Page 33 of The Burning

“Of course I do.”

“Bishop Troyer’s address was on the list, too.”

He blinks, looks down at his hands. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Did he have some kind of argument or dispute with the bishop?” I ask. “Maybe when the excommunication was taking place?”

“You’ll have to ask the bishop.”

“Do you have any idea why your address is on the list?”

He shakes his head. “I cannot know the answer to that.”

The list of names isn’t the be-all and end-all of the investigation. Swanz was the victim, and I can’t imagine any of the people whose names are on the list murdering Swanz, especially by burning him at the stake. Still, my gut tells me to keep pushing; the list may be relevant.

I look at my brother, try to see past the stoic façade. The secrets I see in his eyes. “I’m trying to get a handle on what kind of man he was.”

Jacob says nothing.

“Do you know who he was close to?” I ask. “Friends? Enemies?”

“I don’t think I’m the person to answer those questions, Katie. He was little more than a stranger to me.”

“Was there any gossip about Swanz going around?” It’s a flimsy question. But I can’t shake the sense that my brother knows more than he’s letting on.

He looks at me a little more closely. “He was fair game. The way he lived his life. That he’d been excommunicated.”

“What did you hear?”

He tightens his lips, looks away. Inwardly, I smile at the irony. Generally speaking, the Amish don’t hesitate to partake in gossip. The one thing they will not do, however, is gossip about an Amish person who has passed away, especially to an Englischer.

“Jacob.” I say his name firmly. “I’m trying to find out what happened to him. If you know something—anything—please talk to me.”

He sighs. “I heard Milan had … some problems. A temper, for one thing. He had a mouth on him. Cursed like a demon. Wasn’t a very good worker. Or a good father for that matter. I heard he liked his women, too. Then he has the gall to ask his wife for a divorce. No wonder he was excommunicated.” He shrugs. “Whether all of that is gossip or fact, I can’t possibly know. But that’s what people were saying.”

Something there, I think. Something he doesn’t want to talk about.

“What else?” I ask.

“That’s enough, don’t you think?”

“Who were his friends?”

He stares at me for a long time, his eyes probing mine. “All I can tell you about that, Katie, is that I wasn’t one of them. He worked for me for a short time. I paid him. We parted ways. And that is all.”

The conversation with my brother follows me all the way back to the highway. After a great deal of discord following my leaving the Amish, Jacob and I had landed in a comfortable space. We’ve come a long way in the years I’ve been back in Painters Mill. But I know the Amish mindset well enough to understand that my decision to leave will never allow us to be as close as we once were. In terms of the case, I don’t think he was lying to me. Not outright, anyway. But I do believe he’s holding back. When you’re a cop, holding back and lying are one and the same.

I’m so embroiled in my thoughts I nearly miss the gravel turnoff into the parking lot of McNarie’s bar. Though it’s barely four P.M., the lot is crowded with a hotchpotch of pickup trucks, half a dozen cars, and a dump truck with the Painters Mill Sand and Gravel logo on the door. I idle around to the back of the lot, looking for Swanz’s Mustang, but it’s not there. Back in front, I park next to a souped-up muscle car and slog through two inches of slush to the entrance. I hear the thrum of music before I open the door. When I step inside, the bass vibration of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd headbanger boxes my ears like fists.

It’s been a couple of years since I’ve crossed this particular threshold. The memories of my troubled past wash over me. Not much has changed, but I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and take in my surroundings. To my right, the bar is a beat-up slab of oak the size of a railroad car. A mirrored wall sits behind it. To my left, a row of booths, replete with red vinyl and stainless-steel trim, line the wall. Beyond, a jukebox from another era judders like an imbalanced washing machine spinning out of control. Farther back is a pool table where two men and a young woman are engaged in a game of eight ball.

The barkeep, a man I only know as McNarie, stands behind the bar, pouring amber liquid into a shot glass. He’s staring at me, frowning. I don’t take it personally and head that way. I take one of six stools, as far away as possible from the other two patrons.

“Ain’t seen you around,” McNarie says.

“Been behaving myself, I guess.”

“That’s disappointing.” A smile whispers across his face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You used to be one of my best customers.”