Page 66 of The Burning

Impatience thumps, but I knock it back, concentrate on keeping my focus. “Tell me about the night Milan Swanz and Clarence Raber came into your home and assaulted you and your wife.”

Behind me, I hear Freda’s quick intake of breath.

The bishop stares at me, unruffled, rheumy eyes as sharp and cold as the night outside. “I’ve nothing to say about Milan Swanz.”

“I know what he did to you,” I tell him. “I know what he did to your wife.”

The old man waves his hand dismissively. “Even as a girl, you always thought you knew more than you did.”

“Bishop, this isn’t about me. It isn’t even really about Milan Swanz or his shortcomings. This is about finding the person responsible for his death.”

“That is your path to walk, Kate Burkholder, not mine.”

I bring my hand down on the tabletop hard enough to rattle the salt and pepper shakers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Freda jump. Across from me, Tomasetti’s brows go up.

“Don’t give me that crap,” I snap. “Stop playing games with me. A man is dead. He was killed in the most horrific way imaginable. His killer is still out there. If he does it again, if he takes another life, it’s going to be on you, Bishop.”

The old man doesn’t react. Nothing seems to shake him. Nothing moves him. “It is in God’s hands. Not yours. Not mine.”

Freda comes to the table, sets a steaming cup in front of her husband, and addresses him, ignoring me and Tomasetti. “Milan Swanz was no friend of the Amisch.”

The bishop’s expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t dispute her claim. Something within him seems to shift.

Grumbling beneath her breath, Freda goes back to the counter.

The silence that follows drags on for so long that I don’t think he’s going to respond. When he finally speaks, his voice is so low, I have to lean closer to hear.

“Milan came in the middle of the night,” the bishop begins. “By the time I got downstairs, he’d already let himself into the kitchen. He’d been excommunicated for a few weeks by then, and he wanted to be reinstated. He’d been drinking, you know, crying and shouting. I told him it had been decided by the congregation and the decision was unanimous and final.”

“What did he do?” I ask quietly.

The bishop looks down at his hands on the tabletop in front of him. “He took my cane. Pushed me to the floor. Took a knife out of his pocket. And he cut my beard. Some of my hair. Hacked off a big chunk of it.”

“I thought Milan was going to cut his throat,” Freda says from her place at the sink.

The bishop waves his hand at her.

“Was Clarence Raber with him?” I ask.

“Ja.”

“Did Clarence participate in the attack?” I ask.

“No.”

“Didn’t do anything to stop it either,” Freda puts in.

I look at her. “Did Milan hurt you, too?”

“He pushed me down,” she huffs. “Tore off my kapp. Sawed off some of my hair.”

I nod, trying to absorb the scenes they are describing. An elderly Amish couple attacked in the middle of the night. I consider what that could mean in terms of Swanz’s fate. If someone found out about it …

“Mr. and Mrs. Troyer, does anyone know what happened that night?” I ask. “Did you talk to anyone about it?”

Even as I ask, I realize the question is moot. Bertha Swanz knew about it. The women who’d told her knew. Still, I let the question stand to see where it leads.

The couple exchanges a look. “The Diener,” the bishop says. “I told them. I thought they should know.”