The level of emotion in my voice surprises me. Disgusted with them, with myself, I head for the door, yank it open, take the steps at a too fast pace to the sidewalk. I’m nearly to the Explorer when I hear my name. I turn to see William coming down the steps. Alma stands just inside the screen door, watching.

William reaches me and stops. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then he surprises me by saying, “I will talk to Bishop Troyer.”

I don’t know if that’s good or bad because I have no idea if the bishop will give his blessing. I want to tell him keeping people safe is bigger than this clash of cultures. Because I so desperately need his cooperation, I hold my tongue. “Thank you.”

“Gott segen eich,” he says, then turns and walks away.

CHAPTER 26

I’m standing at the window in my office, thinking about John Tomasetti when the call comes. I hadn’t expected to learn of William Zook’s decision via telephone, but Bishop Troyer is one of the few Amish who has a phone and uses it. It’s mainly for emergencies, like the time when Joe Yoder fell off the roof during a barn raising and broke his leg. But the bishop is also sort of an acting liaison between the Amish community and the English. When important calls need to be made, they are made to and from the bishop’s home.

“This is William Zook.”

“Hello, William.” Anticipation makes my heart thud dully in my chest.

“Bishop Troyer has given his blessing. I will allow you to use the farm, but that is all.”

My relief is so profound that for a moment, I fumble for words. “I appreciate that.”

“I do not want Billy to be in danger, Chief Burkholder.”

“None of you will be in danger,” I say firmly. “Two of my officers will be taking you and your family to a safe house.”

“I do not understand what that is.”

“A house where you’ll stay while we wait for the killer.”

“No English house,” he says.

I tamp down impatience while my brain scrambles for a solution. “Is there an Amish family you could stay with for a few days?”

He considers that for a moment. “Rachael and Joe Yoder. The storm blew down some of the pens and chicken coop. It will take Joe and me a few days to make repairs.”

“All right. Two officers will be with you at all times.”

Williams sighs. “So be it.”

Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.