Page 43 of The Burning

Absently, I engage my seat belt, find myself looking down at the strap.… suffered a broken hyoid bone … Doc Coblentz’s words come at me from the recesses of my mind.

“Was there a struggle?” I say. “In the vehicle? Or alongside the road?”

Milan Swanz was not a small man. He was muscular and tall with a generous amount of weight. How could someone subdue such a strong man? I stare down at the seat belt in my hands; I glance over at the passenger seat next to me.

“He was intoxicated,” I whisper. “Or there were two of them.”

It’s not the first time the possibility has occurred to me. A scenario plays out in my mind’s eye. A deserted back road late at night. An intoxicated Swanz is walking home and offered a ride. He gets in. While the driver converses with him, a second individual hides in the back seat. When the time is right, he loops a rope or strap over Swanz’s head, tightens it around his throat, and strangles him to unconsciousness.

And the hyoid bone is broken in the process.…

Leaving my window down, I idle along the road, keeping my eyes on the ditches, the fence, the trees beyond. In the yellow glow of the headlights, intermittent snow slants down from a black sky.

I reach the crime scene and stop. The shoulder and roadway are scarred with tire ruts. I pull onto the shoulder, snag my Maglite off the seat, and get out. I stand there a moment, listening to the inhale and exhale of the forest. I take it in. Put it to memory. Try to imagine what might’ve happened and somehow absorb the memory of this place.

To my left, I can see where the fence was cut, both sides peeled open for the first responders. I start that way. The thin layer of snow is wet and soft, my feet silent as I enter the trees. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for. I spent a good chunk of my day here; I’ve seen every inch of it. Still, I was compelled to return. Earlier, it was teeming with law enforcement, crime scene investigators, and, nearer the road, journalists. Now, alone and in the dark, I have a better sense of what it was like the night Swanz was killed.

I follow the beaten-down path through the woods to the place where the body was found. The wooden stake was removed and sent to the lab for testing, as were samples of the lumber and ash. New snow coats everything that remains. I stop ten feet from the remaining pile of ash and wood. I walk around it, trying to imagine, yet at the same time, trying not to. I pull out my notebook and write: Where did the pallets come from?

I’ve circled the fire area a second time when a sound from the woods startles me. Not the snapping of a twig. More like a muffled thud. An odd sound for the woods. I stop walking and look that way, feel the hairs at my nape stand on end. There are plenty of deer out this way. There are possum and raccoon, rabbit and coyote, all of which are nocturnal. There’s also a killer on the loose, and while it may be cliché that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, it holds true.

Without changing my gait, I stride toward where I heard the noise. I’m aware of the .38 in my holster beneath my parka. Casually, I tug down the zipper for quick access. I sweep the Maglite along the trees. Eyes penetrating as far as the light will allow. No movement. Nothing there.

So why are the hairs up at the back of your neck, Kate?

I break into an easy jog. Sweeping my light left and right. Fifty yards and I stop. Listen over the low thud of my heart. The scrape of a branch across fabric sounds to my left.

“Stop!” I call out and launch myself into an easy, ground-covering jog. “Painters Mill Police Department!”

I maintain the speed for another hundred yards, then stop and listen, my breaths puffing out in front of me. I stand still, the beam of my flashlight digging into the darkness. All the while I try not to think about the rumors of a devil-worshipping cult living off the grid in these woods.

“Is someone there?” I call out.

The only sound that comes back at me is the hiss of my labored breathing and hard thud of my heart.

CHAPTER 12

It’s after seven A.M. when I walk into the station. My floater dispatcher, Margaret, mans the switchboard with the cool head of a seasoned war correspondent. She catches my eye as I walk past, chirps out a cheerful “Morning!,” and shoves a dozen or so message slips into my hand.

“Get me everything you can find on Clarence Raber.” I spell the last name for her. “Background. Known associates. Check for warrants.”

She scribbles on a pad. “Got it.”

“Who’s on?” I ask.

“Glock.”

“Tell him to—”

“I’m right here, Chief.”

I turn to see the man in question come around the corner of his cubicle. Despite the fact that he likely worked through the night, his uniform is clean and crisp, his eyes are clear and focused. “You had any sleep?” I ask.

“As much as I needed,” he says.

I tell him about Clarence Raber. “According to Swanz’s ex, they were best friends. He works at the grain elevator in Coshocton. I thought I’d run over there.”

“You want some company?”