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.