Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Milan Swanz was burned at the stake, executed in the same manner that Balthasar Hubmaier was during the Reformation five hundred years ago. Lena Stoltzfus drowned in a farm pond with a concrete block secured to her neck. Elizabeth Hubmaier had a rock tied around her neck and was thrown into the Danube River. Both methods of execution were commonplace during the Reformation, especially against the Anabaptists. There's no cut-and-dried connection between the historic and modern-day crimes, but the parallels are unequivocal.

I've watched the video six times, enlarged it, played around with the brightness, contrast, and resolution—and I'm almost certain the individual in the video is Hofer.

Almost…

"Why was Milan Swanz burned at the stake?" I whisper.

I answer my own question. "He was a danger to the Amish community."

Next I say, "Why was Lena Stoltzfus drowned?"

I glance down at the notes I jotted on the interviews conducted by the podcaster on the Lena Stoltzfus murder.

… you mentioned rumors…

All's I'm going to say is I heard some things that weren't so nice.

Like maybe those babies didn't die from SIDS like everyone was saying.

A chill scrapes down between my shoulder blades. "Someone thinks she murdered her children?" I murmur.

The words hang like a toxic cloud.

I go back to the case file, pull out my notes, my fingers pausing on my exchange with Freda Troyer.

There is a rumor.… a group of men.

… their souls are dark.

… they see the ungodliness of that as the freedom they need to do things that a godly man cannot.

… for a greater good.

I recall the story about her summer in Shipshewana when she was thirteen years old.

Druvvel-machah…

Hanged himself in the barn.

… someone did that to him.

Tied him up and hung him up by his neck.

Everyone was talking about the Schwertlers.

And it never got told to the police.

When I'd pressed her on the number of years that had passed since the summer of 1951, she'd responded with:

New blood for every generation.

And then she'd given me Hofer's name.

I flip the page, stop at the notes I jotted after my interview with Hofer.

… you won't see them coming. If you cross them, they will come for you. They will find you. They will devour you. And they will spit out the residue. The pieces of you will never be found. There will be no resolution. No closure. Consider that the next time you look into the eyes of the people who love you.

It was a threat. Even now, the words chill me. Is it possible some modern-day version of the Schwertler Anabaptists does, indeed, exist? That the only attribute the two groups share is an endorsement of violence? Was Milan Swanz murdered because this group had identified him as a modern-day heretic?

The last thing I should be considering is driving to Dundee to talk to Isaiah Hofer. The notion has BAD IDEA written all over it in flashing red neon. Chances are, the guy in the video looks like Hofer. On the outside chance that it is him, he may have been there for something as benign as a wedding or funeral. That's not to mention the small inconvenience of my having been removed from the investigation. Interference by me at this juncture could jeopardize the case, especially if it goes to trial.

The problem is, my brother is in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Chambers doesn't necessarily care if Jacob is guilty or innocent as long as he scores a win for himself. My cop's sensibilities won't allow me to sit this out. The question now is, what the hell am I going to do about it?

"Not a damn thing," I mutter.

Even as I say the words, I know I'm not going to follow my own good advice. Not giving myself time to debate, I snatch up my keys and head for the door.

I call Tomasetti as I back out of my parking spot. He picks up quickly. "Where are you?" I ask without preamble.

"I'm still at the sheriff's office. Jacob was processed an hour ago. They're interviewing him now."

"They cut you, too." It's not a question.

"I'm his brother-in-law, so it wasn't exactly unexpected."

I think of my brother alone in a room with Chambers and Rasmussen. I know Jacob won't talk about what happened between Swanz and my nephew. I also know his silence will be considered a lack of cooperation at best. An outright lie at worst.

"Does Jacob have a lawyer?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

"Tomasetti, he probably doesn't know enough about the way the law works to understand that he has a right to one."

I hear muffled voices on the other end and he lowers his voice. "Look, I know a good criminal defense lawyer in Wooster. Went to college with him a couple hundred years ago. I'll give him a call."

I close my eyes against an unwelcome rush of emotion. "Thank you."

"You at the farm?" he asks.

"Not exactly." I tell him about recognizing Hofer on the video and lay out my suspicions. "Tomasetti, I don't think it's a coincidence."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to talk to him."

He mutters a curse. "Kate, you know that's not a good idea for too many reasons to count."

"I'll do it… unofficially. Ask a few questions. Feel him out."

"I think we both know that's bullshit, right?"

"I know I'm right about this. Everything fits."

He curses beneath his breath. "Give me Hofer's address," he growls. "I'll meet you there."

I recite the address from memory. "I owe you one."

"If we're going to screw up our careers, we may as well do it with some fucking panache."

"We're not—"

He hangs up on me without letting me finish.

It's nearly dusk by the time I enter the corporation limits of Dundee. The drizzle that had been falling most of the day has transformed to snow. The thermometer on my dash hovers at the thirty-two-degree mark when I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Sugarcreek Sand and Gravel Company. I'm thinking about my pending conversation with Isaiah Hofer as I pass by a yellow backhoe, exhaust spewing, as the blade shoves a cut rock the size of a Volkswagen to demark the edge of the lot. I don't expect him to admit any wrongdoing; he's too smart for that. The best I can hope for is some scrap of information that will set me on track to either prove or disprove my premise—and his involvement.

I park in the same spot as the last time I was here. Cold seeps underneath the collar of my coat as I take the sidewalk to the office. I notice the sign on the door a few yards before I reach the building. SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL HAS CLOSED . I recall Hofer telling me the quarry was spent, but the timing of it ruffles the edges of my cop's suspicions.

I knock, but no one answers. The blinds are open just enough for me to see inside. The desk is bare, but the light is on. I go back to the door, turn the knob, and it rolls open.

As I step inside, I remind myself that this is a business, not a private residence. I'm not trespassing, simply walking inside in search of help.

"Hello?" I call out. "Mr. Hofer? It's Kate Burkholder."

The reception desk where the woman had been sitting last time I was here is vacant. The chair is gone. There are no papers or clutter or folders lying about. The computer and keyboard are gone, too. I'm thinking about taking a peek in the rear office when I notice the old-fashioned telephone on the credenza behind the desk, a single light telling me that either someone is using it or there's a line off the hook.

"Mr. Hofer?"

I'm aware of the rise and fall of the backhoe's engine outside as I start down the hall. I pass by a partially closed door marked RESTROOM and continue on to the office. The lights are on. There's a chair and desk with a smattering of papers on the desktop. A SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL mug sits on the blotter. I go to it, set the backs of my fingers against the side, find it warm.

"Mr. Hofer?"

My phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, see Tomasetti's name on the display, and pluck it off my belt. "Where are you?"

"Pulling in now." I can tell by his tone he's not happy with me. "You?"

"Main building. Once you enter the parking lot, you'll see it. Blue SUV parked in front is my rental."

"Meet you there."

I'm clipping the phone back onto my belt when a thunderous clang! sounds from outside. Alarmed, I jog down the hall and through the reception area. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm aware of the backhoe's engine revving. I'm nearly to the door when through the window, I catch a glimpse of the backhoe. The fill bucket is against the passenger side of the Tahoe, pushing it sideways at a high rate of speed.

"What the hell?"

I yank open the door, take in a hundred things at once. The backhoe moving fast, the fill bucket shoving Tomasetti's Tahoe sideways across the lot. The Chevy's tires plow through gravel and mud, the engine whining. Not an accident.

"Tomasetti!"

I drop my hand to my .38 as I fly down the steps and then I'm running full out. Laser focus on the vehicles. I thumb off the holster break strap, yank it out. Finger inside the guard. And I level it at the cab of the backhoe.

"Stop!" I scream. "Police! Stop!"

The driver's side of the Tahoe slams into the solid wall of rock. The pop! pop! pop! of gunfire sounds. I see a puff of smoke as a bullet tears through the Tahoe's window. Tomasetti, I realize, firing through the passenger window, defending himself.

"Stop! Stop!"

I fire two shots at the backhoe cab. I'm midway across the lot, sprinting, my .38 trained on the operator. A flash of light to my right. I glance over, see headlights bearing down. The scream of an engine. Too close and coming fast. I twist, get off a shot at the driver.

The vehicle rams me. A knife-stab of pain in my hip. My feet leave the ground, and then I'm airborne. Engine roaring. The world a blur around me. My left shoulder and hip slam against the ground. My head bounces. Stars scatter and my vision goes dark. Vaguely, I'm aware of my body skidding on gravel. I roll, my arms and legs flopping.

The next thing I know I'm lying still. Cold and wet against my face. The same cold seeps into my clothes. Pain courses through me, but I can't quite isolate where. The knowledge that I'm in dire straits dances in the periphery of my consciousness. I bring up my right arm, but my .38 is gone.

I blink to clear my vision. Spit grit from my mouth. Two seconds and the world comes back into focus. I see a black-clad figure approach. Leather boots crunching. I raise my head, look around, shake off another round of dizziness.

Where the hell is my gun?

"Be still," comes a deep voice.

I hear the rise and fall of the backhoe engine. In my mind's eye, I see Tomasetti's Tahoe being crushed. Adrenaline rushes through me and I roll onto my stomach, try to get my arms and knees beneath me so I can get up. My muscles betray me. A wave of nausea hits me. I raise my head, spit, see blood. My head swims, so I lie back down, focus on pulling myself together.

Hands grasp my left shoulder and turn me onto my back. Pain streaks up my spine, and I groan. My head lolls and I find myself looking up at the gray sky. Snow coming down. Cold and wet soaking into my back.

"You made a very foolish decision, Kate Burkholder." Isaiah Hofer kneels next to me. He's wearing a black coat, the wool damp with melting snow. Black leather gloves. His expression is strangely sympathetic as he tucks my .38 into his waistband. "But then I expected no less from you."

He leans over me, his hands moving over my shirt and trousers, being especially diligent with my pockets. While he searches me, I take inventory of my injuries. Headache. Fuzzy brain. Pain in my right hip. My back. I glance left. The vehicle that struck me is ten feet away, wipers and headlights on, engine purring. Hofer slides my radio from my belt, plucks the mike from my shoulder. Impersonally, he unbuckles my duty belt, slides it off me, and drapes it over his arm.

I blink, try to clear my head and assess the situation. Even dazed, I know things couldn't be much worse.

"Where's Tomasetti?" The words come out as little more than a croak.

"Apparently, he made the same miscalculation as you." He looks right, toward the backhoe.

I follow his gaze and the ground seems to break away beneath me. The rock bucket rests atop the crushed roof of the Tahoe. The windshield and windows are buckled. There's no movement. No sign of Tomasetti. No sign of life.

Horror overtakes me and I sit up, snatch Hofer by the throat, my hand squeezing with every ounce of strength I possess. "You son of a bitch."

I don't recognize my own voice. It's primal, suffused with panic and terror and rage.

Twisting, I get my elbow beneath me, try to get a better grip on him, my heels digging for purchase. "Where is he?" I shout.

I don't see the blow coming. The impact is like a stick of dynamite going off in my head. My hand falls away from his throat. I fall back to the ground. When I'm flat, he leans close, both hands going around my neck. I grasp his wrists with my hands, my fingers digging and scratching. I twist, raise my legs to kick, but it's no use. He's stronger and I'm in no condition to fight.

Tomasetti.

Shadows crowd my vision. Sound fades. The only thing I hear is the pounding of my heart. Darkness overtakes the light and it's as if I'm seeing the world through a tiny hole. I'm aware of movement and voices. The sensation of being jostled and my body being dragged.

And then I feel nothing at all.