“Where were you three nights ago?”
His eyes widen as if he’s suddenly realized why we’re here. “I was here. Working.”
“Can anyone substantiate that?”
“My wife.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
I stare hard at him. “Tell me about your relationship with Mattie.”
“That is in the past, Chief Burkholder. I do not wish to speak of it.”
“Mr. Kuhns, this is a police investigation. You don’t have a choice.”
A flash of anger crosses his features. “Who are you to ask me such a thing?” he snaps. “Who are you to judge me?”
He’s referring to my being ex-Amish, but I let the condemnation behind his words roll off me. “I’m the chief of police, and I’m conducting a murder investigation.” I step toward him, put my finger in his face. “If I were you, I’d answer the question. If you don’t, I’ll get a warrant and we’ll finish this at the police station. Do you understand?”
His face goes crimson. Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. I can’t tell if it’s temper or humiliation, but if a man can look like a volcano about to blow, Wayne Kuhns is Mount Pinatubo. “She and I…” he stammers. “We were … friends.”
“Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”
A flush of embarrassment deepens his color. His eyes skate away from mine. “No.”
“Did you want a sexual relationship with her?”
He looks everywhere except at me.
“Shall I interpret that as a yes?” I ask.
“I did nothing wrong.”
“Who broke it off?”
“She did.” He sighs. “What happened … is in the past. I’ve prayed for forgiveness and made peace with the Lord. And myself.”
“Were you angry when she told you she wanted to be left alone?”
His eyes narrow and I know he’s trying to figure out just what she told me, how much I know. “No.”
“Were you angry when she threatened to tell your wife you were bothering her?”
Another, deeper flush. “I didn’t get angry. I respected her wishes.”
“Did Paul know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever have words with him?”
“Never.”
“Does your wife know?”
“No.” He fastens his gaze on the floor at his feet and shakes his head. “I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
“No.”
I take him through some of the same questions I asked Mattie earlier to see if their answers correspond. He replies mechanically, without looking at me. Hating me, I think. Hating the questions and realizing the consequences of his actions are going to adversely affect his life.
“Is your wife inside, Mr. Kuhns? I need to speak with her.”
“No.”
“No, she’s not inside? Or no, you don’t want me to speak with her?”
Splotches appear on the skin at his collar and climb up his throat like a rash. He blots sweat from his forehead, looks from me to Glock and back to me. “She knows nothing of this.”
“Mr. Kuhns, I’m not trying to make this difficult or uncomfortable for you,” I tell him. “But this is a homicide investigation and I need to speak with your wife.”
He makes no move to accommodate my request. “You do not have my permission to speak with her.”
Behind me, I hear Glock laugh.
“I don’t need your permission,” I tell him.
“She is with child,” he hisses.
“If I were you, I’d start figuring out how to fill her in because she’s obviously going to have some questions for you when we’re finished.” I look at Glock. “Let’s go.” I make eye contact with Kuhns and motion toward the door.
“You are going to burn in hell, Kate Burkholder.”
“I have a feeling I won’t be alone,” I mutter and start toward the door.
*
The interior of the house smells of candle wax and sweet rosemary from a meal that had been cooked earlier in the evening. Kuhns takes Glock and me through the dimly lit mud room and into a kitchen filled with the bright light of an overhead gas-powered fixture.
“Wayne?” A lilting female voice calls out from somewhere in the house. “I just swept the floor so you’d better brush off all that sawdust—” A young Amish woman wearing a gray dress with an apron appears in the doorway. Her words trail when she spots Glock and me. “Oh. Hello.”
“Mrs. Kuhns?” I say.
“Yes?” She sends a questioning look to her husband. “What’s going on?”
“I’m Chief Burkholder and I’m looking into the deaths of Paul Borntrager and his children. I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t see how I can help you.” Looking baffled, she enters the kitchen, and for the first time I notice her bulging midsection and I realize she’s nearly to term. “We barely know the Borntragers.”
Paul rounds the table, pulls out a chair, and slumps into it, saying nothing. I offer my hand to the Amish woman and we shake.