Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Almost everyone has something to hide, from the little white lie you tell to protect someone's feelings to the kinds of secrets that destroy lives. I think about the lengths to which people will go to keep certain information from coming to light. I know better than most that in the minds of a few, some secrets are worth killing for.

It's eleven P.M. and I'm behind the wheel of the Explorer, trying not to think of my own skeletons. It's been a long and unproductive day. I'm beyond exhaustion, but too wound up to go home. Instead of making the turn toward the highway that will take me to the farm, I make a left and head toward Dogleg Road.

Most murders are a far cry from the way they are depicted in movies and novels. They're not particularly complex, or thoughtful, or intelligent. Most are mindless acts of stupidity or rage or impulse committed by a psychopath or jackass for some fatuous reason no one gives a damn about. There is no reason or supposed justification. Just a life lost and a dozen more destroyed. And for what? Jealousy? Greed? Evil?

When it comes to the homicide investigation, I've always believed that once a cop understands the why, he can usually figure out the who. This case is different. The things I know about Swanz do not paint him in a positive light by any stretch of the imagination. He was physically and emotionally abusive to his wife and children. If he perceived he'd been wronged, he sought revenge. According to my brother, he was a child predator. His former employer suspected him of arson. His ex-wife asserts that he assaulted an elderly bishop and his wife. All of those things are the actions of a man devoid of a moral compass, a complete lack of self-control, and sociopathic tendencies. More than one person may have been compelled to do away with Swanz. And yet here I am, at the end of day two of the investigation, and I have next to zero in my investigator's tool kit.

I'm a hundred yards from the crime scene, thinking about my brother and so distracted I almost don't notice the vehicle in the ditch. I'm nearly past when I hit the brakes and come to a stop. Quickly, I throw the Explorer into reverse for a better look. It's a four-door, dark-colored sedan with Pennsylvania plates. No driver inside that I can see. The vehicle is nose down, the front tires in several inches of mud, the rear tires on the gravel shoulder. It doesn't look crashed or stuck. The engine isn't running.

Reaching for my mounted spotlight, I level the beam on the vehicle and pick up my mike. "Ten-eighty-five," I say, using the ten code for abandoned vehicle. "Jodie, can you ten-twenty-eight?" Check vehicle registration.

"You got it, Chief."

"Pennsylvania plates." I recite the number and give her my location. "I'm going to take a quick look around."

"Roger that."

Snagging my Maglite from its nest, I get out of the Explorer, and sweep the beam in a 360-degree circle. There's no one in sight. No voices or movement. Just utter quiet and light snow slanting down in a northerly breeze.

I set the beam on the driver's-side door and start toward it. There's no one inside, front seat or rear. The car is a newish-model BMW. Clean interior. The hood and trunk are securely closed. I set my hand against the hood, find it warm to the touch. It hasn't been long since the engine was running. I check the tires, but there's no flat. That's when I notice the footprints, partially obscured by snow, as if someone got out of the vehicle a short time ago. I set the beam on the prints, see that they go to the fence, over it, and into the woods.

Toward the crime scene.

The place where I'm standing is about fifty yards from where Milan Swanz was killed. The CSI technicians have long since released the scene. It's not unusual for curious citizens, crime aficionados, and bored teenagers to show up and explore. Of course, it's late and cold and, perhaps most importantly, the out-of-state plates tell me the driver is likely not local.

"Painters Mill Police Department!" Calling out, I approach the fence, shine the beam into the woods beyond. "Hello! Anyone there?"

Someone has repaired the fence. I'm looking for a place to climb over when movement to my left sends a burst of hot adrenaline to my gut. I spin, catch sight of a male an instant before he plows into me with so much force that I fly backward, the breath knocked from my lungs. My feet tangle. I'm reaching for my lapel mike when the ground slams into my back. My head hits hard enough to daze; then he comes down on top of me.

"Police officer!" I shout. "Get off me!"

The command has no effect. My attacker is large and strong. He's quick. No hesitation. Straddling my waist. I grapple for my radio, only to see his hand flash, and I feel the mike ripped from my collar.

"Get the fuck off!" Snarling, I reach for my .38, fumble it beneath my parka. Shit. Shit! A hand clamps around my throat, thumb and fingers like a steel trap cutting off the blood to my head.

I draw back, punch him hard, body blow. He grunts, deflects a second blow. I ram my fist into the bottom of his chin hard enough to jam my wrist. I twist, bring up my knee, drive it into his spine. Once. Twice. I try to shout again, but my voice box is compressed. A pitiful sound tears from my throat. I writhe, bring up my hips, try to buck him off. My survival instinct takes control. I swing again. The punch lands squarely in his face. His nose crunches beneath my knuckles.

Talon-like fingers dig deeper into my throat. Panic sizzles hot in my chest. If I lose consciousness, I'm done. I raise both fists, try to pummel his face, but he's fast and averts. I bring up my foot, try to loop it over his head, capture his upper body, take him down that way.

The first blow lands squarely against my forehead, like a two-by-four smashing against my brain. Stars fly in my peripheral vision. I raise my hands, but I'm dazed and blind. The second blow plows into my left cheekbone. Another round of stars and I feel my body go limp.

Vaguely, I'm aware of my attacker straddling me. Grabbing my wrists, he tucks my arms beneath his knees, trapping them at my sides. He reaches for my .38, yanks it from the holster. Same with my cell phone. The Gerber folding knife clipped to my waistband. I suck in a breath, blink away blurred vision. Get my first good look at him. The lower half of his face is covered with a black scarf. Heavy brows. Dark eyes. Intent. Calm. He shifts and I notice my revolver in his hand.

"I'm a cop," I rasp.

"Shhh." Leaning close, he sets the muzzle of the revolver against my mouth, forces it between my lips. I jerk my head left, then right, but he rattles it against my teeth. When I open, he shoves it into my mouth, depressing my tongue.

"Don't speak," he whispers. "And I won't make you eat a bullet."

I go still, heart raging, breaths coming fast. I taste gun oil, try not to gag, fear sliding down my throat like bile.

"I'm only going to say this once, so listen good. Do you understand?"

I stare at him, jerk my head, try to take in as many details as possible.

Caucasian.

Dark hair. Brown.

Forty years old.

Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear my dispatcher's voice come over my radio.

"Milan Swanz was a deviant," he says. "He walked in step with the devil. He rejected God. He disrespected the Amish. He hurt people and would have done worse."

Deep voice.

Inflection I can't quite place.

I try to speak, but he jabs the gun deeper into my throat, making me choke.

"Shhh." A teacher shushing an overwrought student. "Don't speak." Tilting his head, he looks at me closely, as if I'm some apparatus whose inner workings confuse him.

Average build.

Athletic.

Plenty of muscle.

"His death is a weight on my soul," he says. "But it was my sacrifice to make." He raises his hand. "One I will take with me to hell when I go."

I flinch, expecting another blow, but he sets his palm against my cheek, runs gloved fingers gently from my temple to my chin, touching me almost with reverence.

"Your silence is your sacrifice to make, Kate Burkholder," he whispers. "Don't forget that."

Keeping his eyes on mine, he reaches for my duty belt. For an instant, I think he's going to unbuckle my trousers to assault me. Instead, he unsnaps the handcuffs compartment, studies them for a moment.

"Do not move," he whispers.

My instincts scream for me to fight. If he gets the cuffs on me, I'll be helpless. But with the muzzle of my .38 pressed against my tongue, his finger inside the trigger guard, I do as I'm told.

Using his free hand, he captures my right wrist with the cuff. "I'm going to remove the gun from your mouth," he says. "When I do, do not make a sound. Or I will kill you. Do you understand?"

I jerk my head.

The muzzle slides from my mouth. I turn my head and hawk spit.

Effortlessly, he rises. Bending to me, he uses the cuff encircling my wrist to pull me to my feet.

"Who are you?" I ask.

Eyes on mine, he puts his index finger to his mouth. "Shhh."

"I'm a cop," I tell him. "You can't—"

I lunge, but he's ready and muscles me over to the barbed-wire fence. There, he swings me around and throws me to the ground. I land on my knees.

"You can't get away with this," I snarl.

"Maybe I will." Bending, he snaps the unused cuff around the wire, trapping me. "Time will tell."

"You murdered Milan Swanz," I say.

Black jacket.

Black trousers.

Giving me only part of his attention, he snaps open the cylinder of my .38, empties the ammo into his palm, and flings all of it into the woods. He drops the .38 into the snow.

"Tell me why," I say.

He gives me a final look, his expression inscrutable, and then he turns away and walks to the sedan.

Blue BMW.

Four-door.

Gray interior.

"Stop!" I yank at the handcuff. " Stop!"

The wire holds. Though the fence is old and rusty, it'll take wire cutters to get me free.

Damn it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slide into the sedan.

"Who are you?" I call out. "Why did you kill Swanz?"

Without looking at me, he starts the engine and pulls onto the road.

No matter how vigorously you train, or adhere to the policies and procedures set forth by your department, no matter how fervently you exercise your God-given good judgment, if you're a cop, there will come a time when you encounter a situation that goes south. Tonight is a case in point.

It's midnight. I'm handcuffed to a barbed-wire fence on a little-traveled rural road. My radio, service weapon, and cell phone are out of reach. I'm freezing my ass off. And there's not a damn thing I can do about any of it. It was over an hour ago that I informed my dispatcher I'd "arrived on scene." I didn't, however, follow up with an "assignment completed" call. My best hope is that she'll notice and dispatch my graveyard-shift officer.

The ambush replays in my mind's eye for the hundredth time as I work the handcuff against the barbed wire, back and forth, in an effort to snap it.

Milan Swanz was a deviant.

He walked in step with the devil.

My attacker spoke with an accent that wasn't Holmes County Amish, but similar. His words contained an undeniable religious element that I recognized. An old Amish saying tickles the back of my mind.

Walk in step with the devil, and you'll hear the flap of his wings.

"The son of a bitch is Amish," I whisper, my breath puffing out in front of me.

It's not a perfect fit. Far from it. For one thing, the Amish are pacifistic; violence is prohibited. They will not defend themselves or their property and view themselves as "defenseless Christians." In times of war, they are conscientious objectors. How, then, could this man who all but admitted he'd murdered Milan Swanz, and threatened to kill me, be Amish?

He's formerly Amish, a little voice adds.

I'm hunkered over the spot where handcuff meets steel, working on the wire, when I spot approaching headlights through the trees. For an instant, I wonder if my attacker has come back to kill me. But I recognize the silhouette of the police cruiser the moment it comes into view.

I get to my feet, bent slightly because the cuff won't allow me to straighten, and I wave my free hand. "Skid! I'm here!"

The cruiser rolls to a stop behind the Explorer. The spotlight comes on, the beam skimming over my vehicle, the ditch, and finally washes over me. An instant later, the red and blue overheads light up and Skid gets out.

"Chief?" His Maglite flicks on.

"I'm here. Cuffed to the fence."

"What the hell?" Keeping his eyes on me, he jogs around to the trunk, pops it, and digs into his equipment box. Then he's striding toward me, fence tool in hand. "What happened?" he says. "You okay?"

"I was ambushed," I tell him. "Male suspect at large. Skid, get the sheriff's department out here."

He reaches me, blinks once at the sight of my face, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, I feel like a fool. "Uh, Chief, you're bleeding pretty good. You need an ambulance?"

"Just get the sheriff's department."

Without speaking, Skid goes down on one knee.

"Give me your cuff key," I say.

He digs into the compartment on his utility belt, passes me the key. As I unlock the cuff, he tilts his head to his radio mike and requests assistance from the sheriff's department.