Page 41 of The Burning

“How do you know that?”

“A few weeks after he was excommunicated, he came to me. He was upset … drinking, you know. Said he would change. Begged me to let him come back. Of course, by then it was too late. He’d been given many opportunities to make things right so he could come back. But he’d taken things too far, too many times, and the decision had been made. When I told him that, he fell to grisha.” Shouting. “And fluch-vadda.” Curse words.

“Did he threaten you in any way?” I ask.

The old man shifts in his chair. “He said all sorts of crazy things. But that’s the way Milan was. Said things he didn’t mean.”

“Mr. Hershberger, what did he say exactly?”

“He tossed around some blame. Blamed everyone but himself, I think.” The old man’s eyes flash to his wife, to the cup of tea in his hands, then back to me. “Milan said he’d get back at us. For what we’d done to him, you know. That we didn’t understand. That we’d ruined his life. It was a sad thing to behold, really.”

“Did he say how he would get back at you?” I ask.

“No. I don’t think he even realized what he was saying. Just a sad man talking.” But his eyes skate away from mine, a small tell that niggles the back of my brain. “I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

He falls silent and for the span of several heartbeats the only sound comes from the hushed patter of snow against the window and the hiss of the lamp. Watching them, I get the sinking suspicion that there’s more. That they’re struggling with it because they don’t want to speak ill of a dead Amishman. Not to me, whom they consider an Englischer despite my birthright.

Finally, Ada heaves a sigh and speaks up for the first time. “Tell her the rest, Monny.”

The old man tosses her a sour look. “I don’t see how that will help anything,” he snaps. “Milan is gone to God now. It’s over.”

“Mr. Hershberger, this isn’t really about Milan; it’s about finding the person who murdered him. This is about keeping them from hurting anyone else.” I pause. “If something happened, I need to know about it.”

The silence that follows stretches on for so long that I think they’re not going to open up. Finally, Monroe looks down at his cup and shakes his head. “We had some problems here at the farm a few months back.”

“What kind of problems?” I ask.

“Someone drove a vehicle through our cornfield,” he says. “Took a joyride. Circles, you know. It was after a big rain and there was a lot of mud. Tore that field up something awful. I only had about thirteen acres and whoever done it ruined most of the crop.”

“It was a total loss,” Ada adds. “Did the soybean field, too.”

“Was it Milan?” I ask.

“We don’t know for sure,” the deacon replies. “No one saw him.”

“We have our suspicions,” Ada puts in.

I would have remembered a vandalism incident of that magnitude. “You didn’t call the police?”

“Well.” Sheepish, the Amish man looks down at his hands. “No.”

Ada sets her hand on her husband’s arm. “Tell her about the pigs.”

“Pigs?” I look at him and raise my brows.

He frowns, his expression stubborn and pained, as if he knows there’s no escaping the inevitable. “We raise hogs, you know. Do a pretty good business.” He sighs. “A few weeks after the fields were torn up, someone came in the night and let the hogs out of their pen. Twenty-two of them. They got into the garden.”

Ada presses her lips together. “Someone opened the gate,” she said. “Herded them in. Then shut them in. The pigs destroyed everything.”

“You believe Milan Swanz was responsible?” I ask.

Monroe looks down at his hands.

“Oh for goodness’ sake.” The Amish woman jerks her head. “I was upstairs, reading, when I heard the ruckus. I looked out the window and I’m pretty sure it was Milan Swanz getting into that English car of his and pulling away.”

“The Mustang?”

“Ja,” Monroe replies.