Ten-thirty-nine.
I’m ten-seven-six.
Other than the hiss and crackle of the radio, we walk in silence, single-file with the little girl in the lead, me in the middle, and King behind me. I can only assume my revolver is leveled at my back, which doesn’t give me much in the way of options. I have no idea what the situation is inside the house; I don’t know if he’s telling the truth about Rebecca and Daniel—if they were harmed—or if they’re helping him.
But it’s the five children that worry me most. If Joseph King is cold-blooded enough to murder his wife in her bed with the children in the house, God only knows what else he’s capable of. Even if he has no intention of harming them outright, they are no doubt in danger. How will he react when he realizes they are the perfect bargaining chip?
We ascend a grassy incline, climb over a split-rail fence, then cross the wide expanse of yard. We take a narrow, broken sidewalk to the rear of the house and King motions me up the concrete steps to a small porch. Before the little girl reaches the door, it swings open. The little boy I met earlier in the day thrusts a lantern at us. His eyes widen at the sight of me. “Oh.” Big blue eyes dart to his father. “Datt?”
“It’s okay,” King says, and then to me: “Get inside.”
I obey, aware that he’s right behind me. That he’s still gripping my .38.
“Who’s the Englischer, Datt?” the boy asks.
“A policeman,” he replies. “She’s going to help us.”
I enter the mudroom. A row of windows to my right. Jackets and summer straw hats hang neatly on wood pegs to my left. There’s a wood bench against the wall. Six pairs of boots lined up on the floor beneath it. Chunks of mud all around. A rug at the doorway to the kitchen for wiping feet. The boy goes into the kitchen and I follow.
It’s the same kitchen I visited when I talked to Daniel and Rebecca to warn them about Joseph King. It seemed sunny and benign then; the place seems menacing tonight. The big table is occupied by three more children, one boy of about eight, who I’d met when I was here before, and two pre-teen girls, their faces illuminated by a flickering lantern. All of them are clad in nightclothes, telling me they were roused from sleep.
The youngsters stare as I enter the kitchen, their eyes wide and apprehensive. They’re mature enough to realize something is wrong. Smart enough to know their long-lost datt isn’t here for a visit.
From where I’m standing, I can see into the dimly lit living room. There’s no one there. No sign of a struggle. No trace of Rebecca or Daniel Beachy. A thread of worry goes through me. I look at Joseph. “Where are Rebecca and Daniel?”
“I told you,” he says. “I asked them to leave.”
A thin layer of relief slips through me, but it’s tempered by the thought that he could be lying. That he could have harmed them—or worse.
“Sitz dich anne.” King’s voice cuts into my thoughts. Sit down.
By the light of the lantern, I get my first good look at him. The years have not been kind to Joseph King. His face is hardened and gaunt, his cheeks are hollow, his mouth is pulled into a grim line. His brown eyes are flat and expressionless. He’s still wearing his prison-issue clothes. His trousers are caked with mud up to his knees. The gray hoodie is torn at the pocket. His sneakers are covered with mud. His left hand is bleeding, old blood already crusted over, but it doesn’t appear to be a serious injury, and he doesn’t seem to notice.
He motions toward the table. “Sit down, Katie. Now.”
Moving slowly so as not to spook him, I go to the table, pull out the nearest chair, and sink into it. The older boy goes to the counter and lights a second lantern. The little boy who answered the door is bent over a bowl of cereal, eating intently. The youngest, Sadie, has returned to a mug of what looks like hot chocolate. The rise and fall of multiple sirens outside adds an eerie countenance to what should have been a benign scene. Interestingly, the children don’t appear to be fearful of their father. Because they’ve been protected from the truth? Or is the child-parent bond so unshakable that they’re able to accept his presence and rationalize the circumstances of his return?
I make eye contact with the oldest girl. She’s about twelve years old with dishwater blond hair and hazel eyes. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” I ask, letting my eyes touch each of them. How goes it now?
“Miah sinn zimmlich gut.” We are pretty good.
The answer comes from Sadie, who met us in the woods. She’s animated and social and I’m touched by her sweetness. She lifts the mug and slurps the last of the hot chocolate.
All the while my police radio is going nuts. Both County and my own department are requesting a response from me. They know I’m in trouble. The problem is they don’t know exactly where I am or what’s happened, just that I was in the proximity of the Beachy farm.
“I’m Kate,” I tell the children. “I’m a police officer What are your names?”
“I’m Sadie.” The little girl holds up her hand and spreads her fingers. “I’m five.”
The boy next to her, the one who answered the door, slides in next to me. “I’m Levi and I’m six.” He proffers a shy smile, revealing two missing front teeth.
I look at the girl across the table from me. She’s about ten years old with curly brown hair and a gap between her front teeth. “My name’s Annie.”
I let my eyes slide to the girl next to her. The oldest child is on the cusp of adolescence and very pretty. “How about you?” I ask.
“I’m Becky.”
I look at the boy sitting at the end of the table. He looks startlingly like his father. I guess him to be eight or nine. Brown hair and eyes. Blunt-cut bangs and the typical bowl-shaped haircut. His skinny chest pokes out. “I’m Little Joe.”
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” I tell them in Deitsch.
They stare at me, their eyes flicking from me to their father. They’re wondering what happens next. The older kids know something isn’t right. They’re wondering why their datt is home after being gone for so long. Why he woke them in the middle of the night and pulled them from their beds. Why he’s wearing such strange clothes that are dirty and torn. Why he asked their aunt and uncle to leave. Poor little things …
“How does she know Deitsch, Datt?” Sadie asks.
“I used to be Amisch,” I tell her.
Levi, the little boy with the missing front teeth, pipes up, “How come you’re not Amisch anymore?”
“It’s kind of complicated,” I tell him.
“Oh.” But his brows go together, as if he’s trying to figure out some hidden meaning.
King has turned his attention to the window, using the revolver to move the curtain aside. Watching for movement outside. According to the codes coming over my radio, they’ve found my vehicle. Rebecca and Daniel have been located. Holmes County, as well as my own department, has arrived on scene. I wonder if Tomasetti has gotten the call.
King drops the curtain, his expression grim, and strides to the table. “Looks like your cop buddies are here,” he tells me.
I set my hand against the radio strapped to my equipment belt. “I need to let them know I’m okay. That’ll calm them down. Buy you some time.” I look at the children. Five innocent little faces tinged with a wrenching combination of anxiety, excitement, and hope. They’re staring at me. Counting on me to help them and keep them safe.
I look at Joseph. “We need to figure out how to end this so no one gets hurt.” I motion at the kids. “Especially them.”
He sends a pointed look to the pocket in which I dropped my cell. “Call the police, Katie. Tell them you’re here. With me and the children. Tell them we are all fine.” He raises my .38. Finger inside the guard. “Let them know I’m armed and they’re not to come inside. Do you understand?”
“All right.”
But a new layer of trepidation slips through me. While I’m glad law enforcement has arrived on scene, I have no idea how King will respond to the added pressure.
Keeping my eye
s on his, I reach for my cell, wipe a smear of mud from the touchscreen, and thumb in the speed dial for dispatch. Mona picks up on the first ring.
“Chief! I’ve been trying—”
“I’m okay,” I cut in, not sure how long King will let me talk. “I’m inside the Beachy house with Joseph King. His five children are here with us. Everyone’s okay.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Are Daniel and Rebecca Beachy all right?”
“They’re being interviewed now. They’re unhurt, just upset.”
King jabs the revolver at me. “Tell them I’m armed and they’re not to come in.”
Nodding at him, I relay the information.
“Is he right there, Chief? Listening?”
“Roger that.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Probably.” I hesitate. “But … it’s not imminent.”
“So this is a ten-ninety-three?” she says, using the ten code for hostage situation.
“That’s affirm.”
“I notified County. Is there anything else I should do?”
Before I can respond, King leans close and yanks the phone from my hand. “That’s enough.”
He hits the END button with his thumb and tosses the phone onto the table. “They’d better not try to come in.”
“They won’t,” I assure him, hoping I’m right. Initially, the situation will fall under Sheriff Mike Rasmussen’s jurisdiction. The first thing he’ll do is call BCI for assistance. BCI will bring in a negotiator.
A burst of activity crackles over my radio. I glance at King, wanting to respond, to let my counterparts know I’m fine and that, for now, the situation is calm. But he snatches the lapel mike from where it’s clipped to my shirt and drops it to the floor.
I rise abruptly. “I need that to communicate.”
Leveling the revolver at my chest to keep me at bay, he crushes the mike beneath his shoe, grinding it into the floor. “Sit the hell down,” he snaps.
Annie begins to cry.
I lower myself back into the chair, glance in her direction. “It’s okay,” I tell her, but my voice isn’t very convincing.
King looks at her, and blinks. The flash of emotion on his face is so fleeting I might have missed it if I hadn’t been looking right at him. An instant of softness tinged with regret or maybe pain. And in that instant, I know that while he is a violent man, a drug user, a murderer even, there’s still something human, something reachable inside him. He cares about his children. That’s knowledge I can use to my advantage. To manipulate him. Make him listen to reason.
The realization is cold comfort tonight, because I know that sometimes love—especially a desperate, hopeless, unreciprocated love—can be lethal. If Joseph King can’t handle it, he might decide to end it all—and take everyone in the house with him.
“Everything’s okay, Annie,” he tells the girl.
She hiccups. “We’re not supposed to yell or cuss.”
“I’m just … tired,” he says softly. “Stop crying now.”
“Maybe it’s past your bedtime, Datt,” Sadie says thoughtfully.
A smile whispers across his mouth. “Maybe I’m not the only one, no?”
The little girl looks down at the empty mug in her hands. It’s obvious she’s exhausted, but she shakes her head. “I’m not sleepy, Datt. Not at all. I want to stay up and help you and Katie get things figured out.”
King’s brows arch. It’s an astute remark for a five-year-old child. She’s repeating what she’s heard, and I’m reminded that children see and hear more than we realize.
Reaching out, he musses her hair. “Die zeit fer in bett is nau.” The time to go to bed is now. King addresses the oldest girl. “Becky, take the little ones upstairs and tuck them in, will you?”
“Avvah, Datt, vass veyya shtoahri zeit?” Sadie cries. But Datt, what about story time?
The words are spoken in perfect Pennsylvania Dutch, her voice as high-pitched as a toy doll’s. She’s got a smear of chocolate on her cheek and she’s clutching a raggedy, faceless doll to her chest. Despite the circumstances, I’m completely charmed.
“Okay.” King brings his hands together. “Shtoahri seahsht un no shlohf.” Story first and then sleep.
Looking relieved to be excused from the table, Becky rises and starts for the stairs. In a flurry of scooting chairs and stampeding feet, the four remaining children make a mad rush for the door and clamber up the stairs.
I turn my attention to King. “They’re frightened,” I tell him.
He gives me a sour look. “Can you blame them? They don’t know what to make of all this. Wakened in the middle of the night by a father they haven’t seen in two years.” He shrugs. “I’m practically a stranger to them. And who knows the things people have told them? About what happened with their mother. About me.”
“I talked to Rebecca and Daniel,” I tell him. “They didn’t tell the children anything.”
I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t believe me. “I didn’t kill Naomi,” he says.
I don’t respond. Instead, I hold his gaze, looking in vain for some shred of conscience I can call upon to convince him to release the children, but there’s nothing there. “It’s obvious you still love those kids very much.”
“Of course I do,” he says irritably. “They’re my children.”
“I know you don’t want them hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt them.”
“You’ve put them in an incredibly dangerous situation.” I motion toward the window with my eyes. “There are a dozen cops with guns outside. All they know is that you’re a convicted killer and you’re holding these kids hostage.”
“Nothing I can do about that.”
“You can end this. Release the children. Give yourself up. Joseph, if you don’t, someone is going to get hurt. You or me or one of those sweet kids.”
“People have already been hurt,” he snaps. “My wife is dead. My children have been taken from me. I’ve been imprisoned for something I didn’t do.”
I look closely at him, wondering if he’s delusional or medicated, but I see no indication of either. Has the stress of the last two years—the trial and incarceration—sent him over the edge of some psychological precipice?
“Joseph, they’ve already lost their mother,” I say quietly. “Don’t take their father away from them—”
“Don’t take their father away?” he says angrily. “Are you kidding me? I’ve not seen my children for two years!”
“You’re alive.”
“Alive?” He laughs. “That’s not a word I would use to describe my existence.”
“This is not the right way to go about changing it.”
He looks down his nose at me. “Look at you. Sitting there all smug. So smart like some do-gooder. Judging me. You know nothing.”
“I know you don’t want those kids to be hurt.”
He slants me an assessing look. “You always were a persuasive one. Strong-willed. Too willful, according to your datt.”
“Joseph, I’ll help you. If you’d just—”
“Maybe too many years have passed. Evidently they’ve taught you how to be a good liar.”
“I’m trying to save your life.”
“Save your breath,” he says nastily.
Through the open kitchen window, a renewed chorus of sirens reaches us. Emergency lights dance on the wall. Joseph goes to the window and looks out. I can’t see anything from where I’m sitting, but I imagine there are dozens of law enforcement vehicles parked on the road in front of the house. The sheriff’s department has probably set up roadblocks and a perimeter around the farm, blocking anyone from entering or exiting. In the back of my mind I wonder if Tomasetti knows where I am. I wonder how worried, how upset, he is.
“Joseph, those cops out there will kill you.” I send a pointed look toward the flashing lights. “Please. I don’t want this to end that way.”
He turns away from the window an
d looks at me for the span of a full minute before speaking. “I loved my wife, Katie. I love my children. I didn’t do the things I’ve been accused of.”
“Then do the right thing,” I say quietly. “Release the kids. I’ll stay with you. I’ll help you. We’ll work through this together.”
He starts toward me, eyes intent on mine. For an instant I think he’s going to drag me to my feet and punch me. I brace, but he only pulls out a chair and sinks into it. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, close enough for me to smell the fear sweat and stale breath, but I don’t shrink away. His eyes are bloodshot and filled with intensity as they search mine.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” he says urgently.
I stare back, wondering if he has any idea how often law enforcement and prosecutors and judges hear those words, and that they’re almost always a lie.
He scrubs both hands over his face, then looks at me over the tips of his fingers. “You don’t believe me.”
“What do you expect? You break out of prison. Jump me in the dark. Take your children hostage—”
“I did what I had to do.”
“Joseph, this is not the right way to go about convincing anyone you’re innocent.”
“Then how?” he roars. “Go back to prison where I’ll be silenced and forgotten until I die? I didn’t murder my wife, Katie. With God as my witness, I didn’t do it!”
“So appeal your case.”
“I did. It was denied.”
“What do you want from me?” I snap, adding a hefty dose of attitude to my voice.
“A little faith! Your trust. Your help, damn it!”
I stare at him, realizing he unquestionably believes what he’s saying. If I can somehow capitalize on that, work it to my advantage, lead him to believe I’m an ally, I might be able to talk him into releasing the children.
“All right,” I say after a moment. “I’ll look into your case. But if we’re going to do this, it’s got to be a two-way street. You have to work with me.”
He scowls. “Work with you how?”
“Release the children.”
“No!” He slams his open hand against the tabletop. “They are my children! I want them here with me!”