Page 59 of The Burning

I draw back, punch him hard, body blow. He grunts, deflects a second blow. I ram my fist into the bottom of his chin hard enough to jam my wrist. I twist, bring up my knee, drive it into his spine. Once. Twice. I try to shout again, but my voice box is compressed. A pitiful sound tears from my throat. I writhe, bring up my hips, try to buck him off. My survival instinct takes control. I swing again. The punch lands squarely in his face. His nose crunches beneath my knuckles.

Talon-like fingers dig deeper into my throat. Panic sizzles hot in my chest. If I lose consciousness, I’m done. I raise both fists, try to pummel his face, but he’s fast and averts. I bring up my foot, try to loop it over his head, capture his upper body, take him down that way.

The first blow lands squarely against my forehead, like a two-by-four smashing against my brain. Stars fly in my peripheral vision. I raise my hands, but I’m dazed and blind. The second blow plows into my left cheekbone. Another round of stars and I feel my body go limp.

Vaguely, I’m aware of my attacker straddling me. Grabbing my wrists, he tucks my arms beneath his knees, trapping them at my sides. He reaches for my .38, yanks it from the holster. Same with my cell phone. The Gerber folding knife clipped to my waistband. I suck in a breath, blink away blurred vision. Get my first good look at him. The lower half of his face is covered with a black scarf. Heavy brows. Dark eyes. Intent. Calm. He shifts and I notice my revolver in his hand.

“I’m a cop,” I rasp.

“Shhh.” Leaning close, he sets the muzzle of the revolver against my mouth, forces it between my lips. I jerk my head left, then right, but he rattles it against my teeth. When I open, he shoves it into my mouth, depressing my tongue.

“Don’t speak,” he whispers. “And I won’t make you eat a bullet.”

I go still, heart raging, breaths coming fast. I taste gun oil, try not to gag, fear sliding down my throat like bile.

“I’m only going to say this once, so listen good. Do you understand?”

I stare at him, jerk my head, try to take in as many details as possible.

Caucasian.

Dark hair. Brown.

Forty years old.

Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear my dispatcher’s voice come over my radio.

“Milan Swanz was a deviant,” he says. “He walked in step with the devil. He rejected God. He disrespected the Amish. He hurt people and would have done worse.”

Deep voice.

Inflection I can’t quite place.

I try to speak, but he jabs the gun deeper into my throat, making me choke.

“Shhh.” A teacher shushing an overwrought student. “Don’t speak.” Tilting his head, he looks at me closely, as if I’m some apparatus whose inner workings confuse him.

Average build.

Athletic.

Plenty of muscle.

“His death is a weight on my soul,” he says. “But it was my sacrifice to make.” He raises his hand. “One I will take with me to hell when I go.”

I flinch, expecting another blow, but he sets his palm against my cheek, runs gloved fingers gently from my temple to my chin, touching me almost with reverence.

“Your silence is your sacrifice to make, Kate Burkholder,” he whispers. “Don’t forget that.”

Keeping his eyes on mine, he reaches for my duty belt. For an instant, I think he’s going to unbuckle my trousers to assault me. Instead, he unsnaps the handcuffs compartment, studies them for a moment.

“Do not move,” he whispers.

My instincts scream for me to fight. If he gets the cuffs on me, I’ll be helpless. But with the muzzle of my .38 pressed against my tongue, his finger inside the trigger guard, I do as I’m told.

Using his free hand, he captures my right wrist with the cuff. “I’m going to remove the gun from your mouth,” he says. “When I do, do not make a sound. Or I will kill you. Do you understand?”

I jerk my head.