Page 72 of The Burning

He strides to the door, opens it for me, and we go through. “Getting cold,” he says conversationally.

“Snow on the way,” I tell him.

On the porch, we take a moment to slip on scarves and gloves. Now that I’m closer to him, I notice that one of his eyes is blue, the other brown.

“Have you ever been to Painters Mill?” I ask.

“I think I’ve been through there a couple of times. Bought some nice Amish cheese there last summer. Some eggs.”

“Have you ever met Milan Swanz?”

“Never heard the name until I read that awful piece in The Budget this morning.”

We’ve reached the end of the sidewalk that wraps around the building. “Ground’s a little messy but we’ve just a short distance to go. Is that all right?”

“Sure.”

We leave the sidewalk and start toward a wooded area where a well-used path cuts through the trees.

“I understand you’re Hutterite,” I say.

“I am. This is a Hutterite community. Sixteen people live and work here. We’ve been running the quarry for nearly eight years now.”

He eyes me intently. “Burkholder is an Amish name.”

“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “Left when I was eighteen.”

“Ah.” He nods, thoughtful. “Some would see pacifism as being incompatible with law enforcement.”

I’m not here to talk about my Amish roots, so I don’t respond. “And the Hutterites?”

The hint of a smile. “We’re defenseless Christians, too, of course.”

The trail is wide enough for us to walk side by side now. I’m keenly aware of his proximity to me. His size and strength. The .38 in the shoulder holster beneath my coat. I hear the rise and fall of heavy equipment ahead. Through the trees I can see the silhouette of a large truck. Hofer sets an easy pace. He seems as comfortable with the cold and mud as he is with the chitchat and talk of murder.

The tremolo of a loon sounds in the distance. He stops, looks over at me, and smiles. “On his way to Canada, no doubt.”

“It’s unusual to hear them this far south.”

“Especially so late in the year. One more reason why the beauty of the call is so appreciated by those of us who pay attention. We understand the worth of rarity.”

We pass a sign that reads SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL, and the path opens to a large area of excavated ground. Dozens of trees have been felled, the trunks piled high. On the far end of the clearing, two men work in tandem, dragging branches to form a second pile. A dump truck and John Deere backhoe sit several yards from a mound of freshly excavated earth. Beyond, the scarred land sweeps down to a pit so deep I can’t see the base.

“This is our main gravel pit here at Sugarcreek.” He leaves the path and starts toward the dump truck. “We’ve a defunct quarry a quarter mile or so to the north. Unfortunately for us, this one is just about spent, too.”

I follow him, trying to avoid the mud as best I can. “Seems like a good business to have in this part of Ohio.”

“It was,” he tells me. “But with our second quarry nearly depleted, we’ll likely be closing up shop inside a year.”

We reach an old Kenworth truck with a green cab and beat-up dump body. Hofer wades through mud to the driver’s-side door, opens it, and bends to look at the forward doorframe. I watch as he pulls out a pad, and writes down the VIN.

“Mr. Hofer, what can you tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder. “Not many people have heard of them.”

“Do they exist?” I ask. “Have they ever existed?”

He pulls reading glasses from his pocket, slips them onto his nose, and goes back to the VIN. “Depends on who you ask. Where you look.”