Page 61 of The Burning

“The son of a bitch is Amish,” I whisper, my breath puffing out in front of me.

It’s not a perfect fit. Far from it. For one thing, the Amish are pacifistic; violence is prohibited. They will not defend themselves or their property and view themselves as “defenseless Christians.” In times of war, they are conscientious objectors. How, then, could this man who all but admitted he’d murdered Milan Swanz, and threatened to kill me, be Amish?

He’s formerly Amish, a little voice adds.

I’m hunkered over the spot where handcuff meets steel, working on the wire, when I spot approaching headlights through the trees. For an instant, I wonder if my attacker has come back to kill me. But I recognize the silhouette of the police cruiser the moment it comes into view.

I get to my feet, bent slightly because the cuff won’t allow me to straighten, and I wave my free hand. “Skid! I’m here!”

The cruiser rolls to a stop behind the Explorer. The spotlight comes on, the beam skimming over my vehicle, the ditch, and finally washes over me. An instant later, the red and blue overheads light up and Skid gets out.

“Chief?” His Maglite flicks on.

“I’m here. Cuffed to the fence.”

“What the hell?” Keeping his eyes on me, he jogs around to the trunk, pops it, and digs into his equipment box. Then he’s striding toward me, fence tool in hand. “What happened?” he says. “You okay?”

“I was ambushed,” I tell him. “Male suspect at large. Skid, get the sheriff’s department out here.”

He reaches me, blinks once at the sight of my face, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, I feel like a fool. “Uh, Chief, you’re bleeding pretty good. You need an ambulance?”

“Just get the sheriff’s department.”

Without speaking, Skid goes down on one knee.

“Give me your cuff key,” I say.

He digs into the compartment on his utility belt, passes me the key. As I unlock the cuff, he tilts his head to his radio mike and requests assistance from the sheriff’s department.

CHAPTER 16

Two hours later, I’m sitting in the interview room at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office, ostensibly for a “debriefing.” I know it’s more likely to be an all-hands-on-deck ass chewing. I spotted Chambers’s official vehicle parked outside. Right next to Mayor Auggie Brock’s Cadillac.

I gave my initial statement at the scene to the chief deputy of the sheriff’s office detective bureau. Skid recovered my radio, my .38, my knife, and my cell phone, which were dusted for prints and returned to me. An APB for the vehicle with a description of the suspect and the plate number was issued. The information was broadcast to all law enforcement agencies in the region, including the Ohio State Highway Patrol.

Now, it’s after one A.M. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen sits across from me, looking as if he was roused from a nightmare and didn’t get coffee before leaving his house. He’s doing his utmost not to make eye contact with me, which only adds to the butterflies wreaking havoc in my gut. Next to him, Chambers thumbs something into his cell phone with the speed of a high-school student. His satisfied expression reveals he’s pleased by my being back in the hot seat. Auggie Brock is sprawled in a chair next to the sheriff.

Of all the people in the room, Tomasetti is the most difficult to look at. He’s standing at the wall, next to the door, his arms crossed at his chest. I can tell by his expression he’s troubled, not only by the situation but by the cuts and bruises on my face. He’s a master at keeping all of those gnarly emotions out of the picture. I know him well enough to read between the lines.

Auggie’s staring at me. Not exactly making eye contact, but taking in my injuries. I try not to glare at him, but don’t quite succeed.

“Kate, did you get yourself checked out at the hospital?” he asks.

“EMT checked me out at the scene,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”

“Even so.” Tomasetti looks at his watch. “I’m sure the chief would appreciate it if you made this quick.”

“In that case, let’s get started.” Chambers hits a button on his cell, drops it on the table in front of him, and takes a moment to look around the room, letting us know he’s the man in charge, and we, his underlings, don’t quite measure up. “APB is out. Suspect description is out. Vehicle description.”

“Anything come back on the plate?” I ask.

“Fraudulent.” Chambers rubs his hands together as if he’s just sat down to his favorite meal, then looks at me. “Run us through what happened again.”

I spend fifteen minutes taking them through the incident from beginning to end, relaying all the details I put to memory.

“So you didn’t recognize him?” Chambers asked.

“No, but as I mentioned, the lower half of his face was covered with a scarf,” I say.