Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

I wake to the sensation of being inside a moving vehicle. Bumping over rough terrain. Engine purring. I feel heat blowing down from an overhead vent. I open my eyes, see rain on the window. I'm in the rear of my rented SUV. My hands are bound behind my back. I look toward the driver's seat, see the back of Hofer's head.

Raising my head, I look around, try to get my bearings. I see trees outside the window, but recognize nothing. We're off-road. Woods all around. My equipment box from my Explorer, where I keep my tactical gear, is next to me. Inside, I keep extra ammo. My Kevlar vest. A first aid kit. Water. Next to the box, I see a coil of rope that I don't recognize. None of it will help me with my hands bound. I look forward, spot my shotgun in its case between the seats. If I can get to it, I might be able to stop Hofer.

I test the binds on my wrists. It feels like rope, but my hands are numb; I can't be sure. My .38 and radio are nowhere in sight. I glance down at my clothes, but I can't tell if the knife I keep clipped to the inside of my waistband is still there or if Hofer took it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The image of Tomasetti's Tahoe flies at me. I don't know if he's alive or dead or injured. The need to go to him runs like a freight train through my chest. Panic threatens, but I beat it back, knowing if I succumb I won't survive.

I look toward Hofer. Find him looking at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are level on me, his expression inscrutable and cold.

"You're back," he says.

I suppress a nasty response.

"Where's Tomasetti?" I ask.

He turns his attention back to the road and doesn't answer.

Closing my eyes, I bite down so hard my teeth hurt and I shove back another wave of panic. "Where the hell is he?" I snarl.

He ignores the question.

"Ah. Here we are." He jams the shifter into park and kills the engine. I look out the window, see nothing but treetops, gray sky, and lightly falling snow.

Hofer gets out, comes around to the back and opens the door. "Let's get you out of there."

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Leaning in, he picks up the coil of rope and loops it over his head and shoulder, like a crossbody bag. When I don't move, he grasps my arm and hauls me from the SUV. Pain shoots up my hip, but when my feet hit the ground, my legs hold and I'm able to stand.

I take note of my surroundings. Gravel road. Wooded area. The sight of the quarry a few yards away elicits a wave of fear. The body of water is about an acre in size, with sheer rock walls that sweep down to water as smooth as black glass.

"Let's walk," he says.

"Where are you taking me?" I don't move, meet his gaze, hold it. His eyes show no emotion, but his expression is intent. I can feel my legs shaking, hear my breaths coming shallow and fast. As I look at him, I test the binds. Definitely rope. Not too tight, but secure; some of the feeling coming back into my hands.

Taking my arm, he urges me forward. "I knew the day I met you that you were going to be a problem, Chief Burkholder. I know it's little comfort at this moment. I know you're frightened and worried for your husband. All I can tell you is that I did not want things to end like this."

… end like this.

We're walking side by side. The quarry is to my right, a ten-foot drop to the water. I struggle to remain calm. To come up with a plan to talk him down. Outsmart him. Outmaneuver him.

Kill the son of a bitch.

I glance back toward the SUV. If I can break free and get to my shotgun… If Tomasetti is able, he'll come. Dispatch knows where I am. Of course, no one knows I'm in trouble.

"End like what?" I ask.

He looks at me as if I'm a recalcitrant child that must be chastened. He doesn't answer.

"I'm not part of the investigation," I tell him.

"They fired you?" He raises his brows. "How's that for loyalty? Reward for a job well done?"

"They arrested my brother."

"Ah, I see." He nods, thoughtful. "Jacob."

His right hand is wrapped firmly around my biceps, urging me forward.

"You know his name," I say.

"I know many things. Sometimes knowing so much is not a gift." He says the words with regret. "I know things I wish I didn't. Things I wish I could change, but can't."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

No response.

"You don't have to do this," I say.

We're ascending a hill, the surface of the quarry below us falling away. It's an easy hike, but I'm aware of his quickening breaths from the exertion.

"No one has proof of anything," I say, leaving the statement purposefully vague. "You're not wanted. You're not even a person of interest."

He ignores me, keeps walking.

"It's not too late to stop this," I say. "You can still get away. With my brother in jail, no one will come after you."

I glance over at him, find his eyes on me, cold and skeptical and mildly amused.

"No one?" he asks. "Even you?"

"They fired me, remember?" I try for flippant, but I don't manage. "It's not easy to be loyal to someone who's stabbed you in the back."

"You are, however, loyal to yourself, no?"

I don't respond.

He hefts the coil rope more solidly onto his shoulder. "I understand you because in some ways you and I are alike."

"I'm nothing like you."

"People like us… we don't give up. We don't know how to give up. We are driven. Sometimes by demons. Sometimes that's a strength. Sometimes it's a weakness."

Keep him talking. Engage him.

"I do what I have to do to survive," I tell him.

A smile whispers across his mouth. "That's why you're here, Chief Burkholder. That's why you're a problem. That's why both of us find ourselves in this situation."

"Let me go," I tell him. "I won't come after you. You have my word."

He scoffs. "You insult my intelligence."

My mind zigs and zags as we continue up the trail. I'm aware of the quarry below. The binds at my wrists cutting into my skin. That we're getting farther away from the SUV—and the shotgun. I glance down at my waistband, but I can't discern if my folding knife is there.

We ascend a dozen rock steps. I glance right to see that the water's surface is twenty feet down now. The trail widens and we enter a clearing. It's the kind of place that's probably pretty in the summertime, rife with wild raspberry and goldenrod. A perfect spot for a picnic or photos. This evening, it feels like a deathtrap.

"I know about the Schwertler Anabaptists," I tell him.

He stops, turns to me, studies my face, and I realize I've surprised him. "You did your homework."

"I know why you do what you do," I say.

No response.

Get him talking. Sympathize with him. Gain his trust. Make him think you're an ally.

"Milan Swanz hurt people," I say. "He hurt them physically. Emotionally. He destroyed the lives of a lot of people, especially the ones who cared for him."

He nods as if reluctantly impressed, saying nothing.

"I know you were in Lancaster County in July of 2012," I say.

No response.

"Lena Stoltzfus murdered her babies. She smothered them. Three innocent infants. She got away with it by saying it was SIDS. She would have done it again. You stepped in because it was the only way to stop her."

He raises his hand as if to silence me.

I speak faster, my mind spinning through everything I've learned in the past days, and all of it comes pouring out.

"How many of you are there?" I motion with my eyes in the direction we came from. "The backhoe operator? The woman at the desk? How many?"

"That's enough." He makes the statement with patience, but I can tell his tolerance is wearing thin, my time running out.

"How did you find out about Swanz?" I whisper. "Did someone get in touch with you? An elder? The bishop?"

"Word of mouth," he says simply. "It's the one thing the Amish are good at, no? All that gossip. Such an active rumor mill."

"And yet you know you won't be going to heaven," I say. "You accept the reality of that because the work you do is too important."

"And what work is that?" he asks.

"You martyr those who would otherwise spend eternity in hell. Evidently, it's a sacrifice you're willing to make."

"I must admit, Chief Burkholder, I'm impressed."

For the span of several heartbeats, we stand looking at each other. I hold his gaze, keenly feel the intensity coming off him, the fear crawling over me, the knowledge that I'm in grave danger and if I want to live, I have to act.

"Let me go," I say. "I won't come after you."

He offers a sympathetic smile. "You're a very charming woman. You are courageous. You know your mind. And you've no patience for fools. Under different circumstances…"

Keep him talking.

Buy some time.

Someone will come.

"How many have you martyred?" I ask.

His laugh chills me, but he sobers quickly. He looks around as if searching for something. I watch as he walks to a rock the size of a basketball and picks it up. He unloops the coil of rope from around his neck and drops it to the ground at his feet. Kneeling, he uncoils the rope and begins trussing it around the rock.

"If you know the history of the Schwertler Anabaptists," he says, "then you must know the fate of Elizabeth Hubmaier."

I watch, frozen, as he ties an expert knot, tests it, and then rises to his full height.

"Balthasar Hubmaier was executed by fire on March 10, 1528," he tells me. "Three days later his wife, Elizabeth, was executed by having a rock secured to her neck and being thrown into the Danube River."

"Neither Hubmaier nor his wife were guilty of crimes," I say.

"Their deaths were unjust." Fanaticism flickers in his eyes. "But they were martyred by their executioners, their passage into heaven guaranteed."

"You martyred Milan Swanz," I say. "You guaranteed his passage into heaven."

"The irony of that sears the heart, doesn't it?"

"Killing a cop in the state of Ohio is a capital offense," I hear myself say. "They will never stop looking for you."

"Shhh." Raising his hand to silence me, he strides toward me. "The Amish you care so deeply for are certain you will not make it to heaven because you left the fold. I am assuring you, right here and now, that you will. I hope you find some comfort in that."

He reaches for my arm, but I jerk away, stumble back. His hand snakes out, reaching, his fingertips scraping my arm. I spin, launch myself into a run in the direction we came from. It's not easy with my hands bound. I take the rock steps three at a time. I hear him behind me. Breaths rushing. Boots pounding the ground. Gravel crunching.

At the base of the steps I stumble, recover just in time to avoid a fall. Push myself into an all-out sprint. I try to come up with a plan as I run. I know the rented SUV is ahead. Did he lock it? Can I get to the shotgun? Can I use it with my hands bound? Is he armed? Is my Gerber in my waistband?

I'm hyperaware of the sound of his feet against the ground. The whoosh of his clothing. The hiss-hiss of his breaths. He's close. Getting closer. Closing in.

I take a curve at breakneck speed. Glance right. See him scant feet behind me. Run, Kate! Run!

The air seems to shift. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. He reaches out and I feel his fingers brush the back of my arm.

The SUV looms into view ahead. No time to open the door or try to get inside. Instead, I turn on a burst of speed, throw my body against the driver's-side window. Hope ignites at the screech of the alarm.

The impact spins me around, but I maintain my balance, keep going. In the periphery of my vision, I see him slow, reach for the keys. Vaguely, I'm aware of the alarm going silent. The jet-engine roar of blood in my veins as I pant for air. I don't know how far I have to go to reach help.

I'm thinking about cutting through the woods, hoping the trees will provide cover. I hear a rustle behind me, glance left. An instant before I can cut right, Hofer plows into me. His arms wrap around my hips. His shoulder rams my lower back, throwing me forward. I slam to the ground on my stomach, snow and mud in my mouth.

He tries to climb on top of me. I twist, bring up my knee, roll onto my back.

"Be still," he hisses.

I look up as he draws back his fist. No way to defend myself. I twist again, roll left. The blow glances off my temple, his fist hits the ground inches from my face. I roll again. Use the strength of my quads to propel me. I buck against him. Twist my body left. Arm bracing for balance. I roll again and his weight leaves me.

I glance over to see him come at me. I roll down a small hill. Off-trail now. He bends to me, his hands slam down on my shoulders. Fingers digging into muscle and bone.

"Get off me, you son of a bitch!" I scream.

The ground gives way beneath me. The quarry, I realize. We're too close to the edge. I see Hofer's boot slide in mud. His arms flail. Then I find myself cartwheeling into space.