Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

There's nothing like a near-death experience to give you a fresh perspective on life. When you're a cop and the person you're investigating wants to do away with you, it's a pretty good sign that you're on the right track.

I wake to full daylight outside the window. Rolling, I grab my phone, check the time, and I'm annoyed when I see that the digital display indicates it's 8:01 A.M. I'd set my alarm for seven. Tomasetti must have turned it off while I was sleeping. I'm not quite sure how I feel about that, but at least his motives were good.

I sit up, set my feet on the floor. Every muscle in my body aches as I rise and snatch my sweatpants off the rocking chair. It's cold in the house this morning, so I slip my old cardigan over my T-shirt. As I step into slippers, I vaguely recall Tomasetti rising before daylight. He'd kissed me lightly on the cheek, lingered for a minute or two, and left.

All of this serves as a reminder that my life isn't just about me any more; we're married and I have to take that into consideration, especially when it comes to the dangers inherent to my job. It's particularly difficult for him given his past. I think we made things right last night. We made love, which is always good, but our emotions remain raw.

What are your priorities, Kate?

Am I a wife first and foremost? A cop first? A woman? Where does Tomasetti fall into the mix? That's not even to mention the prospect of motherhood and a family. I'd always thought it would happen. I would know when it was time. And yet here I am, thirty-six years old and hearing the tick of my biological clock more loudly with each year that passes. This morning, I feel as if I'm caught in the shuffle of all those things.

In the kitchen, I plug a pod of dark roast into the coffeemaker, slap down the lid. Outside the window above the sink, rain pours down from a slate sky. It's melted most of the snow, giving the farm a cold and bleak resonance. I shift my focus from the untidy pieces of my life to the investigation. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, and despite the fact that I've been virtually barred from the case, I'm compelled to find and stop this killer.

In the office, I snatch my laptop off the desk, the file I've amassed so far, a legal pad and pen, and I carry everything to the kitchen. Armed with coffee, I pull up a chair at the table and set to work.

I'm swept into a history that spans nearly five hundred years and stretches from Austria and Switzerland to Germany and the current-day Czech Republic. I learn about the secret police force called "the Anabaptist Hunters" who were charged with finding and arresting heretics. As I read, I struggle to find a parallel between the Schwertlers and the case.

Nothing stands out.

The early Anabaptists who were killed and became martyrs were not guilty of crimes. They were murdered because of their faith. Milan Swanz was not killed because of his faith.

"What the hell is the connection?" I say aloud.

My pen hovers above the paper and then I write: Violence. Murder. Schwertler = "of the sword."

Is it possible the only link is the acceptance of violence? Are we dealing with some bastardized version of the original Schwertler Anabaptists? Did someone take that small parcel of history and twist it to justify murder? Someone who saw Milan Swanz as a heretic?

Frustrated, I toss the pen aside. "Shit."

I'm reading through notes on my interview with the bishop when pounding on the door startles me.

On impulse, I reach for the .38 on the table next to my laptop. My hand is on the butt, my fingers itching, when I glance up and see my brother at the back door. I rise, my mind whirling. I don't remember the last time my brother came to see me.

I unlock the door, open it. Jacob stands on the small back porch, looking at me. Not happy about something. Dressed mostly in black, soaking wet, water dripping from the brim of his hat.

" Kumma inseid, " I say.

"I can't stay."

I frown at him. "Is everything all right?"

His eyes hold mine as he enters, brushes past me. "I heard what happened last night," he says. "You are hurt?"

"I'm fine." I wave off his concern, but I have to resist the urge to cover the bruises at my throat. "How did you hear?"

"Guy at the feedstore."

I shake my head, wondering about the speed of the small-town grapevine. Then again, it's big news when someone tries to murder the chief of police, small town or not.

"He said you were hurt," he says. "And that you've passed the case to the sheriff."

My temper stirs, but I tamp it down before it can take root. "That's not quite the way it happened."

He raises his brows.

"My counterparts," I begin. "The mayor. They don't want me on the case."

"Why not?"

I tell him. "They think I'm protecting the Amish. That I'm protecting you."

"I'm sorry." His eyes flick to my laptop and the papers spread out on the table, then back to me. "They don't know you very well, do they?"

I laugh despite my dark mood. "Evidently not."

Leaving the kitchen, I pass through the living room and on to the linen closet for a towel. Back in the kitchen, I hand him the towel, and go to the coffeemaker. As I pop in a pod, I'm aware of him drying off, draping the towel over the back of a chair.

"You're the one person I wasn't expecting this morning," I say as I hand him a cup.

" Dank. " He takes it and sips. "I didn't like the way we left things."

"Is this about Milan Swanz?"

"You know it is."

I sip coffee. Wait. When he only continues to stare at the floor, I go to the table, pull out a chair. "Sit down."

Sighing, he does. I take the chair across from him. "I'm going to find the person who murdered Swanz with or without your help. If you know something that will help me do that, please tell me."

Neither of us speaks for a time. The only sound comes from the tick of the clock on the wall. The hum of my laptop. The creaks of the farmhouse settling.

Staring down at the mug in his hand, Jacob breaks the silence. "I didn't tell you the truth about what happened with Swanz. Not all of it. Katie, there are things that should never happen in this life. Some things that are so bad, they shouldn't even be talked about."

"I know that."

He turns thoughtful, his lips twisting as if his mouth is suddenly full of bile. "The day I caught Swanz in the barn with James…" Jacob tells me what happened.

As I'd suspected, Swanz was clearly intending to have sex with James. The coffee in my stomach turns sour. "I'm sorry."

"I went to James. Checked him over. Sent him to the house." Jaw clenched, Jacob shakes his head. "I was so angry I couldn't see. It was as if God had blinded me because I was close to doing something that would have… changed me. Anyway, Swanz ran out of the barn. I went after him. Caught up with him over by the neighbor's fence. I don't remember what I said to him. It was as if the words weren't coming from me." He gives another head shake. "Swanz left."

"Did it get physical?" I ask.

"I pushed him. Twice."

I nod. "Jacob, did you have anything to do with his death?" The words drop off my tongue like poison.

"No."

"What did you do next?"

"I harnessed up and went to see Bishop Troyer. Drove straight there. I told him everything. The bishop… he's an old man. I've talked to him many times over the years. That day, I saw something in his face I've never seen before."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. It wasn't… hate or anger. It was more like… resolve. As if he'd made a difficult choice that he hadn't wanted to make."

"Any idea what that was?"

"No."

I choose my next words carefully. "Do you think the bishop had anything to do with the death of Milan Swanz?"

"No." He says the word adamantly. " Of course not. "

Another uncomfortable silence ensues. Both of us stare into our cups. Listen to the din of rain outside. I try in vain to settle my thoughts, but they roil, troubled and tossed.

"I'm glad James is okay," I say.

"God was looking over him. I think He was looking over all of us that day, including me."

"Jacob, why did you come here this morning?"

He raises his gaze to mine. "That Sunday, after worship, Irene came to me. She told me she'd talked to Bertha Swanz a while back. The subject of Milan came up and Bertha told her she thought something bad was going to happen to him."

"What?" I sit up straighter. "Like what? Why would she say that?"

"She didn't say, but Irene thought it was strange."

"Did Bertha say what kind of bad thing?"

He shakes his head. "Irene didn't ask. She thought Bertha was just talking, you know. Making gossip about a no-good ex-husband. Then Milan was killed and she came to me and told me what she'd heard."

"Jacob, why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"With everything that's happened, Katie, I wish I had. I'm sorry I didn't."

I sit at the kitchen table for a long time after my brother leaves, troubled, thinking, trying to make sense of everything he'd said.

"The subject of Milan came up and Bertha told her she thought something bad was going to happen to him."

Did Bertha Swanz know her ex-husband was going to be murdered? Did she have something to do with it? Did she plan it? Persuade her lover to kill him? The questions pound my brain like a fist.

I've questioned Bertha three times so far; each time I asked her specifically about her ex-husband's life and death. Did she lie to me? She did, after all, have motive to want him gone. He abused her. Cheated on her. He broke their son's arm. Not to mention her affair with her neighbor, Lester Yoder. All are compelling motives for murder.

I glance at the wall clock. Almost ten A.M. I look down at my sweatpants and ratty cardigan. I wonder where my counterparts are in terms of the investigation. Have they made any progress? Had any breakthroughs? Have they drawn any of the same conclusions that I have?

It doesn't elude me that they haven't kept me updated. Of course, I'm not officially off the case. But for all intents and purposes, I've been blacklisted.

… until we get a better handle on this, I'd like you to take a step back.

"Like hell," I mutter.

I consider calling Tomasetti, but think better of it. Bertha Swanz will be much more likely to speak openly to me if I'm alone. If any new information emerges from the conversation, I can share it with the rest of the team then.

Holding that thought, I rise and make a beeline for the shower.

The only positive aspect of driving our old farm truck is that no one will recognize it. That's particularly beneficial when I'm being stonewalled and about to approach an individual who doesn't want to speak with me.

It's a little after eleven A.M. when I park in the driveway of the Swanz house and take the flagstone path to the front porch. I hear the whine of an approaching train as I knock. The door opens and Bertha Swanz looks at me as if I'm the last person she expected to find. She saw the truck, I realize, and thought it was safe to answer the door.

Surprise.

"Do you have a few minutes to talk?" I begin.

Her mouth opens and then closes. "I've got to be at work in a bit," she finally spits out. "Tomorrow would be better."

"This won't take long."

When she doesn't step aside, I offer her a polite smile and brush past her. As I enter the living room, I sense the irritation coming off her. A fire blazes in the fireplace and I feel the heat from ten feet away. The aromas of coffee and this morning's breakfast float on the warm air. Light slants toward me from the kitchen, and through the doorway I see the table, upon which two steaming cups sit.

Interesting.

"I heard you're a forward woman," she mutters as she closes the door. "I don't think you can just force your way in here like that."

I stop before reaching the kitchen and turn to her. "I didn't realize you have company," I say. "I didn't see a buggy outside."

I have a pretty good idea who she's sharing a cup of coffee with this morning. Judging from her expression, she knows it. Glaring at me, she grasps the open front sides of the cardigan she's wearing and yanks them together, folds her arms over her bosom. "I heard you're a rude one, too. Guess I can vouch for that."

"My manners aside," I say slowly, watching her, "how is it that you knew something bad was going to happen to Milan before he was killed?"

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

"Did you know someone was going to kill him?"

"I knew no such thing."

"Do not lie to me," I say. "I have a witness."

She has the audacity to assume an offended countenance. "I have never lied to you. Not once!"

"You lied by omission," I return evenly. "Same thing. Frankly, I'm starting to wonder what else you're hiding."

"I've nothing to hide."

I glance toward the kitchen doorway, which is behind me. "Who's in the kitchen?"

"No one. The kids are at school."

Giving her a tight smile, I turn away and start toward the kitchen. An instant before I pass through the doorway, I hear the shuffle of feet, but when I enter, the room is empty.

Bertha follows me, looking uncertain and increasingly angry. "I heard they fired you down to the police station. I suspect you deserved it. You can't just barge in here like this. Maybe I'll run down to the pay phone and call the sheriff."

I take in the two cups on the table. Still steaming. Barely touched. I turn to Bertha. "Cozy."

She hits me with a withering look. "I don't like you much, Kate Burkholder."

"How did you know something bad was going to happen to Milan?" I ask.

"I want you to leave," she snaps. "Right now. Get out of here. Go on."

I'm keenly aware that there is a line I cannot cross and that I'm very close to crossing it. Every citizen has God-given rights that may not be infringed. That's especially true since I'm here without a warrant—not to mention without the backing of my peers. That said, I'm not above using any tool I have in my arsenal to impel her to talk to me.

"All right, Bertha. I'll leave." I say the words quietly, maintaining a serene expression as I hold her gaze, keep her engaged. "But you should know that if you had prior knowledge that your ex-husband was going to be harmed, that makes you an accessory to murder. If that's the case, you can bet the farm someone will be back with a warrant."

Without warning, the Amish woman charges. A sound that's part whimper, part sob pours from her throat. The next thing I know her hands slam into my chest and I'm reeling backward. I stumble over my own feet and nearly go down. But my butt hits the counter, stopping my backward momentum, and I quickly regain my balance.

"Stop it!" I shout. "Bertha! I'm a police officer!"

But she's reached the limit of her emotional tolerance. I see her lips pull back, her teeth clench, and she charges again. I'm ready this time and grasp her arms at the biceps, swing her around fast, and lower her to the floor. She's heavy, but not in very good physical condition, which makes her easier to handle.

I kneel, roll her onto her stomach, set my knee on her back. "You need to calm down."

A scream that's part rage, part panic rends the air. "Don't tell me to calm down!"

Out of the corner of my eye I see someone emerge from the mudroom. My hand flies to my sidearm. I look up, see Lester Yoder come through the door. I nearly pull my .38, but one look at his face and I know he's not a threat.

"Bertha!" he cries. " Was der schinner is kshicht?" What in the world is happening?

I point at him. "Do not move!"

The Amish man stops, raises his hands as if I'm holding him at gunpoint.

Beneath me, Bertha lowers her cheek to the floor and begins to cry. "You're a cruel one, Kate Burkholder. No wonder you left. None of us would have you. Fagunna!" It's the Deitsch word for "to desire another's misfortune."

Keeping an eye on Yoder, I pull the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt. "Mrs. Swanz, I do not want to handcuff you, and I do not want to arrest you. Do you understand?"

"I don't understand any of this!" she cries. "I didn't do anything wrong."

I look at Yoder. Wide-eyed, his gaze flicks from me to Bertha and back to me. As if at a complete loss, he shrugs.

"Bertha, will you stay calm if I sit you up?" I ask the Amish woman.

"Please," she sobs. "I wish you would just go away!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Shoving the cuffs back into their compartment, I rise and offer my hand to her.

A few feet away, Yoder stares at us, his hands still raised, his mouth hanging open.

The Amish woman takes my hand and maneuvers into a sitting position, her legs splayed in front of her.

"Are you okay?" I ask

Tears streaming, she shakes her head.

I give Yoder a nod and together we help her to her feet. "Mrs. Swanz, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you stumbled," I say. "The reason I'm giving you that kind of leeway is because you have four school-age children to care for. If you lie to me, even by omission, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?"

Eyes shimmering with tears, she looks away, and concentrates on brushing nonexistent dust from the front of her dress. "I understand."

I look at Yoder, then point at one of the chairs. "Put your hands down and sit."

Without speaking, he obeys.

The Amish woman pulls a wadded-up tissue from her pocket and uses it to blot tears from her cheeks.

"I think it's time the three of us had a heart-to-heart chat about Milan Swanz," I say to them.

Looking miserable, the Amish woman goes to the counter, pulls a mug from the cabinet. "Have yourself a seat there," she says in Deitsch. "And I'll tell you everything I know."