me what happened."

It takes a lot to anger my brother. Not because he's easygoing, but because he's good at keeping all those un-Amish-like emotions tucked away and locked down tight. In all my thirty-six years, I've only seen him truly angry a handful of times. As I stand in the aisle and look at him through the stall door, I see that temper peek out at me.

Without speaking, he sets the pitchfork against the stall divider and approaches me. "I'm sorry this has caused you trouble with your police work," he says. "I didn't mean for that to happen. But I'll not speak of what happened to you or anyone else."

"You don't have a choice," I tell him. "I don't have a choice but to ask."

"My argument with Swanz has nothing to do with what happened to him."

"That's not a good enough answer."

"It's going to have to do."

He tries to brush past me, but I reach out and grasp his arm. "Jacob, Milan Swanz is dead. You argued with him just four days before his death. Do you have any idea how that looks?"

"I don't care what the English think," he snaps.

"What about the police?" I say with equal vehemence.

He looks down at the place where my hand grasps his biceps through his coat. "I had nothing to do with Swanz's death."

"I know you didn't, damn it!" I release him with a little too much force, giving him a small shove in the process. "What I don't understand is why you lied to me. What are you hiding?"

He looks away, the muscles in his jaws working, as if he's grinding his teeth. "I think you should leave."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on."

Stepping away, he picks up the pitchfork and goes back to the wheelbarrow. For the first time he looks upset in a way I didn't expect. "I can't talk to you about this, Katie."

"About what?" I snap. "What happened? If you have nothing to hide, why can't you talk to me?"

Tightening his mouth, he forks shavings, shakes off the excess, and dumps the manure in the wheelbarrow.

"Are you protecting someone?" I ask.

No response.

Not giving myself time to debate, I stride to him, take the pitchfork from his hands. He resists and for an instant we struggle for possession. Finally, I yank it from his hands, swivel, and throw it like a spear to the end of the aisle.

When I turn back to him, I'm breathing hard. Not from the physical exertion, but because I'm an inch away from losing my temper. "Talk to me," I say.

He looks down at his boots, shakes his head. "There are some things best left unsaid. You know that. Some things are… private and should stay that way."

"Jacob, if the police come for you, I can't protect you."

"I don't need your protection."

"You just became a person of interest in a murder case. That's not to mention there's a killer on the loose in this town," I hiss. "I saw Swanz's body. I know what he's capable of. If he takes another life, part of it will be on you."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he closes his eyes, then lets out a long, pained breath. Misery suffuses his expression and in that moment I know whatever he's holding inside him isn't about him, but someone he loves.

"Who are you protecting?" I ask.

"It's… James," he says after a moment.

I blink at him, surprised. "James?" His eleven-year-old son. My nephew. I don't know the boy as well as I should; we're not close. What I do know about him is that he's a sweet kid with freckles on his nose and puppy-dog eyes. He's got a contagious grin and a happy-go-lucky personality that I've loved since the moment I laid eyes on him.

"James." Stupidly, I repeat the name and I feel myself bracing. Not as a cop. But a woman who knows too much about the world. And an aunt who knows that what comes next is going to hurt.

"What happened to him?" I ask.

Jacob's expression goes dark. Grimacing, he looks down at the ground. Then he lowers his head, runs his hands over his face. "James wanted to help with the fence. When Swanz was here. He likes working with his hands, you know, like all boys do. So I gave him my pliers. Some T-post clips. And I told him to help Swanz and work hard."

I nod.

My brother raises his head, meets my gaze. "They worked on the fence for two days. The second afternoon, James didn't come in for supper." He stops speaking as if he's run out of breath. An uncomfortable moment ensues as he struggles for composure. "They'd been working over by the old barn that day. When I went out to get him, there was no one there. They were nowhere in sight. But Swanz's car was still parked in the drive." His jaw goes taut. "I went to the barn. Found them in the loft."

The words hit me like a volley of punches. Involuntarily, I step back, press my hand to my abdomen. I feel sick inside. Outraged. Part of me doesn't want to hear the rest. I don't have a choice but to ask anyway. "Jacob… did he…" I can't finish.

"No." Jacob shakes his head. "Not that. But, Katie, I think if I hadn't gone out there when I did, something bad would have happened."

"James is okay?"

"He's eleven years old. He's innocent. He was… upset. Embarrassed and confused. He's a smart boy. He knew everything was wrong."

"And Swanz?"

"He got down the steps before I could stop him. But I followed, caught up with him over by the fence. Right next to my neighbor's property." He frowns, letting me know he's aware of who the unnamed "witness" is. "I haven't struck another human being since I was a boy myself. It's not our way. It's not my way." He shrugs. "It's certainly not something I want my son to see. I almost went after Swanz, but God reminded me it was wrong."

"What happened?" I ask.

"We argued. I told him I was going to go to the bishop and tell him everything. Then I paid him. I ordered him off my property. Told him not to come back. And he left."

I think of the story the witness described, acknowledge that the circumstances Jacob laid out match, and I utter a silent prayer because I believe him.

We fall silent. The only sound comes from the cooing of a pigeon in the rafters, and the hum of wind coming through the door.

"Did you go to the bishop?" I ask.

"I went that evening."

"What did the bishop say?"

"He listened mostly, but I could tell he was troubled."

I nod. "Jacob, I know you didn't murder Swanz. But I have to ask. Were you involved in his death in any way?"

"No," he says.

"Do you have any idea who might've done it?"

"All I can tell you about Swanz is that he was veesht. " Evil. "None of the Amish were sorry to see him go, including me."

The weight of a troubled mind shadows me like a lumbering beast as I knock on the door of the house where Bertha Swanz lives with her children. I'm preoccupied, trying to figure out what to do with the information my brother just gave me, when Bertha's eldest son informs me his mother is working and won't be home until ten o'clock this evening. I thank him and go back to the Explorer. One of the things I like about being a cop in a small town is that you know a lot about the citizens you serve and protect. I happen to know that Bertha Swanz is a waitress at LaDonna's Diner. I know their coffee is good and I have a feeling that before all is said and done, I'm going to need the caffeine.

The diner is located just off of Main Street in a low-slung building that was a five-and-dime back in the 1970s. During breakfast and lunch, the restaurant is packed with everything from tourists to local merchants to farmers and even Amish families who come in for a meat and potatoes meal. But the diner is rarely busy in the evening, when most of the downtown area storefronts are closed for the day.

A welcome blast of heated air washes over me when I enter. The interior is a narrow space with a single row of booths, a counter appended with the requisite red-and-chrome stools. A smattering of tables at the front window looks out over Main Street. The lighting is too bright, the country music a tad too loud. The not-quite-pleasant aromas of grease and seared meat too strong. I spot Bertha Swanz taking someone's order in a nearby booth and I grab a stool at the counter, upturn the cup on the saucer in front of me.

"Hi, Chief Burkholder!" A second waitress clad in a pink uniform hustles up to the counter. "Cup of joe?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say. "Thank you."

"Need a menu?"

"Not this evening," I tell her.

With a wink, she hustles away, pushes through the double doors that will take her to the kitchen.

I've just taken my first sip of coffee when Bertha walks to the cook's window, snaps down the order, and chimes the bell with her palm.

"Mrs. Swanz?" I say when she doesn't acknowledge me.

Wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her apron belt, she approaches me with the enthusiasm of a woman about to walk the plank. "You're here for dinner?" she asks.

"I'm here to talk to you."

"Well, I'm working and I need my tips." She says the words amicably, but there's an edge in her voice that wasn't there last time we spoke. "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"Mrs. Swanz, we're going to do this right now. We can do it here at the diner, or we can do it at the police station," I tell her. "It's up to you."

The Amish woman stiffens, gives me with a withering look.

I point at her counterpart. "Tell her you need a fifteen-minute break," I say. "Grab your coat. We can talk in the alley."

A few minutes later, the two of us are standing outside the door at the rear of the restaurant, looking out at two rust-scuffed dumpsters and a vintage pickup truck, all of which are dusted with snow.

"You find out who killed him?" she asks as she yanks the collar of her coat up to her chin.

"Still working on it," I say.

"Well, I don't know why you're bothering me again."

I think about my brother, my young nephew, and the disturbing account of what happened in the barn. "Are you sure about that, Mrs. Swanz? Are you sure there isn't something else you'd like to tell me about your ex-husband?"

"I told you everything I know," she snaps.

"Everything you know about your children?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she huffs.

I can tell by her expression that she does. I lean closer to her, get in her face. "I think you do."

She backs up a step, putting distance between us, her eyes skating away from mine.

"Was your ex-husband ever inappropriate with the children?" I ask.

Blinking, she reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a pack of Camel cigarettes. Smoking is considered "worldly" and therefore frowned upon by most Amish, but some of the more conservative groups still partake, especially the men.

With a shaking hand she taps one out and offers it to me. "It's not against the Ordnung, " she mutters.

I know better than to take it, but I do and we light up. "Your secret is safe with me." It's a small, intimate bond that we now share.

We smoke in silence for a minute. I watch the snow come down. See the reflection of the traffic light against the brick fa?ade of the building. I feel the passage of time pressing down.

"Bertha." I take her back to the question at hand. "Was he ever inappropriate with the children?"

"No. He wasn't." Her voice is so low, I have to move closer to hear her. "But I saw him… looking at them, you know. I kept them in my room at night."

I think about that in terms of Swanz's murder and I wonder if at some point he took things too far. What if someone caught wind of it? A loved one? An uncle or grandfather or family friend? What if they decided to do something about it?

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I'm sure."

For a full minute neither of us speaks. I watch her smoke, take in the way her hand shakes. I see the wheels of her brain spinning. Something there, I think, and I give her another push.

"Bertha, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find the person responsible for your ex-husband's death?"

"There was a rumor going around," she whispers. "A while back. About Milan. I don't know if it's true, but I heard it."

"What rumor?"

"A couple of months ago at worship, everyone noticed that the bishop's hair was all messed up."

"His hair? Messed up how?"

"Like it had been cut. Or hacked off, more like." She shrugs. "Some of us women talked about it and at first, we thought he might've had a cancer spot removed from his scalp. Something like that. But when we were cleaning up that day, some of the women were acting strangely. It was as if they knew something about me and didn't want to talk about it.

"At first, I was hurt. Felt left out. I mean, we're close. Friends, you know." She shrugs. "A few days later, I went to see Erma Miller's new baby. A few of us were having sweet coffee and I heard a crazy story about what really happened to the bishop."

The Amish woman looks to be on the verge of tears as she recounts it. "Milan had already been excommunicated, and I can tell you he wasn't happy with the bishop. Wasn't happy about anything, to be honest. He'd go down to Clarence Raber's place and they'd drink like fools."

She huffs. "Anyway, I overhead Erma telling the other women that Clarence and Milan got drunk one night, and drove over to the bishop's house." She presses a hand to her abdomen as if to ease a cramp. "She said Milan and the bishop had words and somehow the bishop ended up on the floor. Milan had a knife on him and hacked off a piece of the bishop's beard. Some of his hair, too. When Freda came out with that crop of hers—you know, the one she'll use on you if you get out of line—he pushed her down, tore off her kapp, and cut her hair, too."

When you're Amish, hair is an expression of your obedience and submission to God. A man stops shaving upon marriage; his beard symbolizes his personal identity and his standing in the community. An Amish woman stops cutting her hair after she is married. To have such a personal piece of individuality stolen is an assault not only on their identity, but on their faith.

"It's the most awful thing I ever heard." Bertha puffs hard on the cigarette. "I was so ashamed."

"No one called the police." I don't pose it as a question.

"No. It was too much. To think an Amish man would bring that kind of shame onto his own. The bishop. Can you imagine?" She shakes her head as if trying to rid the images from her brain. "No one wanted anyone to know, least of all the English."

She tosses the cigarette to the ground, steps on it, grinds it into the asphalt. "That's just about all I got to say about that," she says. "Just thinking of it shames me all over again."

"Mrs. Swanz, do you have any idea who might've killed your ex-husband?"

"No, ma'am."

"Were you involved in any way?"

She cuts loose with a bitter laugh that's fraught with pain. "I might be a liar and a sinner, Kate Burkholder. The one thing I am not is a murderer. Even if that evil bastard deserved it."