Page 111 of The Burning

He’s slipping out when the curtain jiggles. My blood pressure rises at the sight of Neil Chambers. In the back of my mind, I wonder how he’s going to twist things around to justify his overzealous attempts to keep me off the case.

“What were you saying about an apology?” Tomasetti says, but he’s looking at Chambers.

Chambers offers a self-deprecating smile, making eye contact with each of us, and then raises his hands as if in supplication. “Go ahead. Get it off your chest. Have your fun. I deserve it.”

“Did you release my brother from jail?” I ask.

“I put the paperwork through half an hour ago. Mr. Burkholder should be out within the hour.”

“Was there an apology in there?” Feigning puzzlement, Tomasetti looks from Rasmussen to me to Chambers. “I didn’t hear any groveling.”

Chambers strides to me and, holding my gaze, he extends his hand, holds it out. “I screwed up, Chief Burkholder. I got carried away and I got this one wrong. That’s not easy for an egotistical son of a bitch like me to admit, but there you have it. I hope you’ll accept my sincere apology.”

I wait an instant too long before taking his hand. “Apology accepted.”

“I’ll be making a formal apology to the mayor, too,” he says. “And your team. I’ll make sure all of them know how things went down.”

“I appreciate that,” I say.

Rasmussen clears his throat. “Evidently, we need a lot of questions answered before we can even begin to unravel this case.”

“Has Clarence Raber been able to talk?” I ask.

Chambers shakes his head. “They flew him up to Mercy Hospital in Canton. He’s in surgery now.”

“He expected to make it?” Tomasetti asks.

He nods. “Doctor says we’ll be able to talk to him in the morning.”

The sheriff looks at me. “Kate, how much do you know about this Isaiah Hofer character?”

The final minutes I spent with Hofer flash in my mind’s eye. The march to the quarry. The struggle to escape. The fall into the water. All the while not knowing if Tomasetti was dead or alive …

Though I’m plenty warm now, a chill passes through me. “Not much. I suspect he may be formerly Amish. He may have spent some time in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.”

“There was no ID on the body,” Rasmussen tells me. “We’re running his prints now.”

“Agents are searching the sand and gravel office,” Chambers adds. “Hofer’s residence is on the property. We got the warrant so we’ll be searching the entire compound in the coming hours. We also secured a warrant for Raber’s apartment.”

“How does Raber play into this?” Tomasetti asks.

“Milan Swanz is the common denominator.” I remind them of my theory about the Schwertler Anabaptists and relay to them the exchange between Hofer and me during our walk to the quarry. “As far as Raber, maybe this group targeted him. Drafted him. Groomed him. Used him to get to Swanz.”

Rasmussen shakes his head. “Almost like a cult.”

I nod. “I don’t have proof—yet—but I believe there’s a small, underground community of religious zealots who use history as an excuse to murder.”

“Are we talking Holmes County?” the sheriff asks.

“I think it’s bigger than that.” I tell them about the Lena Stoltzfus case in Lancaster County. “I don’t believe Swanz and Stoltzfus are their only victims. And I don’t believe Hofer acted alone.”

The sheriff narrows his eyes on mine. “We’re talking to several individuals who are living in the community,” he says. “As soon as we locate the female who was working in the office, we’ll haul her in for questioning.”

“It sounds like this group has been operating for a long time,” Tomasetti says.

I nod. “One thing that the Anabaptists are very good at, the Amish in particular, is the passing down of tradition to the next generation. In this case, even if that tradition is some bastardized version of their belief system.”

Chambers nods, taking it all in. “We retrieved Hofer’s cell, by the way,” he says. “It’s wet, but the data on the SIM card is likely recoverable. It’s on the way to the BCI lab now.”