Page 71 of The Burning

I enter Dundee’s main thoroughfare from the south, pass by a Methodist church, a post office, and a restaurant with a big sign out front advertising their Thursday Big Meal. I’m through town before realizing I missed my turn. I’m searching for a place to hang a U-turn when my GPS instructs me to take a left on Walnut Creek Bottom Road.

The road lives up to its name. Walnut trees and various native hardwoods tower over the narrow stretch of asphalt. There’s a shallow swamp on both sides of the road with patches of winter-dead cattail reeds. Four miles in I pass over a creek and then drive past an ancient-looking German bank barn. The barely-there gravel track on my left comes up quick and I brake, make the turn, and start down a lane that’s more dirt than gravel. The Explorer bumps over rough ground and deep ruts. Trees and brush scrape at my doors like fingers seeking the warmth inside. A quarter mile in and I begin to wonder if I made a wrong turn. I’m second-guessing my GPS and looking for a place to turn around when the trees part.

“Destination ahead,” comes the mechanical GPS voice.

I enter a large gravel lot, its borders demarked with massive cut stones. To my right, a billboard with a stop-sign graphic warns:

SUGARCREEK COLONY DO NOT ENTER

I roll past the sign. Farther in, a row of six identical structures, each about the size of a double-wide trailer, backs up to the woods. The façades are the same, the doors and windows in exactly the same place, along with duplicate sapling trees in each front yard. Ahead, I see a larger two-story building with a portico entrance and a dozen or so windows. To my left, a steel barn is set back a few yards from the gravel area. Behind it, I see livestock pens and a small herd of Black Angus cattle gathered at a round bale of hay, their backs dusted with snow.

I watch for movement all around, but there’s not a soul in sight, and I wonder if this is what it would feel like to be the last person on earth. I park in front of the two-story building. The snow is coming down in earnest now. Thanks to a cold front that slipped through earlier, the temperature has dropped and the white stuff is beginning to stick.

A brisk wind cuffs me as I get out and start toward the building. The aromas of woodsmoke, manure, and snow lace the air. I’m not sure where to go, so I continue toward the largest building. Midway there, I spot a sign on the façade telling me the social hall is to my right. I follow the covered sidewalk to an official-looking building with paned windows and board-and-batten siding. A sign next to the door reads QUARRY OFFICE. I notice lights inside, so I go to the front door and enter.

A woman sits at the reception desk. She’s wearing a navy-and-black jumper over a white blouse with a high neckline. I guess her to be about thirty years old. Dark hair parted in the middle and covered with a black-and-white polka-dot scarf. Hutterite, I realize, or some version thereof.

“Hi.” I have my shield at the ready. “I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill,” I tell her. “I’m looking for Mr. Hofer.”

Her eyes widen as she inspects my badge. “Um.” Tilting her head, she looks at me quizzically. “Is there a problem?”

“No, ma’am,” I tell her. “I just have a few questions for him.”

“Whatever she’s selling, we’re not buying!” comes a jovial male voice from somewhere in the back. “Unless they’re Girl Scout cookies in which case I’ll take two!”

The woman and I share a smile.

A man appears at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the rear of the building. He does a double take upon spotting the Painters Mill PD insignia on my parka, his stride slowing. He sets his hand against his chest as if I’ve startled him. According to Mona, Isaiah Hofer is forty-six years old. White male. Six feet tall. One hundred and ninety pounds. Brown. Brown. The man standing ten feet away from me fits the bill to a T.

“Isaiah Hofer?” I ask.

He takes my measure, his expression inscrutable. “At your service.”

I start toward him. “Had I known you’re a fan of Girl Scout cookies, I would have brought some with me.”

“Thin Mints’ll do just fine.” He holds his ground, his gaze flicking to the police insignia on my parka. “You’re a long way from Painters Mill.”

He looks closer to fifty. Not because of any physical frailty, but because his persona emanates the polish of a more mature man. He’s got a muscular physique, angular and lean. He’s clad almost entirely in black. Jacket with no collar. Plaid shirt. Suspenders. A tidy beard that’s thick and shot with gray.

“I’m working on a case in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

He’s got an interesting face. Classically handsome features, direct eyes, and a mouth that seems to smile easily. His is a poker face, too, and though I’m standing close enough to discern the pine and leather scent of his aftershave, I can’t tell if my presence is welcome or if it will be rebuffed.

“Of course,” he says. “Though I must admit I’m curious as to what case you’re referring to.”

“The Milan Swanz case in Painters Mill,” I tell him.

“The murder?” His brows go up as if I’ve surprised him. “I read about it. Heinous to say the least, especially for a small town in Amish country. Have you made an arrest?”

“Still working on it.”

“Do you mind if we walk?” For the first time I notice the coat beneath his arm. He glances down at my feet. “Unfortunately for those clean boots of yours, I was on my way out to the equipment yard.”

“No problem.”

Holding my gaze, he slips on the coat, and addresses the woman at the desk. “I’m going to get the VIN number off that dump truck in the back, Elisabeth. We’ll be right back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hofer.” Her eyes slide to me and then she goes back to her computer work.