I lie still, dazed, adrenaline sizzling in my gut. I’m in a prone position, arms outstretched, my head turned, cheek pressed to the ground. I have dirt in my mouth. Dust in my nostrils. Crushing weight on my back. Darkness all around. I suck in a breath. Dirt hits the back of my throat. I cough, my chest heaving, fingers of panic digging in.
Dear God, I can’t move.
I recall the hay tumbling from the loft. Dozens of bales coming down on top of me. I try to raise my head, but can’t. I flex my arm, try to push myself off the ground, but there’s too much weight pressing me down. A rush of claustrophobia assails me, primal and intense. I struggle mindlessly, grunting with the effort of trying to move. A scream tears from my throat. Dear God …
Easy does it, Chief. You got this.
Tomasetti’s voice comes to me out of the dark. I go still, listen to it, focus on the words. You got this. Slowly, the panic loosens its death grip. I bend my elbow. Bring my hand to my face. I wipe spit and mud and bits of hay from my mouth. I take another breath, not too deep. I move my leg, try to bring up my knee, only manage to dig the toes of my boots into the dirt.
All the while, I listen for voices. The only thing I hear is the hard pounding of my heart, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I try to shift onto my side, but there’s not enough room. I go still again, work my way through the chain of events, and I know this was no accident. Someone was in the loft and pushed the hay down on top of me. Adrian?
The thought prompts another barrage of panic. I fight it this time, force myself to remain still, reach for calm that isn’t there. I concentrate instead on my physical condition. No pain. I’m not injured, but I won’t last long without fresh air and with the weight of the hay crushing my lungs.
I have no idea how many bales came down. Each weighs fifty or sixty pounds. They’re rectangular and likely scattered on impact. The strongest muscles in my body are my legs. If I can shove just one bale aside, I may be able to dig my way out.
I bend both arms, set my hands against the ground, try to push off, push-up style. Hay scrapes against my skin. My scalp. I shove as hard as I can. No go.
I shift to my left side, bring up my right leg, try to roll to get my knee under me. The bale on top of me shifts, but another comes down. At first, I think I’ve made the situation worse. Then suddenly, my knee is beneath me. I twist, push against the bale with my back. I feel another bale move. Groaning with the strain, I shove harder. Get my other knee beneath me. Loose hay rains down. In my eyes, my mouth, my hair. But I see light, too. I’m in a crawling position now. Arms shaking with exertion. Breaths puffing. Choking on dirt. I bring my knee forward, get my foot beneath me, shove off against the ground. The bale on top of me tumbles away. Cool air pours over my sweat-slicked face. I suck in a breath as I squeeze between two bales. I see the rafters above. The broken rail hanging down. And then I’m free.
I look around. Mary Elizabeth is nowhere in sight. No sign of Adrian. Keeping my eyes on my surroundings, I clamber down, jump to the floor. Land on my feet. I reach down, yank up my pants leg, tug the mini Magnum from its holster.
Every sense on high alert, I sidle to the wall beneath the loft. Eyes everywhere, my back against the wall, I edge toward the door. I’m midway there when Mary Elizabeth comes through. Her mouth falls open at the sight of me. The bag she’d been holding drops to the floor.
“Get your fucking hands up!” I level the mini Mag at her. “Get them up. Now!”
She raises both hands. All the while she stares at me as if I’m a ghost.
“Where’s Adrian?” I demand.
She blinks. Shakes her head as if her eyes are deceiving her. “House.” The word comes out like a puff of air.
“Get on the ground. On your belly. Do it now!”
When she doesn’t move fast enough, I stride to her, grab her scruff, push her down. “Get down! Spread your arms! Do not move! Do you understand?”
The woman obeys. I don’t have handcuffs. I don’t have a phone. Or my regular service weapon. The one thing I do have in abundance is baling twine.
I look at Mary Elizabeth. “If you move, I will shoot you dead. You got that?”
Without looking at me, the woman jerks her head.
Holding the gun center mass, I back to the nearest hay bale. I reach into my pocket, remove the folding knife, and slice the string. Pulling it free, I go to her.
“Put your hands behind your back,” I tell her. “Now.”
“But, you can’t—”
I rap the side of her head with my palm. “Do it!” I hear anger in my voice, feel the rage crawling over me, and I pull myself back from an edge I don’t want to get too close to.
Kneeling, keeping one eye on the door, on the loft above, I loop the string around her wrist several times, pull it behind her back, and secure it to her other wrist. I yank both tight and triple-knot the twine. It’s not an ideal restraint, compromising her circulation and likely chafing her skin. But it’ll work just fine until the sheriff’s department arrives.
Considering what this woman has done, the discomfort of a temporary cuff is the least of her worries.
To my surprise, my cell phone worked despite having been submerged in creek water. It takes the sheriff’s department fourteen minutes to arrive on scene. I made good use of the time, snagging the zip ties from my toolbox in the Explorer and finding Adrian. I caught him in the house as he was coming down the steps. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I might’ve been amused by his expression at the sight of me. He didn’t resist when I trained the mini Mag on his chest. I made use of the zip ties, marched him to the barn, put him facedown on the ground next to his wife.
That was two hours ago. Since, I’ve given my statement, first to Sergeant Gainer with the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department and then to an investigator with the Pennsylvania State Police. The general consensus is that I’m lucky to be alive.
I’m tired and cranky, the adrenaline having long since given way to fatigue. I’m sitting behind the wheel of the Explorer, contemplating a hot shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, when Sergeant Gainer approaches my vehicle.
“Thought you’d be gone by now,” he says by way of greeting.
“I’m working on it,” I tell him.
“We got the Hershbergers booked in. DA is working on charges. Going to be a slew once we get things figured out. They’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning if you want to be there.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I tell him.
“Heading back to Painters Mill?”
The mention of home makes me smile. I think about Tomasetti. My team of officers. And in that moment, I’ve never been more homesick in my life. “First thing in the morning.”
“The investigation is ongoing, Chief Burkholder, but it looks like they were planning to burn the barn while you were trapped beneath all that hay.” He motions toward a nearby shed. “We found a gas can, rags, matches, and a bunch of canning jars filled with gas.”
It takes a good bit of effort not to shudder. “They would have blamed it on the so-called vandal that had started the fire here last night as well as the one at the mill.”
“I suspect it was Henry all along,” he tells me.
“He wanted to divert police attention away from him and his sister,” I murmur.
“Exactly.” He nods. “He was probably our tipster, too.”
“The hand bones in the well,” I say.
“He wanted us to focus on Bowman, so he piled on as much manufactured evidence as he could.” He grimaces. “Probably attacked you at the motel. Ran you off the road that day up on the mountain.”
I nod, remembering, and I realize the physical description of my attacker fits. “He was desperate,” I say. “He thought he could frighten me into leaving town.”
“I reckon that’s not the first time you’ve been underestimated.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile.
I smile back, liking him. Almost.
“Going to take a while to sort through everything.” He reaches beneath his cap and scratches his head. “We don’t even know at this point which one of them shot and killed Ananias Stoltzfus.”
“The answer to that might just lie with Mia Stoltzfus’s diary,” I tell him.
“Speaking of the diary.” Gainer’s expression turns grim. “We executed a search warrant earlier. I found the journal. Before logging and sealing it, I paged through. The thing went back decades. Some of it was written in German. But there was enough English for me to see that Mia Stoltzfus made some very serious accusations about her husband.”
“What kinds of accusations?”
“Things that happened, things he did. During the war.” His expression turns queasy, as if his breakfast is thinking about coming up. “Let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder, that diary is a thing of nightmares.”
I feel the same queasiness creep up on me. “Any idea how Mary Elizabeth got her hands on the diary?”
“I dug up the police report from the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus.” He grimaces. “The diary should have been returned to the surviving spouse. Inadvertently, it was given to Mary Elizabeth.”
Another piece of the puzzle snaps into place. “She knew what her father was,” I say.
Gainer stares at me intently. “If any of what I read in that diary is true, it’s enough to make anyone snap.” He shakes his head. “We’ll know a lot more once we sit down and talk to her. I suspect her brother was involved.”
I think about my final conversation with Henry. Family dynamics. “He was protecting her,” I say. “Even if Mary Elizabeth is the one who pulled the trigger, Henry helped her cover up the crime. He framed Jonas Bowman. In the end, he took the fall for his sister.”
He nods, looking at me intently. “At the risk of screwing up my reputation as an asshat.” A sheepish smile splits his face. “That was some damn fine police work you did. Thank you.”
“I had an advantage,” I tell him.
“You’re Amish.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. “I knew Jonas Bowman.”
He sticks out his hand and gives mine a firm shake. “Just don’t go running for sheriff around here next election.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, and I drive away.