Page 83 of The Burning

Blind, stupid woman still believed in the fundamental goodness of mankind. What a fool.

Thanks to this formerly Amish woman turned cop, the situation was out of their hands—hands that would soon be covered with innocent blood.

CHAPTER 22

There’s nothing like a near-death experience to give you a fresh perspective on life. When you’re a cop and the person you’re investigating wants to do away with you, it’s a pretty good sign that you’re on the right track.

I wake to full daylight outside the window. Rolling, I grab my phone, check the time, and I’m annoyed when I see that the digital display indicates it’s 8:01 A.M. I’d set my alarm for seven. Tomasetti must have turned it off while I was sleeping. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that, but at least his motives were good.

I sit up, set my feet on the floor. Every muscle in my body aches as I rise and snatch my sweatpants off the rocking chair. It’s cold in the house this morning, so I slip my old cardigan over my T-shirt. As I step into slippers, I vaguely recall Tomasetti rising before daylight. He’d kissed me lightly on the cheek, lingered for a minute or two, and left.

All of this serves as a reminder that my life isn’t just about me anymore; we’re married and I have to take that into consideration, especially when it comes to the dangers inherent to my job. It’s particularly difficult for him given his past. I think we made things right last night. We made love, which is always good, but our emotions remain raw.

What are your priorities, Kate?

Am I a wife first and foremost? A cop first? A woman? Where does Tomasetti fall into the mix? That’s not even to mention the prospect of motherhood and a family. I’d always thought it would happen. I would know when it was time. And yet here I am, thirty-six years old and hearing the tick of my biological clock more loudly with each year that passes. This morning, I feel as if I’m caught in the shuffle of all those things.

In the kitchen, I plug a pod of dark roast into the coffeemaker, slap down the lid. Outside the window above the sink, rain pours down from a slate sky. It’s melted most of the snow, giving the farm a cold and bleak resonance. I shift my focus from the untidy pieces of my life to the investigation. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, and despite the fact that I’ve been virtually barred from the case, I’m compelled to find and stop this killer.

In the office, I snatch my laptop off the desk, the file I’ve amassed so far, a legal pad and pen, and I carry everything to the kitchen. Armed with coffee, I pull up a chair at the table and set to work.

I’m swept into a history that spans nearly five hundred years and stretches from Austria and Switzerland to Germany and the current-day Czech Republic. I learn about the secret police force called “the Anabaptist Hunters” who were charged with finding and arresting heretics. As I read, I struggle to find a parallel between the Schwertlers and the case.

Nothing stands out.

The early Anabaptists who were killed and became martyrs were not guilty of crimes. They were murdered because of their faith. Milan Swanz was not killed because of his faith.

“What the hell is the connection?” I say aloud.

My pen hovers above the paper and then I write: Violence. Murder. Schwertler = “of the sword.”

Is it possible the only link is the acceptance of violence? Are we dealing with some bastardized version of the original Schwertler Anabaptists? Did someone take that small parcel of history and twist it to justify murder? Someone who saw Milan Swanz as a heretic?

Frustrated, I toss the pen aside. “Shit.”

I’m reading through notes on my interview with the bishop when pounding on the door startles me.

On impulse, I reach for the .38 on the table next to my laptop. My hand is on the butt, my fingers itching, when I glance up and see my brother at the back door. I rise, my mind whirling. I don’t remember the last time my brother came to see me.

I unlock the door, open it. Jacob stands on the small back porch, looking at me. Not happy about something. Dressed mostly in black, soaking wet, water dripping from the brim of his hat.

“Kumma inseid,” I say.

“I can’t stay.”

I frown at him. “Is everything all right?”

His eyes hold mine as he enters, brushes past me. “I heard what happened last night,” he says. “You are hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I wave off his concern, but I have to resist the urge to cover the bruises at my throat. “How did you hear?”

“Guy at the feedstore.”

I shake my head, wondering about the speed of the small-town grapevine. Then again, it’s big news when someone tries to murder the chief of police, small town or not.

“He said you were hurt,” he says. “And that you’ve passed the case to the sheriff.”

My temper stirs, but I tamp it down before it can take root. “That’s not quite the way it happened.”