I believe Kelly Dennison’s story about the rape. I believe Vicki Cascioli’s assertion of shady goings-on inside the sheriff’s department. And I believe Roy saw Naomi King having sex with a cop. None of those potential witnesses are as credible as Wade Travers. Dennison has a record; she’s done time in jail. Cascioli has been painted as a disgruntled ex-cop. Roy is a minor—and Amish. Joseph and Naomi King are dead. How do I go about investigating Wade Travers without raising suspicion?
“Good question,” I mutter as I pull the Explorer into the two-track, turn around, and head west.
I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Tavern Road. “Who says good old-fashioned police work is outdated?” I recap my conversation with the two Amish boys. “They saw Naomi having sex with a cop.”
“A deputy?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did they recognize him? Get a name?”
“No and no. Even so, I think this opens up some possibilities.”
“Including the possibility that Joseph King found out his wife was screwing around and flew into a rage.”
“If that’s the case,” I say, “the information should have come out in the course of the trial.”
Vaguely, I’m aware of a vehicle behind me. I’m driving the speed limit, which is fifty-five miles per hour. I drift slightly right, hugging the white line so he can pass, and I turn my attention back to my conversation.
“Tomasetti, I talked to Joseph at length the night I was in the house with him. I don’t think he knew about Naomi’s affair. I sat there and listened to his daughter tell me there was another man in the house that night. A man with a long gun, standing outside her mother’s bedroom. The deeper I get into all of this, the more strongly I feel that Joseph King did not kill his wife.”
Even though I’m alone and in my own vehicle, I find myself lowering my voice. “We need to look at Wade Travers.”
“All right. But if we’re going to—”
The Explorer jolts with so much force my head snaps against the seat rest. Headlights flash behind me. I catch a glimpse of a hood coming up fast on my left and I think, Drunk driver. A pickup truck. White.
Vaguely I’m aware of Tomasetti’s voice coming over the Bluetooth. “Kate?”
“Hold on,” I grind out.
The truck hovers for an instant, too far back for me to see the driver. Quickly, it veers right and slams into the Explorer. Steel clangs against steel, screeching as my vehicle is shoved right. I’m jerked left, my head bouncing off the driver’s-side window. “Shit!”
The steering wheel is nearly wrenched from my hands. Both right wheels, front and back, leave the asphalt, swerve onto the gravel shoulder. I grab tight, yank it back, feel the back wheels skid, then catch.
“Kate, what’s going on?”
“Crazy driver running me off the road.”
The truck’s engine groans. A lot of power. Big engine. Tall hood. Souped up. The grille looms outside my window. Too close. Can’t see the plate. I hit the brake hard. Down to forty miles an hour. The truck surges ahead, swerves right. I’m not fast enough to avoid it. The truck’s rear bumper crashes against my left quarter panel.
The fender buckles. My tires lose purchase. The road curves left. I’m not going to make the turn. The Explorer goes into a spin. I brake hard, steer into the skid, but my efforts are fruitless. I try to get a look at the truck’s license plate, but it’s too far ahead and moving away fast.
The Explorer crosses the road. Tires screeching. Dirt and gravel fly outside my window. I’m thrown hard against my safety belt as the vehicle nose-dives into the ditch. The airbag explodes, punching me in the face and chest like a giant boxer’s glove.
Abruptly everything goes still. I’m so stunned that for a moment I’m frozen in place. The Explorer has stopped at a steep angle. Engine no longer running. Something hissing. I’m being held in place by my shoulder harness and seat belt. I’m aware of the airbag slowly deflating. Pain in the general area of my chest where the strap cut into me. The windshield is cracked. The hood buckled. Through the glass I see mud and grass and yellow cattails.
I lift my hands, set them on the steering wheel; I’m shaking violently. I shift, move my legs. No pain. No serious injuries.
“Shit.” I groan the word and look around for my phone. It had been in the cup holder in the console; I’d been using my Bluetooth. It’s probably somewhere on the floor now.
I set my right forearm against the steering wheel and unlatch my safety belt. With my left hand I reach for the door handle. Relief slips through me when it creaks open. The Explorer has come to rest nose-down in a six-foot-deep ditch. The grille is submerged in a couple of feet of water. I climb out, set my feet on the ground, sink into mud up to my ankles. Last year’s cattails scrape my legs as I wade through them. The bank is steep and I have to use my hands to traverse the incline. Slowly, I make my way up to the road’s shoulder.
It’s almost fully dark now. No one around. The truck that hit me is long gone. I feel alone and exposed, more shaken than I want to admit. This was no accident, a little voice whispers, and a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature sweeps through me.
I’d been on the phone, not paying attention. The truck seemed to come out of nowhere, approaching me at a high rate of speed. Was this a case of drunk driving? Of road rage? An impatient driver who became angry because he thought I was driving too slowly? I don’t think so; I’d given him ample opportunity to pass. No, this is something else. But what?
Realizing I need my phone, I slide back down the incline and crawl into the Explorer. I grapple around inside, finally locating my cell on the passenger-side floor.
I dial 911 as I make my way back up the slope and report the accident. Then I dial Tomasetti.
“What the hell happened?” He doesn’t bother trying to conceal his concern.
“Someone ran me off the road. Took off.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I glance over at the wrecked Explorer. “Auggie’s not going to be too happy with me.”
He’s not amused. “Where are you?”
I look around. There’s a farm about a quarter mile down the road. A church across the street. “Ohio Eighty-eight,” I tell him. “A few miles south of Parkman.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way. Keep your goddamn sidearm handy, will you?”
* * *
I’ve investigated dozens of traffic accidents over the years, from routine fender benders to fatality wrecks and everything in between. Even with all that experience, it’s different when you’re the one behind the wheel.
It takes ten minutes for the Portage County sheriff’s deputy to arrive on scene. Deputy Chaney is a no-nonsense African American guy with a professional demeanor and a keen sense of humor, both of which calm my frayed nerves. I let him know right off the bat that I’m a cop—which earns me a little bit more in the way of regard. He listens carefully when I tell him about the white pickup truck running me off the road.
“Drunk driver?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. It seemed intentional.”
“Road rage?” he asks.
“I was going the speed limit, gave him ample room to pass.”
“You never know what’s going to set someone off,” he tells me.
I don’t offer another explanation despite the one pounding at the base of my brain. I don’t know who the driver was. I don’t know his intent. Because of the sensitive nature of my suspicions about a neighboring jurisdiction, I hold my silence.
When I’m finished with my statement, the deputy puts out a BOLO for the truck to the state highway patrol and surrounding law enforcement agencies.
I’m kicking myself for not noticing more details about the truck or the driver. All I recall is that it was an older white pickup truck. Possibly a Dodge. I think it had big tires because it was quite a bit taller than the Explorer. I couldn’t swear to any of it.
Way to go, Kate.
It takes another half an hour for Peck’s Wrecker Service to arrive on scene. “Pecker” is a colorful guy who wears a cowboy hat and boots, and has me laughing despite the circumstances as he goes about attaching the wench to the undercarriage.
I’m standing on the road’s shoulder, trying not to look as shaken as I feel, when Tomasetti rolls up in the Tahoe, turns on his flashers, and parks behind the cruiser. He exchanges a few words with the deputy who’s taking photographs of the scene and then starts toward me, his gaze intent, his expression grim. “I let you out of my sight for more than a few hours and look what happens.”
“I wish I could say you should see the other guy, but he got away.”
I see restraint in his expression. The sharp edge of concern cutting through a thin layer of irritation. I remind myself he was on the phone with me when it happened. He tried to hide it but when I finally called him back he was frantic with worry. He was pissed off and scared, two emotions he did not want to feel. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he wants to touch me, run his hands over me to make sure I’m not hurt. But that need is tempered by the urge to bitch me out for poking around where I shouldn’t have been poking around.
He settles for a light brushing of his fingertips against my cheek. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure.”
He frowns, yet softens at the same time. “You’re bruised. Maybe you ought to get yourself checked out in the ER.”
The knot on my left temple is just starting to make itself known. Probably from my head knocking against the driver’s-side window. “Seriously, I’m fine,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look convinced, but walks away to take a good long look at the Explorer. “What happened?”
I tell him everything. “It was no accident, Tomasetti. And it wasn’t random. That son of a bitch came out of nowhere. He came at me fast and hard, hit me twice.”
“You tell the deputy that?”
I nod. “I didn’t tell him who I suspect.”
His expression goes dark. He glances over at the deputy, who’s still photographing the scene, and lowers his voice. “Kate, do you think a cop did this? Someone with the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“You get a look at him?”
“No. Damn it.” I sigh. “But I’m telling you this was no accident. Whoever was driving that truck purposefully tried to run me off the road.”
“To accomplish what exactly?”
I shoot him an are-you-serious look. “I’ve been sniffing around, asking questions. Maybe he caught wind of it. Maybe he got nervous and decided to do something about it.”
“So he tried to kill you by running you off the road?”
“Or shut me up.” I think about Kelly Dennison. “Intimidation is part of it. That’s his modus operandi.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looks over my head at the wrecked Explorer, sitting cockeyed behind the wrecker. “I’m sure he has no idea how hard your head is,” he mutters.
Shaken as I am—or maybe because of it—I laugh. “You always manage to say just the right thing.”
“I don’t like it that you’re on his radar.”
“Neither do I. Nothing I can do about it.”
“Yeah, well, I can.”
I look at him, wait.
“It’s time I got involved, Kate. Make this official. Start an investigation.”
“You said we don’t have enough. That we should wait until we have something significant.”
A small shrug. “We’ll see.”
But I know Tomasetti too well to think he won’t get it done.
The emergency lights of the wrecker flicker off the façade of the church across the street. We watch as the driver pulls the Explorer onto the road.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I tell him.
“If you want to make it right, you could sit the rest of this out. At least until BCI can get a fingerhold on this thing.”
“There’s not much more I can do,” I tell him.
He nods, his expression softening. “You want a ride home, Chief?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER 25
I dream of Joseph King, a disjointed collage of memories tinged with nightmare imagery. We’re in the woods and we’re running from someone or something. The sense of danger is keen and I’m terrified. I can hear our pursuer behind us, breaking through brush, deadfall cracking, branches waving as it crashes through the forest. Joseph and I have reached the limits of our endurance. We can’t run any farther. But I know the cliffs are up ahead. Somehow I know we’ll find shelter and safety in one of the caves.
“Keep running,” I tell him. “Come on! If it catches us, it’ll tear us to shreds!”
“You go on, Katie. I’m spent.”
That’s when I notice the blood streaming from a gaping hole in his chest, streaming down to soak his trousers. “You’re bleeding!” Panic laces my voice because I know the thing pursuing us will smell the blood.
“Run!” I scream.
Joseph smiles, that familiar twisting of lips that’s mischievous, knowing, and kind. But there’s blood on his teeth. Blood in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks like tears.
“They think I killed her,” he tells me.
I catch a glimpse of something dark moving through the brush. Coming toward us. So large I feel the ground shudder beneath my feet. “It’s coming!” I tell him. “Run! Run!”
“Already here,” he says.
The beast reaches us unseen, and yet it’s there right in front of me. I see Joseph yanked from his feet. The spray of blood against the foliage. The creek running red with it.
Joseph.
I turn and run, leaving him, guilty but too terrified to stay. I run as fast as I can. Arms pumping. Feet pounding. Horror ripping through me with every thrust of my heart. I sense the beast behind me. I feel its claws scrape my back. The sound of fabric ripping, and then I’m being pulled backward into space …
I wake in a cold sweat, my breaths rushing in and out, the smell of blood in my nostrils. I sit up, look around. On the nightstand next to the bed, my cell phone is vibrating.
I snatch it up. “Burkholder.”
“If you want to talk about that street file, take a drive up to my place.”
Even in my befuddled state I recognize Sidney Tucker’s voice. “Tell me what you know,” I say.
“Not over the phone. If you’re interested, come on.”
“Mr. Tucker, if—”
The line goes dead.
“Shit.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, set my feet on the floor, take a moment to settle my nerves. It’s not yet fully light outside, but Tomasetti’s already gone. The window is open and I can hear rain falling. The rumble of thunder in the distance makes me think of the beast in my dream.
* * *
It’s not until I’m behind the wheel of my rental car that I acknowledge the achiness that settled into my muscles overnight. I felt fine after the crash yesterday; this morning it feels as if my car had been sent through a crusher with me inside.
Because of the possibility of an official investigation, Tomasetti had my Explorer towed to an impound garage not far from his Richfield office. Sometime today, a crime-scene technician will go over the damage with a fine-tooth comb in an effort to retrieve paint or marks that might help identify the vehicle that hit me.
I swing by LaDonna’s Diner for a to-go coffee, down half of it before leaving the parking lot, and make the drive to Cortland in an hour. All the while I wonder about Tucker’s change of heart. What made him change his mind about talking to me? And what information does the so-called street file contain that the official, sanitized file does not?
Rain sweeps down from a cast-iron sky when I pull onto Tucker’s asphalt driveway. There’s no car in sight, but then that was the case when I was here two days ago; it doesn’t mean he?
??s not home. Around me, the treetops bend and twist with frenetic energy in the near-gale-force wind. I hightail it through stinging rain to the front porch and knock.
It’s so chilly this morning I can see my breath puffing out from my short sprint. When the retired detective doesn’t answer the door, I pull open the storm door and use my key fob to tap on the wood.
“Mr. Tucker?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”
I wait for a full minute. Leaning left, I glance at the big front window, but the blinds are tightly closed. I knock again, using the heel of my hand. “Sidney Tucker? Are you there?”
Annoyance rises in my chest. Did he change his mind about talking to me? Or did he jump in the shower, thinking I wouldn’t get here so quickly? Step out for a quick errand? Did he run me all the way over here for nothing?
I leave the porch and walk around to the rear of the house. There’s a good-size deck with a grill and a table and chairs. A bird feeder full of millet and sunflower seed mounted on the rail. As I ascend the steps and cross to the door, the whistle of a tundra swan sounds in the distance. It’s a forlorn sound that echoes off the treetops only to be lost in the din of rain, the low roar of the wind.
I’m a few feet from the door when I notice it’s standing open several inches. It occurs to me that if Sidney Tucker had stepped onto the deck earlier and didn’t close the door properly, the wind could have pushed it open. Still, the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
“Mr. Tucker?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder! Can you come to the door please?”
I look around for neighbors, but there’s no one there. Not only is the weather atrocious this morning, but the house is tucked into the trees and isolated from view.
Turning back to the door, I push it open. The hinges creak. I call out to him again. “Hello? Mr. Tucker? Are you there?”
No response.
“Shit,” I mutter, and step into the kitchen. There’s a round dining table straight ahead. Four chairs with frilly cushions. Cluttered countertops. Two pans left atop the stove. There’s a TV on somewhere in the house. The air smells of popcorn and coffee, all laced with the unpleasant aroma of garbage that should have been taken out a day ago.