Page 39 of The Burning

“He did not wish to be excommunicated. He was upset. But he broke the rules not just once, but many times.”

An adroit skirt of the question. “Did he lose his temper?”

“I don’t recall that.”

“Did he threaten you?”

He holds my gaze, silent and unapologetic.

“What about Monroe Hershberger?” I say, referring to the Amish elder whose address also appears on the list.

A quiver moves through the bishop’s gaze. A nerve, I think, and I set my index finger to Hershberger’s address. “Why would Swanz make a list of addresses that contains both yours and Monroe Hershberger’s?”

“Monroe is one of our Diener,” he says, using the proper Amish term for “servant” and referring to the elected officials who oversee the church district, usually the bishop, the deacon, and one or two ministers or preachers. “He is our deacon,” he finishes.

Again, he’s avoiding the question, so I give another push. “The deacon sometimes conveys messages of excommunication.”

“Perhaps.”

“Was Monroe Hershberger involved in the bann or excommunication of Milan Swanz?”

The old man gives a curt nod. “He was there.”

“Was he upset with Monroe?”

“If he was, he didn’t say.”

“Did Milan become angry with the deacon?”

Nothing but a deadpan stare.

Impatiently, I tap my index finger against the sheet on the tabletop between us. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t bring up the names of other individuals who may or may not be involved in the case. But Painters Mill is a small town and the Amish community is close-knit. This man is the bishop, which means he knows most of his congregation personally. He has his finger on the happenings inside the community. I broach that invisible line without regret.

“Has Lester Yoder ever had any kind of disagreement with Swanz?” I ask.

“Maybe you should ask Yoder about that,” he says.

“I’m asking you.”

He doesn’t respond, but I think I see a hint of temper in his eyes.

“When’s the last time you spoke to Milan Swanz?” I ask.

“I’ve only spoken to him a couple of times since the excommunication. I don’t recall the date. A time ago.”

“Did you argue?”

The old man tightens his mouth, glances toward the living room, where I think I hear the whisper of his wife moving around in the darkness.

“I’ll not discuss my personal business with you,” he snaps. “Not this.”

I curb my own anger and press on. “Bishop, if you know—”

His eyes home in on mine like lasers, knowing and hard. “There’s another address on that list you didn’t ask about, Katie.”

He says my name as if I’m fifteen years old and in trouble because I didn’t follow some rule that nobody gives a damn about.

I reach for the list and tuck it into an inside pocket of my coat. “Has my brother had any disputes with Swanz that you know about?”