Page 79 of The Burning

… helped orchestrate a violent pogrom against Regensburg’s Jews.

I think about the murder of Milan Swanz and struggle to find some parallel or connection, but it’s like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. In the backwaters of my mind, my exchanges with Bertha Swanz float untethered.

Did he break your son’s arm?

She closes her eyes, nods.

… had a knife on him and hacked off a piece of the bishop’s beard …

“Swanz was violent,” I mutter, my voice sounding like that of a stranger in the silence of the cab. “But he was also the victim.”

You’re blaming the victim, Kate, whispers the voice of reason.

“And now you’re arguing with yourself.” Sighing, I buckle up and pull out of the lot. A quick glance at the dash reminds me I should have been home by now. Tomasetti and I were supposed to have dinner together. A bottle of wine. Some conversation. I’m forty minutes late and half an hour from the farm. If I rush, I can still spend some time with him.

Driving slightly above the speed limit, I take Highway 77 north. Around me, the night is quiet. Not much traffic. The snow has stopped, but there’s a rise of mist in the air. I think back to my conversation with Neufeld as I fly past Heini’s Cheese Chalet and then the 77 Housewares home-goods store. I’ve just made the turn onto County Highway 207 when I hear something shift in the back seat. At first, I think my laptop case has slipped off the seat and onto the floor. I glance over my shoulder, sense movement directly behind me. Alarm jolts me.

“What—”

I’m reaching for my .38 when something loops over my head and is yanked against my throat. I raise my hand to protect my neck, but I’m not fast enough. The bind is drawn impossibly tight. I put one hand on the wheel. I grapple for my .38 with the other. My hand on the butt. Out of the holster. Finger inside the guard. I twist, try to put eyes on my attacker. A dark figure in the periphery of my vision. I try to speak, but I can’t make a sound.

I fire blind. The explosion deafens, the concussion of it puffs against my face as it tears a hole in the roof. My attacker grasps my wrist, jerks it back. I get off another shot before he tears the gun from my grasp. I stomp the accelerator. The engine roars. I yank the wheel right. The front end drops. The headlights play crazily over tree trunks. The undercarriage scrapes the ground. The Explorer lurches forward, bounces violently. I see night sky. Headlights on the treetops. Blood hammering inside my head.

I see the massive trunk an instant before the Explorer slams into it. The seat belt digs into my pelvis. The airbag explodes, a giant boxing glove punching my face and chest. The figure is catapulted between the front seatbacks, hitting my right shoulder. I jab him with my elbow. Once. Twice. I draw back my left hand and punch blind. No good because my neck is bound to the headrest.

He hits my right cheek, but I can tell he’s shaken from the impact. He scrambles from between the seats. Growling like a beast, he crawls across the passenger seat. I try to get a look, but I can barely turn my head and it’s too dark to see. The passenger door flies open and he’s out.

I fight away the deflated airbag and jam the fingertips of both hands between the bind and my throat. It’s too tight.

Shit. Shit.

Blood pounds in my face. My mouth is open wide. My tongue sticking out. No air in my lungs. Brain going fuzzy.

“Last warning,” comes a raspy male voice.

I glance left, see a figure standing outside. Somehow, the door is open. His torso visible, not his face. I don’t know where my weapon is and for a terrifying instant, I envision it in his hand, a bullet slamming into my temple. I claw at the bind. Why isn’t it loosening? My vision swims. Blood pounding in my head. Panic knocks hard at the door and involuntarily I try to raise my hips. Locked in by the seat belt, I kick mindlessly.

I reach for the Gerber folding knife. Fingers of my left hand digging deep into the skin of my throat.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

I unclip the knife. Thumb off the safety switch. Hit the release button with my thumb. The knife fires. My hand shakes as I bring it up. Set the blade against the bind. A belt, I think. Leather. And in that instant I’m damn glad I keep my tools sharp, because the bind falls away.

I collapse against the steering wheel, choking, and I let the blood come back to my head. For the span of several seconds I can’t move. I sit there with my forehead against the wheel, drooling and wheezing and thanking God the son of a bitch didn’t kill me.

When I’m able, I unbuckle my seat belt. I stumble out, go to my knees, spit what tastes like blood in the snow. Vaguely, I’m aware that the Explorer is nose down in the ditch. Trees on either side of the road.

I reach for my radio. “Ten-thirty-three.” Officer in trouble. I rasp out my location. “Suspect at large.”

Six minutes pass before I see the flash of emergency lights coming down the road. My vehicle is basically a crime scene now, so I touch as little as possible. Because my attacker is still at large, I do reach in and pull out my Maglite. A quick search reveals my .38 on the floor of the back seat area. I slip on my duty gloves and keep my weapon at my side while I wait.

Relief slips through me when Glock’s cruiser slides to a stop behind my Explorer. His door swings open and he jogs to me, sidearm and Maglite at the ready, eyes on the woods all around.

“Chief!”

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“Suspect?”