Page 76 of The Burning

He makes a sound that’s part laugh, part annoyance. “Think what you will.”

I reach for a bale of hay, heft it onto my hip, carry it to the door, and set it on the floor next to the door. “At least tell me what you think you know. Or what you’ve heard. I need a starting point. Something to work with.”

He drops the bale of hay he’d lifted and gives me a deadpan look. “If you want to know about the Anabaptists, do what the English tourists do and go to the Heritage Center. Talk to the man who runs it. I’ve had enough of your questions.”

He’s referring to the Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center in Berlin. “Damn it, why won’t you help me?”

“I’ve got to feed the hogs now.” He lifts the bale, sets it atop the others near the loft door. “We’re finished here.”

I finally lose my temper. “What happened to you, Jacob? What happened to your honor? Your integrity? Your courage?”

He swings to face me, sets his hands on his hips. “I could ask you the same questions. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“You always are.” Turning away, he starts toward the stairs.

I call out his name. The only sound that greets me is the slamming of the door.

The Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center is located on a quiet county road, a short distance from Painters Mill. The museum is a Holmes County fixture that appeals to tourists as well as locals, and informs all visitors of the Amish, Mennonite, and Hutterite cultures. Though I’ve lived in the area most of my life, I’ve only visited once. It was a few years ago, and I found it pleasant and surprisingly enlightening.

Unfortunately for me, the center closes at four thirty in the wintertime, and I make it by the skin of my teeth. I enter to the smells of lemon oil and old paper. An Amish woman stands behind the counter, in front of a large display of devotional head coverings mounted on the wall, a set of keys in her hand.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

I remove my shield as I cross to the counter and identify myself. “Is the curator around?”

Her eyes flick to the wall clock. “We’re getting ready to close. We open at nine thirty tomorrow morning—”

“This is actually an official visit.” I soften the statement with a smile. “I’d appreciate it if I could speak to someone now. This won’t take long.”

“Let me call him for you.”

I peruse the gift shop while she speaks in low tones into her phone. A minute later, a man dressed in dark trousers, a white button-down shirt, and an elbow-patch blazer appears in the doorway of the next room and looks at me quizzically. “Can I help you?”

I go to him and identify myself. “You’re the curator?”

“Director and all-around jack-of-all-trades mainly.” He offers a smile and his hand. “Daniel Neufeld. Call me Dan. What can I do for you?”

He wears a nattily cut beard, no mustache, and suspenders beneath the jacket. I suspect he’s Mennonite or one of the more liberal factions of Amish. “I understand you’re an expert on the Anabaptist culture,” I say.

“My wife will tell you I’m not an expert on anything.” He grins. “I am, however, a lover of history, especially when it comes to the Anabaptists.”

“I’m looking for information on the Schwertler Anabaptists.”

His brows shoot up. “Wow. Now there’s an interesting topic for you, not to mention unusual.” He looks at me a little more carefully. “And here I thought this was about that parking ticket I didn’t pay last time I was in Painters Mill.”

I smile. “I’m working on a case, actually. Any information you can offer would be greatly appreciated.”

He glances past me at the woman, who’s standing behind the counter, looking at us, her hands on her hips. “Anna, you can go ahead and take off if you’d like,” he says. “Lock the door behind you if you don’t mind.”

“G’night,” she says.

“Night.” Turning his attention back to me, he motions toward the doorway from which he’d emerged. “If you don’t mind a little dust, we can sit in my office. I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t much.”

I follow him through a museum-like chamber with half a dozen lighted display cases lining the wall to my right. He notices me looking at the ancient-looking tomes inside—Bibles and a leather-bound edition of Martyrs Mirror.

“Awe-inspiring, aren’t they, Chief Burkholder?”