“Katie—”

  “Stay here.” I jog to the opening in the floor, flick off my flashlight, plunge down the steps.

  I reach ground level. My feet sink into mud and manure as I cross through the pen. No sign of the man. I unlatch the gate, go through. I wade through mud; then I’m in the grass. The rain has slowed, but there’s no moon. Not enough light to see. I’m loath to use my flashlight; it’ll give away my position, but I’m blind without it. I flick it on for an instant, get my bearings, check for footprints, catch sight of a heel impression filled with water. He’s heading toward the woods. I turn off the flashlight and push myself into a run.

  I’m aware of my .38 pressing against my side as I race down the hill, my backup sidearm tucked into my ankle holster. I crash through brush and saplings, barely avoiding a pile of deadfall. At the base of the hill, I splash through a wet-weather creek. I reach an open area, flick on the flashlight. Catch sight of a figure as it disappears into the trees ahead.

  “Stop!” I shout. “I’m a police officer! Stop!”

  I freeze, listen for a response. Thunder and the pouring rain drown out any sound. I jog to the trees, tug out my cell phone as I enter, hit 911.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” comes a female voice.

  Quickly, I identify myself. “I’m at Adrian Hershberger’s farm.” I give the address. “There was a suspicious fire. A prowler. Male. Heading toward the rear of the property—”

  “Ma’am, do not approach the suspect. I’ve dispatched a deputy and fire department—”

  I hit End, pick up speed, find my stride. I flick on the flashlight. Wet foliage all around. Rain glistening on leaves. A rise of fog. I glance down, spot a footprint. Not enough detail to know the shoe type, but he came this way, moving fast.

  I maintain a brisk clip, weave through old-growth forest. Blackberry and raspberry catch at my slicker. I keep my eyes on my surroundings, watching for movement, straining to hear anything above the pound of rain. The wind has kicked up, the treetops a restless sea above.

  The trail narrows, the path littered with deadfall, and overgrown with branches and foliage. Lightning flashes, a strobe far too close for comfort. Two seconds and a deafening clap of thunder shakes the ground.

  I’m out of breath. My heart pounding. Too much adrenaline dumping at once. Rain pours down, dripping down my face. In my eyes. My hair is soaked. I slide the .38 from its nest.

  All the while, I ponder who I’m following. Did he set the fire? A vandal with some bone to pick? Someone disgruntled with Ananias? With Mary Elizabeth or Adrian? Someone I’ve met? And where’s Jonas?

  I reach the peak of the hill. I shine my beam down the other side. It’s steep and heavily treed with a creek at the base. I debate the wisdom of following this unknown individual. I don’t know his intent or if he’s armed. But while I may be a civilian here in Pennsylvania, I’m still a cop. I know if I stop now and leave this to the sheriff’s department, he’ll get away.

  Movement thirty yards ahead snaps me back. A figure moving through the trees. Fast. A male. In good physical condition. Something familiar about the way he moves.

  “Stop!” I shout. “I’m a police officer! I need to talk to you!”

  The figure melts into the trees.

  I start down the hill, ducking the occasional branch, moving too fast for the gradient, my feet sliding. I trip over a fallen log, nearly go down, catch myself just in time. I hear the roar of water before I reach the creek. The trees open. A behemoth structure looms, seemingly out of nowhere, as much a part of the forest as the trees. The old mill, I realize. Dozens of windows stare at me like black, watchful eyes. The hairs at my nape stand on end. My flashlight beam illuminates two stories constructed of brick and stone, hemmed in by trees and covered with vines.

  The creek is too wide to cross. There’s a dam to my left; water thunders over the spillway, rushing between a series of concrete piers. The only way across is to step from pier to pier. Not an ideal situation, but I know my suspect did just that and made it. Chances are, there’s a road on the other side of the building where he’s parked a vehicle. If he reaches the vehicle, he’ll get away.

  Rain pours down as I start across the piers. I set my beam on the opposite bank. One foot in front of the other. Water thundering all around. Don’t look down. I reach the other side, shine my light ahead. A loading dock abuts the building. Concrete steps to my left. Above, a rusty catwalk looks out over the water. I take the steps two at a time to the loading dock. Knee-high weeds jut from the crumbling concrete. Two overhead doors locked down and reinforced with chain-link fencing. A single footprint in a thin layer of mud. A man door stands open about a foot. I shove it open with my boot, go through.

  Dark as a cave inside. The pound of rain on the roof is deafening. The smells of mold and creek water and rotting wood.

  “It’s Kate Burkholder!” I call out. “Come out and talk to me!”

  I pause to listen, curse the din of rain, but there’s no response.

  I sweep my beam around the interior, get the sense of an abandoned factory that’s frozen in time. Ancient wood beams overhead, some broken and slanting down. Moss growing on the walls. High windows boarded up. A rusty steel tank lies on its side, petrified sludge spread out beneath the spout. A Volkswagen-size piece of machinery of indecipherable origin. To my right, an open stairway leads to an upper level. Ahead, a brick arch leads to another room.

  Senses on high alert, I pass beneath the arch, find myself in a cavernous room. There are several tanks of different sizes. A stone wall covered with creeping vines. Water cascading down from above. I shine my light upward, see the fire-damaged roof. I keep going.

  “The sheriff’s department is on the way!” I call out. “You’re not in any trouble. Come out and talk to me!”

  A loud clang! sounds from behind me. I spin, rush back to the room where I entered. I see movement at the top of the stairs.

  “Stop!”

  I dart to the stairs; they’re steel with pipe rails. I take them two at a time to the top. Windows to my right. Glass broken out. Rain and wind pelt me as I ascend the steps. At the top, I go through a doorway. Wood floor littered with debris. Machinery to my left. Not many places to hide. Where the hell did he go?

  I sidle toward the machinery. My .38 in my right hand. The butt slick against my palm. Maglite in my left. Wrists crossed. “Come out and talk to me!”

  A figure emerges from the shadows. I shift my light, blind him. Recognition kicks. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” I say.

  Henry Stoltzfus raises his hands, shields his eyes from my beam with his left. “Don’t shoot me.”

  No weapon in sight. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one tucked into his waistband. It doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.

  “Are you armed?” I ask.

  “No.”

  I don’t lower my pistol. “What are you doing here?”

  He stares at me. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

  “What were you doing at the Hershberger farm?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Did you start the fire?”

  He raises his gaze to mine. “I did what I had to do.”

  If I were in uniform, I’d get him on the ground and cuff him to secure the situation and keep both of us safe. Of course, I’m not in uniform; my zip ties are in the Explorer.

  “Do not move,” I tell him.

  Never taking my eyes from his, I set my Maglite on the floor, the beam pointed toward him. Keeping my .38 steady, center mass, I work my cell from my pocket and hit redial with my thumb.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency.”

  “This is Kate Burkholder. I’m at the old mill with Henry Stoltzfus. I think he’s involved in the fire at the Hershberger farm. Send a deputy right away. It’s an emergency.”

  The dispatcher speaks, but I hit End, drop my cell back into my pocket.

  I look at Henry and frown. “This might be a good time for you to start talking.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the pound of rain against the roof, the roar of water cascading over the dam outside, and the spattering of water onto the floor through a hole in the roof.

  “You can’t possibly understand,” he says.

  “Try me.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he tells me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I knew you were going to figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” I ask, more gently.

  He emits a sob, looks around as if searching for a route of escape. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Feet restless. Hands raised. Acting squirrelly.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell him.

  He squeezes his eyes closed. He’s trembling now. His face is wet; I can’t tell if it’s from the rain or if he’s crying, but he’s struggling with some internal demon.

  “Henry, I’m the best friend you’ve got right now,” I say softly. “Stay calm. Let me help you.”

  His gaze meets mine. In its depths, I see a tangled mass of pain and desperation and hopelessness.

  “My datt was not a good man,” he whispers.

  “I know what he was,” I say.

  “Such a bad thing. So many lies.” His mouth trembles. “He betrayed us. All of us. He tried to betray God, but the Lord would not be fooled.”

  “Is that why you killed him?” I ask.

  He blinks as if the question comes as a shock. “I did what I had to do.” His voice is so faint, I’m not sure I heard the words correctly. “You have to understand. There was no other way.”

  He charges me without warning. Animal sounds tear from his throat. I step back, raise the .38. “Stop!” Slip my finger inside the guard. “Stop! Stop!”

  He keeps coming.

  I fire twice. Catch a glimpse of his face. Disbelief in his eyes. Teeth clenched. Lips peeled back. He plows into me hard, a linebacker crushing the opposition. His shoulder rams my midsection. Knocks the breath from me. Then I’m reeling backward, feet tangling.

  “Stop!” I try to get my gun into position for another shot, but he’s too close. His arms locked around my abdomen, trapping my right hand.

  My back crashes against the wall. Wood splinters. The screech of steel. A puff of cold air. Rain on my back. My foot finds air. And then I’m falling into nothingness.

  CHAPTER 28

  It’s as if I’ve been sucked into a vacuum. No sound. No gravity. Just me and a free fall of terror and the knowledge that I screwed up. I tumble down. My forearm strikes something solid. An explosion of pain streaks from forearm to shoulder. A scream tears from my throat. The water slams into my back like a concrete slab. Cold closes over me, stealing light and sound and air. The churning of water all around.

  The slicker tangles around my arms. I can’t see or hear or breathe. The sensation of being sucked down. Panic engulfs me and for an instant, I struggle mindlessly. I don’t know up from down or dark from light. My foot plunges into mud. I shove off and propel myself toward the surface. One arm slips free of the slicker sleeve. I kick. Swipe at the water with my uninjured arm. Another burst of panic and then my face breaks the surface.

  Water roars all around. I try to suck in a breath, swallow water, end up choking. I’ve lost my flashlight and .38. I don’t know where Henry is. If he means to harm me. I tread water, look around, try to get my bearings. Too dark to see anything. The one thing I do know is I’m being swept downstream.

  I let the current carry me. Using my right arm, kicking my feet, I make my way to shore. My feet touch bottom. Swift water tries to pull my legs out from under me. But I muscle through, maintain my balance. Once I’m in shallow water, I fall to my knees and crawl up the bank.

  “Kate!”

  Jonas. I look up, see a flashlight beam through the driving rain. “Here!” I call out.

  The yellow cone of light bounces and nears. I hear the crash of brush over the roaring water. Then I see Jonas skidding down the bank toward me. Yellow slicker shiny and wet. Hat gone. Eyes intense and focused on me.

  “Where’s Henry?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He bends to me, grasps my hand in his, helps me to my feet. “Are you hurt?”

  “He set the fire,” I tell him. My legs wobble as he hauls me up the steep bank. “He tried to kill me. I fired my weapon; I don’t know if I hit him.” I look around, hating it that I’m shaking so violently I can barely stand. “I lost my gun. My flashlight.”

  “Henry pushed you into the water?” he asks.

  I take his flashlight, shine the beam on the second story of the structure. Sure enough, there’s an opening where the wood splintered and both of us went through.

  “The wall gave way,” I tell him.

  “You’re hurt.” He looks down where I’m cradling my injured arm.

  “We need to find Henry,” I tell him.

  The wail of a siren rises over the roar of water, the din of rain. I look toward the front of the mill, see the flashing lights reflecting off the treetops.

  “Maybe you ought to leave that to the police,” he tells me.

  I don’t argue.

  CHAPTER 29

  Twenty years before

  I was fifteen years old the last time I saw Jonas Bowman. It was worship Sunday at Leroy Miller’s farm. I’d suffered through three hours of preaching in a sweltering barn and another two of the old folks “piecing” on pie and coffee and catching up on the latest gossip. As usual, a “singing” was planned for afternoon; as usual, I had no inclination to attend.

  The problem was, I’d agreed to let Jonas drive me home afterward. I wasn’t sure why that was a problem; my parents would be none the wiser if he dropped me off at the end of the lane. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I thought about him all the time. I missed him and yet I didn’t want to spend time with him. I couldn’t even be nice to him.

  I’d caught glimpses of him throughout the morning. But with the women seated on one side of the barn and the men on the other, we didn’t speak. Didn’t even make eye contact. I didn’t, anyway. But I caught him looking in my direction a time or two. By the time worship was over, I was feeling sulky and out of sorts. The last thing I wanted to do was ride home with him.

  We’d seen each other several times over the summer. We didn’t talk about it or make plans to meet, but somehow it always seemed to happen. He’d helped my datt dig postholes for the cross fence at the back of our property. Twice, we’d met at the creek. Once, at the covered bridge. Those stolen moments had become important to me, the more spontaneous, the better.

  Mamm knew something secret was afoot. On more than one occasion, she reminded me that Jonas was too old. She couldn’t explain why Datt—who was six years her senior—wasn’t too old for her. When you looked at it that way, the four years between Jonas and me didn’t seem like that much.

  I was almost to the Tuscarawas Bridge when the clip-clop of hooves—and the electric blare of music—drew my attention. I turned to see Jonas in his buggy pull up beside me. I kept walking. He slowed the horse to keep pace.

  “You stood me up,” he said.

  I looked straight ahead, trying not to acknowledge the tension climbing up the back of my neck. “I forgot.”

  I kept walking, but I was keenly aware of him, keeping pace, watching me. The music floating in the air like birdsong.

  “You could have at least told me you didn’t want to ride with me,” he said. “I looked for you.”

  I kept my eyes on the road in front of me. I didn’t want him to know that I was secretly happy to see him. I knew if I looked at him, he would know.

  Finally, I mustered my best frown and looked at him. “That radio is going to get you into trouble.”

  “Since when do you care about getting into trouble?” Leaning forward, he turned up the music. “I like this one.”

  It was a beautiful song with a wailing guitar and a woman’s voice that sounded like poetry or some exotic foreign language.

  “It’s awful hot to be walking in the sun,” he said.

  “I’ll get into trouble if I ride with you.”

  “No one has to know,” he drawled. “I’ll drop you off at the end of your lane.”

  “So you said.”

  But I stopped walking. He halted the horse and climbed down. For an instant, we simply looked at each other. I didn’t remember him being so tall. For the first time in my life, I smelled men’s cologne. In that instant, the music faded and the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart. Then he took my hand and helped me into the buggy.

  A sense of freedom and excitement engulfed me as we flew down the road. I’d never felt so grown-up. I waved at Mrs. Fisher as we passed their farm. Any other time, we might’ve stopped to chat, but Jonas kept going, the radio blaring. I didn’t say anything when he passed the turnoff for the farm where I lived. I had an idea where he was taking me, but it was the only place in the world I wanted to be.

  A mile farther, he made the turn onto Rockridge Road. The asphalt gave way to gravel and he kept going. Another quarter mile and the road dead-ended.

  “Whoa.” Jonas stopped the horse, then climbed down to loosen the lines so the animal could graze.

  It was a pretty spot. Tall elm trees offered welcome shade. A profusion of wildflowers in the ditch. Raspberry bushes growing along the fence. I was thinking about climbing down and checking for ripe berries—maybe taking a few home—when he came back and climbed in beside me. Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a cooler and handed me a beer and got another for himself. I caught a glimpse of the other items in the cooler. Cookies wrapped in wax paper. Some kind of cheese. Crackers. Only then did I realize he’d planned a picnic—and I’d foiled his plans by standing him up.

  Embarrassed that I’d noticed the food, he closed the cooler.

  “There’s a baseball game Friday out to John Hershberger’s place,” he said. “Wanna go?”

  I sipped my beer, thinking, knowing my parents wouldn’t let me go, wondering if I could sneak out. I didn’t look at him because I was afraid he’d see just how desperately I wanted to go. “Maybe.”