Page 37 of The Burning

Which fits with the type of hat an Amish man would wear in the wintertime. “Beard?”

“Not sure. I mean, I wasn’t really paying attention. But I think so.”

“How old was he?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Not old. I mean, he didn’t have gray hair and he wasn’t all wrinkled or bent over.”

I try not to roll my eyes.

Her brows draw together again and she takes a sip of her beer. “It was kind of weird. I mean, he was like one of those people you look at and yet you don’t see their face.”

“How long did Swanz sit with him?”

“Gosh, I dunno. Fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“Ms. Gaines, would you be willing to ride down to the station with me and sit down with a sketch artist?”

Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens enough for me to see the silver stud piercing in her tongue. “Seriously? Like … in the movies?”

“This individual may or may not have anything to do with what happened to Milan Swanz, but if we can identify him and talk to him, he might be able to help us figure it out.”

“Um … well, I’m kind of drunk right now, Chief Burkholder,” she says sheepishly. “Is that okay?”

She doesn’t look exceedingly intoxicated. Since I’m desperate—and knowing it might take some time for Tomasetti to wrangle a sketch artist—I don’t hesitate. “We’ve got coffee and bottled water at the station.” Recalling her trip to the alley for a toke, I add, “That means if you have anything on you that you shouldn’t take into a police station, you should go into the ladies’ room and flush it.”

“Oh. Um … now that you mention it, I do need to make a quick pit stop.”

“Take your time.”

CHAPTER 9

Ensconced in darkness and falling snow, he sat in the parking lot of the bar and watched from the anonymity of his vehicle. He’d known there would be fallout for what he’d done. There always was, and dealing with the aftermath was a calculated risk he had to take. Usually, he was more adept at getting things done and then getting out quickly. This particular situation was a little more complicated than usual. There’d been some disagreement about how to handle it. No one was happy about the delay, least of all him.

He’d dealt with plenty of law enforcement over the years. No one had anticipated a formerly Amish cop. Burkholder had insights the others did not. Combined with her reputation, that made her dangerous. He would have to exercise added caution this go-round. Maintain a safe distance, but keep an eye.

For now, it was just him and her. All he could do was watch and wait and do his best to make sure she didn’t get out of line. If for any reason the situation deteriorated or she became a threat, he would have no choice but to handle her, too.

The thought troubled him more than he wanted to admit. The notion of taking such a risk left a bitter taste in his mouth. If he was forced to act, it would have to be quick and discreet. There would be no satisfaction. There would be no pleasure. Just a keen sense of purpose and the personal sacrifice that went along with it. It would be one more sin heaped upon a hundred others and adding to a long list of transgressions for which, when the time came, he would not be forgiven.

CHAPTER 10

I give Britney a ride to the police station with the assurance that I will also make sure she gets a ride home. I call Tomasetti on the way.

“Any chance you can get me a sketch artist?” I say by way of greeting.

“That’s an interesting request,” he says. “I take it you have a witness?”

I tell him about my trip to McNarie’s bar. “It’s a long shot, but I thought it might be worth pursuing.”

“I think that’s a good call.” A beat of silence, and then he adds, “I got a guy who owes me a favor. Let me see what I can do.”

I’d known walking into this that Britney Gaines wasn’t going to give us much in terms of identifying the man who’d been talking to Swanz. Not because she was intoxicated or didn’t try hard enough, but because she simply didn’t notice enough details to make a sketch a viable tool. Unfortunately for me, it takes nearly three hours to go through the motions. By the time I drop her at her apartment in Painters Mill, it’s seven thirty, fully dark, and aside from my brother—and Noah Stutzman, whom I’d spoken to before I found the list—I’ve yet to speak with the remaining individuals whose addresses are on the list.

That said, the list itself isn’t much of a lead; if I wanted to be perfectly honest, it’s not a lead at all. But at this point in this lackluster investigation, it’s the best I’ve got, and desperation obliges me to follow up.

It’s too late in the evening for me to visit the bishop and his wife. Not only are they known to rise early, but they’re elderly—well into their eighties. They’ve likely already called it a night. Of course, I’m going to buck conventional decorum and talk to them anyway. With the clock ticking and not a single solid lead, it won’t wait until morning.

I haven’t seen the bishop since my wedding just over two months ago. He didn’t officiate at the ceremony. While we’ve had our differences over the years, and will never see eye to eye on my belief system or the way I live my life, his being there meant the world to me. As I pull into the gravel lane of the Troyer farm, I find myself hoping that milestone meant something to him as well and might grease the wheels of cooperation.