“Yes.”
“What about your brother?”
She looks down at the floor, shakes her head. “I couldn’t—”
A sound from behind turns me around. Alarm reverberates through me at the sight of Reuben Kaufman standing twenty feet away, a .22 rifle leveled at my chest.
CHAPTER 28
For an instant, I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by the image of Reuben Kaufman out of his wheelchair and standing on his own power—or the sight of the rifle. His finger is inside the trigger guard. The muzzle is steady. Next to me, Abigail goes perfectly still. We stare at him in silence. Tension knifes the air.
“Mr. Kaufman, put down that rifle.” I’m keenly aware of the .38 against my hip. My lapel mike at my shoulder. Either would only take an instant to reach, but there’s no way I can do it before he gets off a shot.
“I need you to put down that rifle,” I repeat. “Right now. Before someone gets hurt.” I motion toward Abigail. “Your daughter.”
Never taking his eyes from me, he addresses her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Go to the house.”
Abigail doesn’t move. Instead, she looks at her father as if recognizing him after a long separation. “I know you were there. All these years … you knew … about Leroy, and you never told me.”
“He was a maulgrischt.” A pretend Christian. “I protected you. I saved your soul. Now go to the house with your mother and let me take care of this.”
She moves toward him.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You. Get over by the hay door.”
I’m ten feet from the door, but I have a clear view of the pen below, where a dozen or so massive hogs mill about, sows and boars, and half-grown piglets. More of them have noticed our presence and lift their heads to look up at us.
“Mr. Kaufman, people know I’m here,” I tell him. “The police are on the way. You can’t possibly get away with this.”
He jabs the rifle at me. “Do it!”
His voice booms through the structure. Until this moment, I’d seen him as a frail, sickly old man confined to a wheelchair and in need of constant care by his long-suffering wife. All of it was a lie. The wheelchair. His failing health. All to protect him from what he’d done. To keep his secrets from coming to light. The thought sends a chill through me.
“Put down the rifle.” Hoping to buy some time, I raise both hands and sidle toward the door. “I’ll do whatever you say.” I look at Abigail, urging her with my eyes to obey him and get back to the house. She’s standing slightly behind Kaufman, so that the old man is between us, forming an irregular triangle of sorts. She stares back at me, her expression chillingly blank.
Kaufman tilts his head, looks at me the way a scientist might look at some small animal he’s about to slice open. His face is devoid of emotion. There’s no tension. No fear. Just the cold resolve of a man determined to save his daughter, his family, and his own neck. In that instant I realize I’m not going to be able to talk him down.
Keeping my hands at shoulder level, I sidestep closer to the door and try another tactic. “Abigail told me Leroy Nolt fell into the pen. I know it was an accident. I know she wasn’t there. I know you had no part in what happened. No one’s going to hold either of you responsible for something you didn’t do. If you put down that rifle, both of you can walk away from this.”
The Amish woman’s head jerks toward me. “They murdered him, Chief Burkholder. All of them. Jeramy. My brother. My father.”
I don’t look at her, keeping my eyes on Kaufman, waiting for an opportunity to pull my sidearm and stop the threat.
Kaufman shifts his gaze to his daughter. “Sei ruich.” Be quiet.
“The truth has been kept quiet long enough,” she tells him.
“Leroy Nolt was Mennisch.” Mennonite. He hisses the word, but his hatred echoes with crystal clarity.
“And you’re a maddah.” Murderer.
“I did it to keep you from burning in hell.”
“Leeyah.” Liar. “What about your bastard grandson?” she hisses. “How are you going to save Levi’s soul?”
Kaufman opens his mouth, his lips quivering. The rifle quivers in his hands. “Sei ruich!”
In the instant his attention shifts away from me, I yank out my revolver and fire twice, center mass. Kaufman jolts, red blooming just above his hip. The rifle clatters to the floor. He goes to one knee. I’m in the process of holstering my .38 when he launches himself at me, catching me off guard. His shoulder rams my midsection. I reel backward, nearly go down. With stunning speed, he snatches up the rifle, brings it up. But I’m faster, and I grab the barrel and stock with both hands, ram him with it. He’s not much bigger than me. Despite his age and at least one gunshot wound, he’s stronger. I yank the rifle toward me, try to topple his balance. He stumbles forward but doesn’t fall. I twist the rifle right, try to wrench it from him. He counters by twisting left. I lose my grip on the muzzle. He swings it toward me. His finger slips into the trigger guard.
In the periphery of my vision, I see Abigail moving. I hear a shout, but I can’t make out her words. A high-pitched zing! sounds from the rafters above. I glance up, see the hay pulley quiver.
Kaufman looks up. Too late, I see the massive load of hay barreling toward us. I try to get out of the way, but I’m not fast enough.
The hay plows into us like a giant battering ram. It strikes me in the face and chest and knocks me off my feet. My boots leave the floor. And then I’m falling backward into nothingness.
CHAPTER 29
The first thing I’m aware of is the sounds of the hogs all around. Wet concrete against my back. Not quite knowing where I am. The stench of manure. The shuffle of cloven hooves against the ground. I’m cognizant of pain, but I can’t pinpoint its exact location. My head. My left wrist. The small of my back …
I open my eyes. For an instant, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. But as my senses return, I recognize the load of hay dangling twelve feet above me. Around me, hogs scamper about, rooting around and eating the fallen stems. My presence has caught the attention of the animals. A big boar with a single tusk. A large sow with a bloody stump for a tail and a chunk of flesh taken out of her rump.
I grew up around farm animals—cattle, hogs, horses, and sheep—and I’ve never been afraid of them. But I don’t like the looks of these hogs. They’re skinny and feral looking. Judging from the enthusiasm with which they’re eating the fallen hay, they’re hungry, too.
A groan escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. Pain knifes up my left wrist. I glance down, try to move it, and I’m rewarded with another jolt. Broken, I think.
I glance at the loft door above, but there’s no one there. I look around for my .38, but it’s nowhere in sight. The pen is about forty feet square, poorly kept, and crowded with dozens of hogs. The volume of the grunting and squealing is deafening. Several of the animals are scuffling over fallen bits of hay.
I get to one knee and struggle to my feet. Dizziness sends me sideways, but my balance quickly levels out. I look around for Kaufman. He’s lying on the concrete ten feet away, not moving. There are several hogs between us. I can’t see his face; I don’t know if he’s conscious. I don’t even know if he’s alive.
I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-fifty-two. Kaufman farm,” I add and recite the address.
The radio crackles as several agencies respond to my emergency call for assistance. “Ten-seventy-six.”
Relief rushes through me at the sound of Skid’s voice, and I know the first responders are on the way. When a cop gets into trouble, jurisdiction ceases to matter. You drop everything and you go.
I speak into my shoulder mike. “Abigail Kline may be armed.”
“What’s her twenty?”
“The old barn at the rear of the property. Half a mile in. Send an ambulance.”
“Ten-four.”
I start toward Kaufman. I’ve only taken two steps, when one of the hogs bumps my leg
hard enough to knock me off balance.
I lash out with my boot. “Back off!”
I miss and the animal shies away. The boar trots past, snuffling, watching me. Its tusk juts two inches from its lower jaw. Most hog farmers trim the tusks once a year. The teeth can get caught on fences and cause injury. Without trimming, the teeth can grow to several inches in length. The animal becomes a danger not only to other hogs but to its handlers.
Trying not to agitate the hogs, I sidle through the herd. The animals’ bodies are hard against my legs. My knee brushes against one of the sows. Squealing, the animal spins and nips my calf. Pain shoots up the back of my leg.
Bending, I slap the hog hard on the back. “Get back! Go! Get out of here!”
The sow grunts and shuffles away. I glance down at my leg, dismayed to see blood seeping through the fabric, and a chill lodges at the base of my spine. “Shit. Shit.”
I reach Kaufman and kneel. His eyes are partially closed and rolled back white. His mouth hangs open. Blood from a broken tooth that’s pierced his lower lip trickles down his chin. At first glance I think he’s dead, then I notice the rise and fall of his chest. Blood coming through his shirt on his left side just above the waistband of his trousers. A gunshot wound.
“Don’t try to move,” I tell him. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”
His lids flutter. His eyes focus on my face. “Heeda der saus,” he whispers.
Beware the hogs.
The back of my neck prickles. I look over my shoulder. The larger hogs are devouring the fallen bits of hay, threatening the younger animals with snapping jaws when they dart in to steal a scrap.
“What the hell’s wrong with them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. But I already know. They’re starving. And the reality of the situation sends a quiver of fear through my gut.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
He tries to sit up. His face contorts with pain, and he only manages to flop around like a fish. “My legs … broken, I think.”
“Mr. Kaufman, we need to get out of this pen.”
“The gate.” He motions to a steel gate secured with a chain. “There.”
I look around for his rifle, but it’s nowhere in sight. Bending, I grab his right wrist and start to drag him across the concrete. Kaufman cries out, but I don’t stop. He’s not a large man, but he’s dead weight, and it takes every bit of strength I possess to move him. Progress is excruciatingly slow. I try to avoid the pigs and the patches of stinking black muck, but the pen is crowded and filthy and I don’t quite manage.
I’m fifteen feet from the gate when a shot rings out. I look toward the loft door to see Abigail Kaufman with the rifle to her shoulder, her eye on the sights. Releasing Kaufman’s wrist, I duck down. “Abigail! No! Put down the rifle!”
She doesn’t comply. Gives me no indication that she even heard me. Another shot cracks. A ricochet zings off the concrete inches from Kaufman’s head.
I have no cover. She’s at a high vantage point, thirty feet away, close enough even for someone unaccustomed to firearms to hit their mark. “Put down the gun!” I scream. “Do it now!”
Bending, never taking my eyes off her, I reach for Kaufman, grip his wrist, and pull. “Help me, damn it,” I tell him.
Face contorted, he scrabbles with his left leg. When he looks up at me, I see pain and terror in his eyes. “My legs…”
I drag him another couple of feet. I’m only a few feet from the gate when one of the hogs rushes me from behind. Its snout strikes the back of my leg. Tilting its head, it chomps down on my calf. Pain streaks up my leg. The animal shakes me. My balance totters. I drop Kaufman’s hand and barely maintain my balance.
“Get off me! Get away!” I punch the animal hard. The sow releases my leg and continues past, then turns to stare at me with bold, intelligent eyes.
Five feet away, the boar watches me, chomping its teeth.
“Kaufman!” I shout. “Get up!”
The boar charges. Despite its size, the animal is agile and fast. Shoving its snout beneath Kaufman’s shoulder, it roots upward with so much force that the man is flipped onto his side. It’s not until I see blood that I realize he’s been slashed with the tusk.
The old man screams. “The gate! Open it!”
The sow circles for another pass. I step back, keeping her in sight. Another shot rings out. I hear the bullet strike flesh. Kaufman jolts. Vivid red blooms on the fabric of his sleeve and dribbles onto the concrete. His scream rents the air.
I risk a look at the loft door to see Abigail lining up for another shot. “Drop the rifle!” I scream. “Drop it! Right fucking now!”
Another gunshot, followed by a ricochet a foot from where I’m standing. Specks of concrete hit my trousers. Spinning, I run toward the gate. I’ve only gone a few feet when the boar rushes me, rooting the air, its tusk flashing white. I kick it in the snout with my boot. The boar bellows but retreats.
I vault over the top of the gate. A curse grinds from my throat when my injured wrist slams against the ground on the other side. I roll and lie still. For an instant the only sound comes from my labored breaths. The grunting and squealing of the hogs. The wail of a siren in the distance.
Using the gate for support, I get to my feet. Abigail Kline stands at the loft door, staring into the pen below.
“Abigail, drop that rifle!” I shout. “Do it now! Drop it!”
A muffled scream sounds from the pen. Bending, I look between the rails of the gate to see that the hogs have surrounded Kaufman. The larger animals dart in, rooting and slashing. The smaller animals squeal and vie for position. The old man is sitting up, slapping at the animals with both hands. Terror on his face. Mouth open in a silent scream. A big sow lunges at him, slashing at him with her mouth. The scream that follows is horrific. The sow retreats, a bloody scrap in her mouth. A strip of material from his shirt. Horror burgeons inside me when I realize they’re mauling him.…
“Shit. Shit!” My hand shakes as I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Man down! In the pen! The hogs are mauling him!”
I step onto the lowest rail of the gate and scream at the animals. “Get back! Get away!”
But the animals are frenzied now. Injured and on the ground, Kaufman makes a feeble attempt to fend them off, slapping at them. For a split second I consider going in to help him. But I know the animals would turn on me, too.
“Back off!” I shout. “Back off!”
The Amish man’s screams are a horrible, high-pitched keening that opens a fist of revulsion in my gut. I look around for a weapon, something to throw, and I spot a piece of broken fencing on the ground. Part of a busted cinder block. I snatch up both, throw them one at a time as hard as I can at the hogs. Both objects hit home, but neither is large enough to stop the carnage.
Unhooking the chain, I swing open the gate. Several of the hogs swing their heads my way. One of the smaller animals starts toward me. I turn and run toward the barn. Kaufman’s screams follow me. The dreadful sound of a man being eaten alive …
I scale the first fence I come to, putting as many obstacles between me and the hogs as possible. Then I’m in an old stall on the underside of the barn. I spy the hay chute ahead, shove off the cover, and climb through.
A deputy with a shotgun and flak jacket rushes toward me. “Where’s the shooter! Where’s the shooter?”
“Loft,” I tell him. “Female. She’s got a rifle.”
He sprints toward the stairs that will take him up a level. I get to my feet and hit my lapel mike. “Man down! He’s being mauled! In the hogpen!”
“Ten-ninety-five.” A voice I don’t recognize tells me he’s taken Abigail Kline into custody.
“Chief!”
I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice, see him come through the front of the barn, face grim, moving fast.
“You hurt?” he asks.
“Kaufman’s down. In the pen. For God’s sake, the hogs are killing him!” I don’t wait for a response. Cr
adling my injured wrist, I go back to the hay chute and drop down to the stall below. Quickly, I jog to the aisle and rush to the pen. I know immediately something has changed. Kaufman has gone silent. The hogs have quieted.
I reach the gate, startling when a juvenile hog careers past and scurries toward open pasture. I look in the pen. Most of the pigs have fled. Shock and revulsion rise in my chest at the sight of Kaufman—what’s left of him—lying in a pool of blood.
“What the fuck?” Glock whispers behind me.
The Amish man lies unmoving in a prone position with his face turned away. His arms are spread wide. Hands gone, the sleeves of his shirt shredded and blood soaked. One leg is bent at the knee and crossed over the other. A massive pool of blood has been trampled by dozens of cloven hooves.
I tilt my head to my lapel mike. “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?” But I know it’s too late.
“Paramedics just arrived at the house, Chief,” comes T.J.’s voice. “Want me to send them back?”
“That’s affirm. Make it fast.”
I don’t want to go into the pen. I don’t want to see what the hogs did to Kaufman. I don’t want the sight branded onto my brain. I don’t have a choice. I’m a first responder and EMT certified. It’s my responsibility to take every action necessary to preserve life until help arrives.
The gate squeaks when Glock swings it wider. We start toward the fallen man. The stench of manure is powerful, but I barely notice. I can smell the blood now. Too much of it for anyone to have survived.
“This is going to be bad,” Glock mutters.
I stop a few feet away and look down at Kaufman. His shirt and suspenders are shredded and have been torn away from his body. His torso is riddled with bite marks. The flesh on his abdomen is torn, and something gray with blue veins protrudes from the gash. Bile rises into the back of my throat when I look at his face. His eyes stare sightlessly into space. His right cheek has been torn open, exposing the gums and teeth and part of his jawbone. His right ear is gone. His hands are gone. The stumps of his wrists are jagged flesh and the pink-white of protruding bone.