Page 73 of The Hidden One

He raises his eyes to mine. “My point, Chief Burkholder, is that Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man. He relished the tears. The begging. I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes. It was the kind of look a man gets when he has lust in his heart. That was the day I realized Ananias Stoltzfus was cruel.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I did nothing. I was young and inexperienced. Naïve.” He sags in the chair as if he’d failed a challenge he should have aced. “I didn’t have the courage to do the right thing. At the very least, I should have consulted with the Diener.” He looks down at his hands, but not before I see shame in his eyes. “I saw darkness in Ananias. I knew that darkness would cause problems. That one day there would be a reckoning.”

“Bishop Yoder, do you have any idea who killed him?”

He bristles. “You’re a fool, Kate Burkholder.”

I sigh. “So I’ve been told.”

He looks at me the way a teacher might look at an unruly student in need of a good paddling. “By the teachings of Christ, violence is prohibited. The taking of a life is the darkest of sins.”

“The Amish may be pacifists,” I tell him, “but they’re human, too. They have the same frailties as the rest of us.”

“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.

It’s a standoff. For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks. The time gives our respective tempers a chance to cool.

“Were there any other displays of cruelty?” I ask.

He picks up the leather strap and runs his thumb over the stitching. “There was talk.”

He raises his eyes to mine. In their depths I see a quicksilver glint. Shame? Guilt? Something else?

He looks away, snips the thread, and pulls the leather from beneath the presser foot. Leaning against his chair back, he gives me his full attention. “Mia came to me,” he whispers.

Surprise cuffs me, a blow against my cheek, hard enough to jar. “What about?”

“She told me Ananias had … strayed.” The old man’s face darkens. “She was distraught. I counseled her. She told me other things, too, Chief Burkholder. She said Ananias had beat a man nearly to death. She said the devil had crawled into his soul. And that she was afraid.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I went to Ananias. He denied all of it. He said Mia was having a mental relapse. He said it had happened before.”

“Did you believe him?”

The old man turns his head and looks out the window, as if wishing he could be anywhere but in this room talking to me. Or maybe wishing he had the power to go back in time and change what has already been done. “No. Two days later she was gone. Killed herself in that church.”

“Did you speak to anyone else about what you knew? Or about what Mia had said?”

He shakes his head. “She was gone. I didn’t know if any of it was true, so I never spoke of it. I knew God would see us through whatever darkness lay ahead.”

The Amish eschew power and yet the bishop wields a vast amount. A good bishop is cautious about how that power is exerted—if at all. If Nelson Yoder believed Ananias Stoltzfus was abusing the authority of his position and tearing the church district apart with his strict rules, tyrannical leadership, and cruel punishments, how far would he go to bring the other man’s reign to an end?

It’s a question I’m loath to ask, let alone answer.

Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man. He relished the tears. The begging. I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes.

The road back to town is narrow and steep, short straightaways interrupted by switchbacks and hairpin curves. I’m so immersed in my thoughts I barely notice the beauty of the terrain or the dapple of shadow and light on my windshield.

That was the day I realized Ananias Stoltzfus was cruel.

I’m driving too fast, but I’m the only one on the road. I negotiate a banked curve with ease, then speed up for a ruler-straight stretch.

She told me Ananias had … strayed … beat a man nearly to death. She said the devil had crawled into his soul. And that she was afraid.

I catch a glimpse of a vehicle nestled in the trees to my right. As I pass, a pickup truck rockets out. I yank the wheel left, mash the brake. Steel clanks against steel as the front end crashes into the passenger door. I’m jerked right. My airbag explodes, punching my face and chest hard enough to daze. The passenger-door window bursts. Glass cascades over me. My rear tires skid, lose purchase. The other vehicle keeps coming, tires screaming, shoving me left.