Mouth open and trembling, he nods. “Don’t tell him I told.”
“I won’t. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.” I glance toward the barn door. “Honey, can you tell me where the Rabers are?”
“They took the buggy to town,” Ike tells me.
“What about Salome and Mose?”
“I dunno. They ran.”
I nod, relieved that no one else has been hurt. I hate to leave him like this, but I disconnect him from my leg. “I’ve got to go, honey.”
“Don’t leave us!” he cries, trying to hang on.
I squeeze his small shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay. Stay here with Agent Tomasetti, and I’ll be back. I promise.”
Inching closer to Tomasetti, Ike buries his face against his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Tomasetti’s face, and I know this moment is something I’m going to have to think about later. For now, I need to find Mose before he hurts someone else.
“You did good,” I say to Tomasetti.
“Go get that fuckin’ Mose,” he grinds out. Then I’m up and sprinting toward the house. Rain patters my face and shoulders as I run. I can’t stop thinking about how close those boys came to death. How in the name of God could anyone be cold-blooded enough to kill their younger siblings?
I’m midway to the house when I remember the truck and suitcases in the shed. Knowing Mose and Salome are going to make a run for it, I change direction, head toward it. Rain stings my face and streams into my eyes. The thought that I should pull my weapon flashes, but I resist the idea. Then I remind myself Mose tried to murder his two younger brothers. He may have killed his parents. Cursing, I pull out the .38, crank back the hammer.
I’m angling toward the shed when I realize someone has closed the overhead door, and I know Mose is inside. Salome probably is, too. They could have seen Tomasetti and me in the barn, gone out the back and circled around.…
The truck engine rumbles to life. I pick up speed, decide to approach through the small door on the side, as opposed to the overhead door in front. Before I can swing left, the big door explodes. Wood splinters and flies at me. Through sheets of rain, I see the grille of the old truck. The slash of a single headlight blinds me. The engine screaming like a beast. The vehicle is nearly on top of me. I catch a glimpse of Mose behind the wheel. Salome in the passenger seat. They’re ten feet away and closing fast.
I raise my weapon. “Stop!”
The vehicle is moving at a high rate of speed. Rear tires fishtailing, it comes at me. I dive left. The ground rushes up and slams into me. Breathless, I roll, trying to get out of the way. Glancing up, I see the red smear of taillights, wheels slinging gravel and mud. He’s heading toward the road.
“Son of a bitch!”
Gripping my pistol, I scramble to my feet, sprint toward the Explorer parked in the barn. My boots pound through puddles and mud, but I don’t slow down. Vaguely, I wonder where the hell my backup is.
I’m aware of Tomasetti getting to his feet, shouting at me as I blow past. Inside the barn, I yank open the driver’s door, slide behind the wheel, hit the ignition. The wheels spin and grab. I hear the hose snap, then I’m bumping down the lane. I see the red blur of the truck’s taillights ahead. Mose is driving erratically, veering toward the bar ditch, then back onto the gravel. It’s a dangerous game; he’s an inexperienced driver, scared and out of control. But I find myself worrying more about Salome and her unborn child.
He decapitates the mailbox at the end of the lane and whips left onto the township road. Sludge from the truck’s tires spatters my windshield. I hit the wipers and emergency strobes. A hundred yards down the road and I’m nearly on top of him. I’m lining up for a PIT maneuver in an effort to spin out his vehicle, when a hole the size of my fist explodes my windshield. A hollow thunk sounds; then a thousand diamond capillaries spread out like some bizarre road map. The son of a bitch is shooting at me.
Blind, covered with shards of glass, I cut the wheel right. The tree comes out of nowhere. I try to avoid it, but I’m on the muddy shoulder and the Explorer responds sluggishly. The impact knocks me so hard against the shoulder harness that I swear I can hear my clavicle snap. Simultaneously, the air bag punches me in the face and chest like a huge boxer’s glove.
Gasping in pain, I extricate myself from the air bag, reach down, and unlatch my safety belt. Steam spews from the engine. Looking through the shattered safety glass, I see the crinkled steel of my hood. Shoving away the deflating bag, I unlatch the door. When it sticks, I swivel and kick it open.
I slide from the vehicle, but my legs are like rubber and I go to my knees. I know I’m hurting, but there’s so much adrenaline, I can’t pinpoint where. Groaning, I force myself to my feet, look around. Mose’s truck is stopped fifty yards down the road, facing me. Ten feet away, the Explorer sits at a cockeyed angle, wrecked and useless.
That’s when my temper kicks in. Operating on instinct now, I hit my lapel mike, put out a 10-33. This is exactly the kind of situation that can spiral out of control and end very badly. I don’t know if Salome is a willing participant or a hostage. If Mose feels he has nothing left to lose, he might harm himself. He might harm Salome. Or both.
I should wait for backup, but I’m not going to follow protocol. Pulling my .38, I move to the bar ditch, where I have some measure of cover, and start toward the truck. “Mose!” I call out. “Put down the gun!”
No answer. I don’t stop walking. “Put it down, and come over here and talk to me!”
Dead silence.
I try another approach. “You’re frightening Salome! Come on! Talk to me! Is she okay?”
The passenger door opens. An instant later, Salome stumbles out. She’s wearing the blue dress and only one shoe. No kapp, her hair flying. “Chief Burkholder!” she screams. “Don’t hurt us!”
“Come here!” I shout. “Run! I’m not going to hurt you.”
She breaks into a run, arms outstretched, her eyes wild with terror. I continue toward her. The knowledge that I’m in plain sight should Mose start shooting never leaves my mind. I’m scared, more scared than I’ve been in a long time, but I don’t stop. Don’t let me down, Mose, I silently chant.
I’m twenty feet from Salome now. She’s hysterical, choking out sobs, her arms wrapped around her as if she’s holding herself together.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Take cover on the other side of the Explorer. You’ll be safe there.”
“Don’t hurt him,” she cries.
The truck’s engine revs. Adrenaline jolts me like electricity. Gravel shoots out from beneath the tires. Then the vehicle jumps toward me. I shove Salome toward the bar ditch. “Run!”
“Moses!” she screams. “Don’t!”
I face the truck, raise my hands. “Mose! Stop!” I scream the words, but it’s too late. I know he isn’t going to stop.
“Goddamn it!” Dropping into a shooter’s stance, I raise my .38. “Stop! Stop!”
The vehicle is ten yards away, engine screaming, gaining speed. I fire five rounds into the windshield. The glass splinters and spreads. The engine emits a final roar. The vehicle jerks right, slides sideways, and then nose-dives into the bar ditch and goes still.
“Moses! Moses!” Salome’s screams are bloodcurdling.
I spin, point at her. “Stay put!”
Covering her face with her hands, she drops to her knees and bends, her body racked with sobs.
I turn my attention to the vehicle. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the sirens. I can’t see the fire truck or ambulance yet, but they’re nearby, probably turning onto the township road from the highway. Just a few more minutes …
Hold on, Mose, I think. Don’t be dead. My brain chants the words like a mantra as I approach the passenger door. Dear God, let him be alive. I don’t want the death of a seventeen-year-old boy on my conscience. The irony of that is almost too much to bear.
The truck is nose-down in the ditch. The driver’s
side looks difficult to get to, so I approach from the other side. The first thing I see is blood spatter on the door window, and I know in my gut this isn’t going to have a good ending. I try the door, but it’s jammed, so I hold down the latch and yank it as hard as I can. Steel groans as I pry it open.
Mose is slumped against the driver’s door. I know immediately he’s dead. He’s suffered at least one gunshot to the face, probably two. There’s a lot of blood. Brain matter on the headrest. More blood on his shoulders. Blowback on the side window. A clawlike hand still grips the wheel.
“Aw, Mose. Aw, God. Mose.”
I barely recognize my own voice as I stumble away from the truck. I feel sick to my soul. Guilt is a swirling black hole inside me, and I’m barreling toward it, an Olympian sprinting toward a false finish. Or maybe the edge of a cliff. I’m already spinning into that awful free fall.
My hand shakes uncontrollably when I hit my lapel mike. My voice sounds foreign to me when I put out the call. I’m standing in the bar ditch. I can’t stop looking at Mose. Minutes ago, he was healthy and alive, with his entire life ahead of him. Now he’s dead. No matter how badly I want to jump in some time machine for a redo, it’s not going to happen. Death is forever. Some kinds of guilt are forever, too, and I’ll be feeling the killing edge of this day for the rest of my life.
I can hear Salome screaming, but I’m not sure if it’s real or inside my head. I should go to her. She’s been through hell, more than any fifteen-year-old should have to bear. The last thing she needs to see is her lover’s shattered body. But I can’t make myself move. I can’t do anything because I’m frozen in a hell of my own making, staring at the dead body of the seventeen-year-old Amish boy I just shot.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I turn to see a young paramedic standing a few feet away. His partner stands next to him, his eyes going to the body in the truck. “We’re going to have to get in there and check his vitals.”
I blink and step aside quickly. “I think he’s gone.”
“Looks that way, Chief, but we still need to verify.”
“Of course.”
The other paramedic glances at the .38 in my hand. “You okay, Chief Burkholder?”
My collarbone aches, but my own pain seems so minuscule in comparison to what’s happened here, I can’t bring myself to mention it. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t go anywhere. We’re going to need to check you out. Make sure you’re okay.”
Only then to do realize I’ve got tears on my cheeks. I’m gripping the gun so hard, my knuckles ache. When I look down, my hand is shaking as if I suffer from some form of palsy. I know the sheriff’s office will be taking my weapon from me. Cops never like that, but it’s protocol whenever there’s a fatality shooting. The BCI lab will test it, make the official determination that my bullets caused the death of Mose Slabaugh. I’ll be put on administrative leave. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I killed someone. They’ll urge me to seek counseling. I’ll resist. There will be a hearing. But it was a righteous kill.
A righteous kill. Right.
One of the paramedics goes around to the driver’s side. I didn’t notice the fire truck arriving, but they’re here, because there’s a firefighter in full gear next to him. I know there are things I should be doing. But I’m not capable of much at the moment. My brain is misfiring, like an engine missing most of its spark plugs. I can’t stop shaking. I watch the two men pry the door open. Mose’s body nearly falls out, but the paramedic catches the dead boy by his shoulders. I see blood on blue latex gloves. Gray skin and staring eyes. And then the two men lower the body to the ground. The paramedic checks the carotid for a pulse, then places a stethoscope against the boy’s chest.
Not wanting Salome to see the body, I glance left, where I last saw her. She’s crumpled on the ground, her face and hands in the dirt. Her body quakes with sobs that sound more like screams. She looks small and pale and broken lying there. Her dress and hair are wet. Her fingers are curled in the mud, black under her nails. I want to go to her, comfort her, tell her it’s going to be all right. But I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I’m capable of saying anything at the moment.
I’m relieved when I see Glock striding toward her, bending, setting his hands on her shoulders. But his eyes are on me. “I’ve got her,” he says, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Kate.”
I turn at the sound of my name. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, looking at me as if I might shatter into a million pieces and he’s not sure he can contain them all. More than anything, I want to go to him. I want him to put his arms around me and make all this pain go away. I want to sink into him and never leave, because right now I know that’s the only safe place in the world.
“He’s dead,” I tell him.
He looks down at the gun in my hand and crosses to me. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t think I am.”
“I don’t think you are, either.” Never taking his eyes from me, he reaches out and eases the .38 from my grasp. “They’ll need your weapon.”
“I know.”
“Rasmussen will want to talk to you.”
I nod. “That’s fine.”
Sighing, he looks past me at Mose’s wrecked truck. Both doors of the vehicle are open, and I know he can see the paramedics preparing to load the corpse onto a gurney. “He try to run you down in the truck?” he asks.
“I should have run. Let him go. I should have taken cover in the—”
“That’s a crock of shit, Kate. He would have killed you if you hadn’t stopped him, and you know it. Don’t tear yourself up over this.”
“God, Tomasetti.” I lower my face into my hands. “God.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
When I don’t look at him, he wraps both hands around my wrists and gently pulls them from my face. When I still don’t make eye contact, he puts his hand beneath my chin and forces my gaze to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats. “You got that?”
I look into his eyes. He stares back. He’s so solid and unflinching and kind. It’s a huge comfort knowing that he’s not judging me, that he doesn’t blame me. “It feels like I did,” I say.
“I know it does. It’s not easy taking another person’s life. But that’s part of the job sometimes.”
“I don’t know if I can handle that.”
“You can.”
I feel the burn of tears behind my eyes. The last thing I want to do is cry. Talk about bad form for a female cop. I swipe frantically at my eyes. “How are Ike and Samuel?”
“They’re going to be fine. Ambulance took them to the hospital. They’ll probably spend the night.”
When I close my eyes, I see their small bodies floating in the manure pit. “How could Mose do that to his little brothers?”
Tomasetti shakes his head. “That’s probably something we’ll never know.”
“I didn’t see this coming,” I tell him. “Why didn’t I see it coming?”
“Because you’re human.” He sighs. “None of us saw this.”
That’s not what I want to hear, but I let it go. “I want to talk to Salome.”
“Glock is with her.”
“I need to talk to her.” I start to move around him, but he stops me.
“Kate, paramedics are going to check you out, then I need to take you to the sheriff’s office. Rasmussen is obligated to talk to you.” He sighs. “So am I.”
Only then does it dawn on me just how difficult the next hours will be. There will be interviews and forms and a thousand questions. I don’t care about any of it. All I want to do is see the children, Ike and Samuel and Salome. I want to be the one to tell them what happened to their brother. At the very least, I want to be there when they get the news. But I know that won’t be the case. As of five minutes ago, I’m no longer a cop. Not until the shooting is fully investigated and I’m cleared of any wrongdoing.
/>
I barely notice when the young paramedic crosses to where we stand. While Tomasetti looks on, he runs through the standard emergency medical protocol, taking my blood pressure and asking about any pain. My collarbone hurts plenty, but I don’t mention it. There’s no way I’m going to the hospital.
When he finishes, he looks at Tomasetti and proceeds to talk about me as if I’m not there. “She looks fine, but you might want to run by the ER before taking her home.”
“I’ll do that.”
I wait until the paramedic is out of earshot before saying, “I’m not going to the hospital.”
Tomasetti sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I want to see the kids,” I say.
“I know. You can’t. Not right now.”
“I’m fine, damn it.”
“We need to talk to Rasmussen. File a report.”
When I don’t respond, Tomasetti motions toward his Tahoe, which is parked haphazardly twenty yards away. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the sheriff’s office.”
That’s the last place I want to be. Of course, I don’t have a choice. They’re going to take my badge, my weapon. Strip away my title. They’re going to pass my caseload to my subordinates. I know it’s temporary. But it doesn’t feel that way.
“I hate this,” I say.
“I hate it, too,” Tomasetti concurs. “But it’s going to be okay.”
As we walk toward his Tahoe, I glance over at Salome. She looks like a sad little ghost sitting in the passenger seat of Glock’s cruiser, a blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine, and I see a clutter of terrible emotions in their depths: grief, betrayal, hopelessness. But there are other emotions, too—thoughts and feelings I can’t even fathom—too many for me to sort through at the moment. For a crazy instant, I’m tempted to break free of Tomasetti, run to her, and tell her I didn’t have a choice.
Instead, I get into Tomasetti’s Tahoe, and we start toward the sheriff’s office.
CHAPTER 18
Killing someone changes you in ways most people can never understand. It stains your soul with an ineffaceable darkness. It burdens your psyche with a weight that will crush you if you let it. It adds a disconsolate component to your persona that shadows every facet of your life, like the total eclipse of a good sun by a bad moon, and you’re stuck in that darkness forever. And no matter how much good you do in an effort to make up for that black transgression, you know it will never be enough.