Down a Dark Road--A Kate Burkholder Novel

  “He wants me gone.”

  “Diplomatic of him.”

  “I thought so.” I close my eyes. “Goddamn it.”

  I take the newspaper from him, lower it to my side. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. I don’t want to see condemnation or disappointment. “I did not behave inappropriately with King,” I say after a moment.

  “I believe you.”

  The words stop me cold. It’s the one thing I didn’t expect him to say, and I have to close my eyes against an unwelcome wave of emotion. I’d had my defense laid out and I was prepared to shout it out if I had to. As usual, Tomasetti was one step ahead of me.

  When the silence becomes awkward, I manage, “You have no idea how much I needed to hear you say that.”

  “Just for clarification purposes, I’m not some insecure high school boy. I know you too well to believe you’d engage in that kind of behavior.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  “Kate, that’s not to say it doesn’t look bad. It does, especially if King forces our hand and we have to do something we don’t want to do. You’re a cop. To all of those unfortunate individuals who don’t know you as well as I do, it might appear as if you were conducting yourself in a manner unbecoming a chief of police.”

  I have a sudden mental image of the photo hitting the front page of every newspaper in northeastern Ohio or trending on social media, and I groan inwardly. “It’s going to damage my reputation. Take a chunk out of my credibility.”

  “People will think what they will. Probably doesn’t help that you’re female. Formerly Amish. In a position of authority. Any of the above could make you a convenient target.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  None of this is even remotely funny, but I laugh. It does nothing to dislodge the stone of dread that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

  “Kate, where this could get serious is this current situation with King. If worse comes to worse and there’s a fatal outcome, for King or any of the hostages, it could get ugly.”

  The words actually make me nauseous. Not because of any potential fallout due to the photo, but because the thought of someone getting killed—Joseph or one of the kids or a cop—offends me on both a personal and professional level.

  “Tomasetti, there’s got to be another way.”

  “That’s up to King.”

  “There’s got to be something I can do. Look, I knew him. I could talk to him. On the phone. I might be able to get him to listen to reason. If I could just talk to him—”

  “You already did. You did your best and he didn’t listen.”

  Quickly, I tell him about my visits with Edward and Jonas King. “Joseph’s younger brother doesn’t believe Joseph killed Naomi.” I tell him about Jonas’s exchange with Sadie. “Tomasetti, there’s no way that little girl made up that story.”

  “Kate, are you saying you believe King is innocent?”

  “I think it warrants a second look.”

  He sighs unhappily. “Kate…”

  I relay what Jonas told me about his conversation with Naomi. “After Joseph was arrested, Naomi admitted that he didn’t assault her.”

  “Look, I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but how many times has a cop walked away from a suspected domestic-violence situation without making an arrest only to learn later it was a mistake because someone ended up dead? Cops make the best calls they can. The situation isn’t always cut-and-dried. And they don’t always get it right.”

  “Jonas doesn’t believe King was ever violent with his wife.”

  “Sometimes loved ones are the last to accept the truth.”

  “Tomasetti, I don’t know if I’m right. But none of this is adding up.”

  “Kate.” Tomasetti lowers his voice. “Guilty or not or somewhere in between, the bottom line is we have a barricaded gunman with five minor hostages and he’s refusing to cooperate or give himself up. He’s fired on officers.”

  I start to turn away, but he sets his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me. The situation is a powder keg and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. He’s not left us with much in the way of options.”

  I look away, fight off a wave of emotion I don’t want to feel. “What are they going to do?”

  “If he hadn’t fired on that deputy, we’d simply wait him out.”

  “And now?”

  He grimaces. “Ryan is waiting to hear back from the AG. With the kids inside they can’t do a tactical assault. If they’re forced to move, I suspect they’ll take him out with a sniper. I know you don’t want to hear that, but unless something changes, it’s probably going to happen.”

  “I hate this.”

  “I know you do. I’m sorry.” His hands fall away from my shoulders. “Look, I have to go.” He tilts his head, catches my gaze. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

  I nod, heft my best phony smile. “See you at home later.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  Tomasetti disappears inside the command center without looking back. I stand there, trying to pull myself together. I know he’s right. I did my best. It’s all anyone can do. The knowledge doesn’t help, because if someone gets hurt tonight, it won’t have been enough to make a difference.

  It’s past time for me to leave. All I’m accomplishing by hanging around is torturing myself with the weight of my own mistakes and the knowledge that this is probably not going to end well. It’s out of your hands, Burkholder. Go home. Get some sleep. I start toward my vehicle.

  It’s midafternoon. Around me the day is overcast and cool with a hint of rain in the air. I find myself thinking about Joseph King and his children. Is he having second thoughts about what he’s done? Are the kids frightened? Did they have breakfast? Do they have any idea how horribly this could turn out?

  God, I hope not.

  I don’t speak to anyone as I walk along the road’s shoulder. I concentrate on shutting down my thoughts, trying not to think of anything more complicated than the prospect of a hot shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  I’m midway to the Explorer when the thwack! thwack! thwack! of gunshots slices through the air.

  CHAPTER 12

  For an instant the sound freezes me in place. A thousand thoughts assail my brain at once. Vaguely, I’m aware that the tempo of the police presence has intensified. Shouting and movement and the bark of radios. I break into a run, pause at the caution tape demarking the police perimeter, look toward the Beachy house. Shock sweeps through me when I spot two SWAT officers moving toward the house through the trees.

  And I know.

  The rest of the world falls away. I feel as if I’ve been plunged into a sealed bottle from which all the air has been sucked. There’s no sound or light, just the thrum of my heart, the hiss of my breaths tearing from my throat, and the knowledge that someone has been killed.

  I don’t remember ducking beneath the tape. Then I’m sprinting toward the house. Weaving through the trees. I’m aware of movement to my right. The flash of lights behind me. Someone ordering me to get the hell back.

  I don’t stop.

  The high-pitched scream of a child cuts through all of it. I hear terror in the voice. The kind no child should ever experience.

  Then I’m in the front yard. Grass wet beneath my feet. I’m out of breath, partly from the physical exertion, partly from adrenaline. I scramble up the hill. I’m thirty feet from the house when the front door bursts open. The children pour out, faces ravaged, eyes crazed. I see blood on bare feet as one of the girls flies down the steps.

  I spot Sadie, running across the grass. Arms outstretched. Blood on her dress. Her hands. She looks at me, but doesn’t see. I dart left, drop to my knees in front of her. She flings herself into me so hard the breath is knocked from my lungs.

  “Sadie.”

  Her arms scrapple at my shirt, tiny hands fisting the
fabric, clinging as if some unseen force is trying to rip her away. “Datt! Datt! He’s bleeding!”

  I wrap my arms around her, pull her close. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She’s tiny and shaking so hard I can barely hold onto her. “I want my datt!” she screams. “I want him!”

  “We’ve got her! We’ve got her!”

  I glance over my shoulder to see two women rush toward us. Expressions taut and grim. One’s a cop. The other is wearing a blue blazer and skirt. I get to my feet. Sadie clings to me, but I pry her fingers from my shirt, shove her toward the woman who reaches us first.

  “I’m with Children Services,” the woman pants.

  “Go with her, Sadie. It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

  A sheriff’s department deputy jogs toward me. He’s shouting words I can’t discern, gesturing angrily. Sadie screams again as I spin toward the house. I cross the sidewalk, take the steps two at a time to the porch, yank open the door.

  “Joseph!” I don’t recognize the voice that rips from my throat. “Joseph!”

  I rush through the living room, past the stairs. Dim light from the window slanting into the kitchen. At the doorway, I spot an ocean of blood slicked across the floor, stark and red and surreal. There’s an overturned chair. A spray of blood on the wall. Joseph is lying on his back, arms thrown over his head, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. A hole the size of my fist on the right side of his forehead. His left eye stares right at me. The other is rolled back white, the lid at half mast …

  A second bullet tore through his throat. The source of the blood …

  I’ve seen death more often than I care to recall in the years I’ve been a cop. Traffic accidents. Shootings. Stabbings. Death from natural causes. It’s always a terrible sight to behold. This is worse. I knew this man. I spent my formative years with him. He impacted my life. The way I see the world. I spoke to him less than twenty-four hours ago. He was anxious and despondent, but he wanted to live his life.

  I hear myself utter his name. But I know he’s gone. Killed instantly, more than likely. I know better—damn it, I know better—than to go to him, but I do. Avoiding the blood, I kneel beside him. A cacophony of noise and movement all around. Shouting punctuated by the thud of boots, the jingle of tactical gear.

  Joseph is wearing the same clothes as when I sat at this table with him. His shirt has ridden up. I see a white belly, the waistband of his underwear. A thin layer of male hair.

  “You! Ma’am! You!”

  A hand slams down on my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of a gloved hand, an officer in tactical gear. Helmet and flak jacket. He knocks me off balance and then I’m being hauled backward, dragged away from Joseph, toward the doorway. I scramble and twist, try to get my feet under me, finally succeed.

  “Get the hell off me,” I snarl. “I’m a cop.”

  “You can’t be here,” he barks. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Wrenching my arm from his grasp, I grapple for my ID, yank it out. “SWAT took him out?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes flick to my badge and he relaxes marginally. “Look, you’re not supposed to be here. We’re securing the scene.”

  “Who gave the order?”

  He blinks at the question. “I’m here to clear the house and secure the scene. You’ll have to take that up with the guy in charge.” He raises his hands, tries to herd me away from the scene as if I’m some dense animal.

  “Kate! Kate!”

  I glance right, see Tomasetti striding through the living room, his phone against his ear, his face grim.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  When the SWAT officer doesn’t back off, Tomasetti shoves his ID in his face. “I fucking got this,” he growls.

  The officer raises his hands, but holds his ground, watching us.

  “He’s dead.” I glance at the river of blood, the spray on the wall, and I see Joseph the way he looked at me that final time. “The kids…”

  “They’re fine.” Then Tomasetti’s hand is on my biceps and he’s guiding me through the kitchen doorway, into the living room, toward the door where half a dozen cops are coming through. “Let’s go. They’ve got to secure the scene and we’re in the way.”

  It feels wrong leaving Joseph like that. Bloody and sprawled on the floor. He’d hate that, I think. Wouldn’t want anyone to see him that way.

  I make a halfhearted attempt to free myself from Tomasetti’s grasp. He doesn’t release me.

  “Kate.” He says my name in a low voice as we go through the door. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, damn it.”

  He frowns. “Uh-huh.”

  I plant my feet, stop and turn to him. “Who gave the order? Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Ryan and Crowder worked it out. You weren’t part of it.”

  “Did you know?”

  “The order came down fast, Kate. Once King fired on law enforcement and they were able to take a clean shot, the decision was made. A sniper was put in place and he waited for the opportunity. Took the shot through the kitchen window.”

  “Tomasetti, King wasn’t armed—”

  “Yes, he was, goddamn it. He had a rifle. He had your fucking handgun. He fired on deputies.”

  “No, I mean … just now.” The words tumble out of me; I’m fumbling them, my brain is misfiring, and I warn myself to calm down.

  “He set down the handgun. So what? It doesn’t matter. He’s down. The children are safe. It’s over.”

  “I don’t think it’s over.…”

  He looks at me as if he wants to lay into me. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his face and softens. “You’re not okay.”

  Only then do I realize he’s right. I’m a mess. My entire body is shaking. My legs. Hands. My voice isn’t steady. Worst of all, I feel the threat of tears, the one thing I will not allow at this moment.

  Setting his hand against the small of my back, he motions toward the command center. “Remind me later to bitch you out for going in there, will you? Kill hadn’t even been confirmed. If he’d been—”

  “He wasn’t,” I cut in.

  We arrive at the command center. A few yards from the stairs, I plant my feet and stop. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  “You need a minute?”

  “I’m not going in there. Not like … this.”

  Glancing left and right, he takes me around to the rear of the vehicle and leans me against the side of the trailer. “I just want to sit you down, get a look at you. Make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m okay,” I tell him. “I’m just…”

  “Hurting.” He sweeps a tuft of hair from my face, and then says more softly, “Yeah, I get that. I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t want this to happen,” I tell him. “Not like this.”

  “No one did.”

  I think about the children. Annie and Levi. Becky and Little Joe. And sweet Sadie … So young and innocent and yet they’ve endured so much, lost so much. I wonder who’ll explain this to them. If someone will be there to comfort them, to hold them, wipe away their tears.

  Through the throng of cops from a dozen jurisdictions, I see the Holmes County Coroner’s van take the gravel lane toward the house.

  I take a deep breath, blow it out, reach for a calm I can’t quite get to. “Are you going to stay?”

  “I need to stick around until the CSU is finished. Probably going to be a few hours.”

  “I need to go home,” I tell him.

  “You’re still shaky.”

  He’ll know if I lie, so I fess up. “I’m sick to my core about this.”

  He tilts his head, looking at me a little too closely. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll get things tied up and drive you.”

  “No. Finish up. I’m fine.” More than anything I want to lean into him, feel his arms around me, absorb some of his strength, because at this moment I need it desperately. Of course, I can’t do any of those things; there are t
oo many people around.

  Offering up a smile, I take a step back. “I’m not very good company right now, anyway.”

  “You’re always good company.” He’s not buying into it, but I know he can’t get away.

  “Don’t stay too late,” I tell him.

  We touch hands, a brushing of fingertips, and then I turn away and start toward my Explorer.

  PART II

  Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Hyperion

  CHAPTER 13

  I’m twelve years old and it’s a beautiful summer day full of promise and adventure and, unfortunately for me, chores. My sister, Sarah, and I spent the morning picking raspberries down by the creek on the north end of our property. We ate nearly as many as we picked, but the berries were plentiful and we still managed to harvest eighteen pints. Yesterday, Mamm made a dozen loaves of yeast bread. Add to that the eggs I’ve collected over the last week—the brown ones that the tourists fawn over—and a dozen or so jars of apple butter, and I know it’s going to be a lucrative afternoon.

  At ten A.M., my brother, Jacob, loaded all our goods into the buggy and drove Sarah and me to the stand Datt built down by Hogpath Road where the English tourists have to drive past to get into Painters Mill. While Sarah smooths the red-and-white-checked tablecloth over the plywood surface, Jacob and I carry the last of the bread and eggs and raspberries to the table.

  “Stop your pouting, Katie,” Jacob says as he sets the last crate on the tabletop.

  “I’m not pouting,” I tell him.

  He pulls the wooden sign from the back of the buggy and sets it against the front of the stand so it’s visible from the road. “Pride in your work puts joy in your day,” he says in Deitsch.

  A little free time would have put plenty of joy in my day. I don’t tell him that, of course. I simply hadn’t planned on spending my birthday working our produce stand. All I’d wanted to do was finish my chores and hoof it down to the creek to go swimming with my siblings. We’d recently discovered a deep spot just past the rapids where the water runs fast and clear and cold. Our neighbor, Joseph, who’s my brother’s age and oftentimes swims with us, claims to have spotted a wood trunk half buried in the gravel bottom. I’m not sure I believe it, but the story has aroused the explorer inside me.