Page 56 of The Burning

“James is okay?”

“He’s eleven years old. He’s innocent. He was … upset. Embarrassed and confused. He’s a smart boy. He knew everything was wrong.”

“And Swanz?”

“He got down the steps before I could stop him. But I followed, caught up with him over by the fence. Right next to my neighbor’s property.” He frowns, letting me know he’s aware of who the unnamed “witness” is. “I haven’t struck another human being since I was a boy myself. It’s not our way. It’s not my way.” He shrugs. “It’s certainly not something I want my son to see. I almost went after Swanz, but God reminded me it was wrong.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“We argued. I told him I was going to go to the bishop and tell him everything. Then I paid him. I ordered him off my property. Told him not to come back. And he left.”

I think of the story the witness described, acknowledge that the circumstances Jacob laid out match, and I utter a silent prayer because I believe him.

We fall silent. The only sound comes from the cooing of a pigeon in the rafters, and the hum of wind coming through the door.

“Did you go to the bishop?” I ask.

“I went that evening.”

“What did the bishop say?”

“He listened mostly, but I could tell he was troubled.”

I nod. “Jacob, I know you didn’t murder Swanz. But I have to ask. Were you involved in his death in any way?”

“No,” he says.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

“All I can tell you about Swanz is that he was veesht.” Evil. “None of the Amish were sorry to see him go, including me.”

The weight of a troubled mind shadows me like a lumbering beast as I knock on the door of the house where Bertha Swanz lives with her children. I’m preoccupied, trying to figure out what to do with the information my brother just gave me, when Bertha’s eldest son informs me his mother is working and won’t be home until ten o’clock this evening. I thank him and go back to the Explorer. One of the things I like about being a cop in a small town is that you know a lot about the citizens you serve and protect. I happen to know that Bertha Swanz is a waitress at LaDonna’s Diner. I know their coffee is good and I have a feeling that before all is said and done, I’m going to need the caffeine.

The diner is located just off of Main Street in a low-slung building that was a five-and-dime back in the 1970s. During breakfast and lunch, the restaurant is packed with everything from tourists to local merchants to farmers and even Amish families who come in for a meat and potatoes meal. But the diner is rarely busy in the evening, when most of the downtown area storefronts are closed for the day.

A welcome blast of heated air washes over me when I enter. The interior is a narrow space with a single row of booths, a counter appended with the requisite red-and-chrome stools. A smattering of tables at the front window looks out over Main Street. The lighting is too bright, the country music a tad too loud. The not-quite-pleasant aromas of grease and seared meat too strong. I spot Bertha Swanz taking someone’s order in a nearby booth and I grab a stool at the counter, upturn the cup on the saucer in front of me.

“Hi, Chief Burkholder!” A second waitress clad in a pink uniform hustles up to the counter. “Cup of joe?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Need a menu?”

“Not this evening,” I tell her.

With a wink, she hustles away, pushes through the double doors that will take her to the kitchen.

I’ve just taken my first sip of coffee when Bertha walks to the cook’s window, snaps down the order, and chimes the bell with her palm.

“Mrs. Swanz?” I say when she doesn’t acknowledge me.

Wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her apron belt, she approaches me with the enthusiasm of a woman about to walk the plank. “You’re here for dinner?” she asks.

“I’m here to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m working and I need my tips.” She says the words amicably, but there’s an edge in her voice that wasn’t there last time we spoke. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“Mrs. Swanz, we’re going to do this right now. We can do it here at the diner, or we can do it at the police station,” I tell her. “It’s up to you.”