Page 105 of The Burning

“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.