I zip through Belleville well over the speed limit. Rain hammers down on the roof in a deafening roar. Lightning splits the sky overhead. The thunder follows with such violence that the ground shakes.
Beside me, Jonas grips the armrest a little too tightly. “Maybe a lightning strike hit the barn,” he says. “Caused the fire.”
“Maybe.” But it’s the other possibilities that trouble me. I can’t help but think of the fire at the mill in the back of the property. The broken window. The graffiti spattered on the silo at Henry Stoltzfus’s farm.
Like father. Like son. Both in hell.
I glance away from my driving and look at Jonas. “Their farm has been vandalized in the past.”
He nods. “I remember hearing about it. The mill.”
“Henry Stoltzfus, too.” I tell him about the spray paint. “Any ideas?”
He shrugs. “Maybe it has to do with Ananias Stoltzfus.”
I blow the stop sign at Blue Run Road and hang a right. The Explorer hydroplanes, the rear end fishtailing. I slow as I approach the covered bridge. Little Kishacoquillas Creek has transformed into a raging torrent of churning brown water.
“We needed the rain,” Jonas mutters, “but not this much.”
I make the turn into the lane of the Hershberger farm. Mud and gravel ping against the undercarriage as I speed toward the house. I make the final turn to see the glow of a lantern ahead. Adrian is running toward the barn. A bucket in each hand.
“I don’t see a fire,” I say.
“Maybe he got it put out,” Jonas replies.
I slide to a stop a dozen yards from the barn. Then I’m out of the Explorer. Smoke hangs like a pall, black and wet and choking. I start toward Adrian.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask.
“Inside the barn!” he shouts.
“Is everyone out?”
“The cows!” he cries.
Jonas sprints past me toward the barn. I follow. The bellowing of cattle rises above the roar of rain against the roof. Jonas reaches the gate, struggles to open it. The silhouettes of a dozen head of cattle are backlit by the flames inside. The panicked animals push against the gate. Horns and bawling and the stench of terror. Jonas struggles with the chain, but it’s too tight to unfasten.
I scrape rain from my eyes, look around wildly. I run to the Explorer, hit the fob. The rear door yawns. I yank out the fire extinguisher, go to my toolbox. I tear it open, pull out the bolt cutters. I sprint to the gate. Jonas glances over his shoulder. I open the jaws of the bolt cutters, snap them down.
The chain springs apart. The gate flies open, strikes me in the chest, nearly knocking me down. A dozen cattle stampede past. Jonas snatches the fire extinguisher from me, charges into the barn. Flames shoot ten feet into the air. Not a huge fire, but gaining momentum. He fumbles the lever, aims, and sprays. The flames totter and leap. A final burst of heat. A billow of smoke. And then the fire goes dark.
We stand there a moment, breathing hard, looking at each other, knowing a disaster was narrowly avoided.
“This wasn’t a lightning strike,” I say.
Jonas nods. “Someone did this.”
The stink of wet ash hangs in the air. Residual heat presses against my face. Pulling out my mini Maglite, I shine the beam on a door that will ostensibly take me into the main part of the barn. I go to it, slide it open, go through. Jonas shadows me, on my right. Our feet are silent on the dirt floor as we enter.
The aisle takes me to the raised wood floor at the back of the barn. Smoke hovers, thick and acrid. Lightning flickers in the window ahead. I go to it, slide it open to bring in fresh air. Adrenaline quivers in my gut when I see movement in the pen below. The silhouette of a man climbing over the pipe fence. Jumping to the ground. Running away. Moving fast.
“Someone outside.” I sweep my beam around, spot the stairway opening in the floor that will take me down to the pens. “Stay put.”
“Katie—”
“Stay here.” I jog to the opening in the floor, flick off my flashlight, plunge down the steps.
I reach ground level. My feet sink into mud and manure as I cross through the pen. No sign of the man. I unlatch the gate, go through. I wade through mud; then I’m in the grass. The rain has slowed, but there’s no moon. Not enough light to see. I’m loath to use my flashlight; it’ll give away my position, but I’m blind without it. I flick it on for an instant, get my bearings, check for footprints, catch sight of a heel impression filled with water. He’s heading toward the woods. I turn off the flashlight and push myself into a run.
I’m aware of my .38 pressing against my side as I race down the hill, my backup sidearm tucked into my ankle holster. I crash through brush and saplings, barely avoiding a pile of deadfall. At the base of the hill, I splash through a wet-weather creek. I reach an open area, flick on the flashlight. Catch sight of a figure as it disappears into the trees ahead.
“Stop!” I shout. “I’m a police officer! Stop!”
I freeze, listen for a response. Thunder and the pouring rain drown out any sound. I jog to the trees, tug out my cell phone as I enter, hit 911.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” comes a female voice.
Quickly, I identify myself. “I’m at Adrian Hershberger’s farm.” I give the address. “There was a suspicious fire. A prowler. Male. Heading toward the rear of the property—”
“Ma’am, do not approach the suspect. I’ve dispatched a deputy and fire department—”
I hit End, pick up speed, find my stride. I flick on the flashlight. Wet foliage all around. Rain glistening on leaves. A rise of fog. I glance down, spot a footprint. Not enough detail to know the shoe type, but he came this way, moving fast.
I maintain a brisk clip, weave through old-growth forest. Blackberry and raspberry catch at my slicker. I keep my eyes on my surroundings, watching for movement, straining to hear anything above the pound of rain. The wind has kicked up, the treetops a restless sea above.
The trail narrows, the path littered with deadfall, and overgrown with branches and foliage. Lightning flashes, a strobe far too close for comfort. Two seconds and a deafening clap of thunder shakes the ground.
I’m out of breath. My heart pounding. Too much adrenaline dumping at once. Rain pours down, dripping down my face. In my eyes. My hair is soaked. I slide the .38 from its nest.
All the while, I ponder who I’m following. Did he set the fire? A vandal with some bone to pick? Someone disgruntled with Ananias? With Mary Elizabeth or Adrian? Someone I’ve met? And where’s Jonas?
I reach the peak of the hill. I shine my beam down the other side. It’s steep and heavily treed with a creek at the base. I debate the wisdom of following this unknown individual. I don’t know his intent or if he’s armed. But while I may be a civilian here in Pennsylvania, I’m still a cop. I know if I stop now and leave this to the sheriff’s department, he’ll get away.
Movement thirty yards ahead snaps me back. A figure moving through the trees. Fast. A male. In good physical condition. Something familiar about the way he moves.
“Stop!” I shout. “I’m a police officer! I need to talk to you!”
The figure melts into the trees.
I start down the hill, ducking the occasional branch, moving too fast for the gradient, my feet sliding. I trip over a fallen log, nearly go down, catch myself just in time. I hear the roar of water before I reach the creek. The trees open. A behemoth structure looms, seemingly out of nowhere, as much a part of the forest as the trees. The old mill, I realize. Dozens of windows stare at me like black, watchful eyes. The hairs at my nape stand on end. My flashlight beam illuminates two stories constructed of brick and stone, hemmed in by trees and covered with vines.
The creek is too wide to cross. There’s a dam to my left; water thunders over the spillway, rushing between a series of concrete piers. The only way across is to step from pier to pier. Not an ideal situation, but I know my suspect did just that and made it. Chances are, there’s a road on the other side of the building where he’s parked a vehicle. If he reaches the vehicle, he’ll get away.
Rain pours down as I start across the piers. I set my beam on the opposite bank. One foot in front of the other. Water thundering all around. Don’t look down. I reach the other side, shine my light ahead. A loading dock abuts the building. Concrete steps to my left. Above, a rusty catwalk looks out over the water. I take the steps two at a time to the loading dock. Knee-high weeds jut from the crumbling concrete. Two overhead doors locked down and reinforced with chain-link fencing. A single footprint in a thin layer of mud. A man door stands open about a foot. I shove it open with my boot, go through.
Dark as a cave inside. The pound of rain on the roof is deafening. The smells of mold and creek water and rotting wood.
“It’s Kate Burkholder!” I call out. “Come out and talk to me!”
I pause to listen, curse the din of rain, but there’s no response.
I sweep my beam around the interior, get the sense of an abandoned factory that’s frozen in time. Ancient wood beams overhead, some broken and slanting down. Moss growing on the walls. High windows boarded up. A rusty steel tank lies on its side, petrified sludge spread out beneath the spout. A Volkswagen-size piece of machinery of indecipherable origin. To my right, an open stairway leads to an upper level. Ahead, a brick arch leads to another room.
Senses on high alert, I pass beneath the arch, find myself in a cavernous room. There are several tanks of different sizes. A stone wall covered with creeping vines. Water cascading down from above. I shine my light upward, see the fire-damaged roof. I keep going.
“The sheriff’s department is on the way!” I call out. “You’re not in any trouble. Come out and talk to me!”
A loud clang! sounds from behind me. I spin, rush back to the room where I entered. I see movement at the top of the stairs.
“Stop!”
I dart to the stairs; they’re steel with pipe rails. I take them two at a time to the top. Windows to my right. Glass broken out. Rain and wind pelt me as I ascend the steps. At the top, I go through a doorway. Wood floor littered with debris. Machinery to my left. Not many places to hide. Where the hell did he go?
I sidle toward the machinery. My .38 in my right hand. The butt slick against my palm. Maglite in my left. Wrists crossed. “Come out and talk to me!”
A figure emerges from the shadows. I shift my light, blind him. Recognition kicks. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” I say.
Henry Stoltzfus raises his hands, shields his eyes from my beam with his left. “Don’t shoot me.”
No weapon in sight. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one tucked into his waistband. It doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.
“Are you armed?” I ask.
“No.”
I don’t lower my pistol. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at me. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
“What were you doing at the Hershberger farm?” I ask.
No answer.
“Did you start the fire?”
He raises his gaze to mine. “I did what I had to do.”
If I were in uniform, I’d get him on the ground and cuff him to secure the situation and keep both of us safe. Of course, I’m not in uniform; my zip ties are in the Explorer.
“Do not move,” I tell him.
Never taking my eyes from his, I set my Maglite on the floor, the beam pointed toward him. Keeping my .38 steady, center mass, I work my cell from my pocket and hit redial with my thumb.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency.”
“This is Kate Burkholder. I’m at the old mill with Henry Stoltzfus. I think he’s involved in the fire at the Hershberger farm. Send a deputy right away. It’s an emergency.”
The dispatcher speaks, but I hit End, drop my cell back into my pocket.
I look at Henry and frown. “This might be a good time for you to start talking.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the pound of rain against the roof, the roar of water cascading over the dam outside, and the spattering of water onto the floor through a hole in the roof.
“You can’t possibly understand,” he says.
“Try me.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he tells me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I knew you were going to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” I ask, more gently.
He emits a sob, looks around as if searching for a route of escape. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Feet restless. Hands raised. Acting squirrelly.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell him.
He squeezes his eyes closed. He’s trembling now. His face is wet; I can’t tell if it’s from the rain or if he’s crying, but he’s struggling with some internal demon.
“Henry, I’m the best friend you’ve got right now,” I say softly. “Stay calm. Let me help you.”
His gaze meets mine. In its depths, I see a tangled mass of pain and desperation and hopelessness.
“My datt was not a good man,” he whispers.
“I know what he was,” I say.
“Such a bad thing. So many lies.” His mouth trembles. “He betrayed us. All of us. He tried to betray God, but the Lord would not be fooled.”
“Is that why you killed him?” I ask.
He blinks as if the question comes as a shock. “I did what I had to do.” His voice is so faint, I’m not sure I heard the words correctly. “You have to understand. There was no other way.”
He charges me without warning. Animal sounds tear from his throat. I step back, raise the .38. “Stop!” Slip my finger inside the guard. “Stop! Stop!”
He keeps coming.
I fire twice. Catch a glimpse of his face. Disbelief in his eyes. Teeth clenched. Lips peeled back. He plows into me hard, a linebacker crushing the opposition. His shoulder rams my midsection. Knocks the breath from me. Then I’m reeling backward, feet tangling.
“Stop!” I try to get my gun into position for another shot, but he’s too close. His arms locked around my abdomen, trapping my right hand.
My back crashes against the wall. Wood splinters. The screech of steel. A puff of cold air. Rain on my back. My foot finds air. And then I’m falling into nothingness.