Page 86 of A Gathering of Secrets

I pull out the photo of the woman who left the note on the police station door and set it on the table between us. “Do you recognize this woman?”

He sets down his beer, leans forward, takes a long look. “Not a very good picture.” His eyes narrow. “She’s Amish.”

Leaning back in the booth, I give him a long, assessing look. “Did you have anything to do with the barn fire that killed Daniel Gingerich?”

“No. That’s not to say I didn’t think about it. I did. Fantasized about it. If anyone deserved it, that son of a bitch did. Hate to disappoint you, but I never mustered the grit.”

“I know what he was,” I say.

I can tell by the way he looks at me that he doesn’t believe me. “I doubt it.”

I hold his gaze. “I know what he did to Emma. And others.”

“Look, Chief Burkholder, I know you think I killed Danny. But if you know what he was—that his soul belonged to the devil—then you’ve probably realized I’m not the only one who isn’t exactly mourning his death.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t say.” He looks away, shrugs. “Far as I’m concerned, he did the world a favor.”

The barmaid interrupts. I order coffee. Schlabach orders a shot of whiskey. I think about hassling him about drinking and driving, but he’s talking so I let it go.

“How many other women did he rape?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I heard he did Mark Petersheim’s wife.” His expression distorts into something acerbic. “Heard what happened to him, too, by the way. They were a nice couple. Gingerich ruined the lives of a lot of good people.”

“Yes, he did.”

The barmaid returns with my coffee and a shot glass of amber liquid. I lay a ten-dollar bill in her hand. When she’s gone, I ask, “What did you hear about Ruth Petersheim?”

“Just rumor is all.” His mouth twists as if he’s bitten into something bitter. “I guess rape and sodomy aren’t exactly the kinds of things the Amish like to talk about though, are they?”

He’s trying to shock me, or provoke me. When it doesn’t work, he looks away, and I get the impression he’s not sure how to react or what to do with all that rage.

The Fixx gives way to an old Badfinger tune. Schlabach throws back the whiskey, sets the glass on the tabletop with a little too much force.

“Who else had reason to want Gingerich dead?” I ask.

“Let me count the ways.”

My temper spikes. This time I don’t bother to curb it. I’m tired of his vague statements and riddles and bad attitude. “Look, if you want to play hardball, I will accommodate you, and I will one-up you. We can make this official and I can make it difficult. Do you get me?”

He ducks his head, looks away. “I got it,” he mutters.

“Who else did Daniel Gingerich hurt?” I ask.

A full minute passes without an answer. I’m thinking about making good on my threat, hauling his ass down to the station if only for show, when he finally responds.

“I heard he done one of them other girls Emma used to hang with,” he tells me. “The one worked with her at that shop in Charm.”

I go still, my heart giving a single hard kick. All the while Milo Hershberger’s words float through my mind.… He used to go up to that little shop in Charm all the time just to see those girls. Had his eye on all of them …

Milo hadn’t given me a name. Is it possible Daniel had preyed upon one of the others, in addition to Emma Miller? Why didn’t they tell me? But the question rings false, because I know. I know.

“I need a name,” I say.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Look, if you want to know about Danny’s escapades, I suggest you talk to Milo Hershberger. They were best friends. If Gingerich bragged about all that Amish pussy he was getting, I suspect Milo would be the moron he’d brag to.”

“Are you and Milo friends?”