“Mattie, I need to ask you all the same questions I asked about Paul. Do you have any enemies? Have you been involved in any disputes or arguments? Anything you can think of that might have led to this?”
“No, of course not.”
“Any problems related to the children? Or money perhaps?” I think of her beauty and add. “Any jealousy?”
“No, Katie. None of those things.”
“What about strangers? Have you seen any strange vehicles or buggies in the area? Driving by too often? Anyone watching you or the house or the children?”
“No. That’s just crazy.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Miriam peek at us from the kitchen, casting a reproachful look my way. I stare at her until she turns away. “What about in town?”
“Nothing like that has happened.”
I stare at her for a second, noticing the pale, dry lips. Flesh the color of a bruise beneath her eyes. The part of me that was once her best friend wants to spare her these questions. I want to protect her from the likelihood that someone wishes her harm. But the part of me that is a cop knows I can’t. “Is it possible Paul was being unfaithful? Maybe there was a jealous husband?”
I know she’s going down an instant before her eyes roll back. Her knees buckle. Her head lolls back. I lunge forward, catch her beneath her arms just in time to keep her from hitting the floor. But she’s too heavy for me; her body is slack, dead weight in my arms. Though she’s small framed, the best I can do is break her fall.
“Mattie. Mattie!”
The two Amish women rush into the mudroom.
I position her on the floor so that she’s lying on her back. Miriam kneels beside her. “You and your Englischer ways.” She snaps the words without looking at me. “What did you do to her?”
“She collapsed,” I tell her.
“You are bad for her,” she says nastily. “You were always bad for her and you still are.”
I know better than to let the words affect me, but they hit some obscure bull’s-eye, that small part of me that, even after all these years, still longs to belong despite the fact that I’m not wanted. “Shut up, Miriam.” I pull out my cell to call for an ambulance.
She hisses at me, bats my phone away with her hand. “She is fine.” Miriam looks over her shoulder at the younger woman. “Bring me a wet towel and a pillow.”
Leaning over Mattie, Miriam slips her hand beneath Mattie’s head and lifts it slightly. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she whispers.
Dispatch responds to my call. “Ten fifty two,” I say, giving the code for requesting an ambulance.
“She’ll be fine as soon as you stop badgering her with questions and scaring the daylights out of her,” Miriam snaps.
Ignoring her, I give the dispatcher the address.
I’m in the process of clipping my phone to my belt when Mattie’s eyes flutter open. For an instant, she stares at me as if she doesn’t recognize me. Then she startles, gets her elbows beneath her, and tries to rise. “What…”
“You had a spell is all,” Miriam coos.
“You fainted,” I tell her.
“I’m … fine,” Mattie says quickly. “I just … got a little dizzy.”
The younger Amish woman arrives with a damp kitchen towel and an embroidered pillow from the sofa.
“You just lie still for a moment.” Miriam sets the towel on Mattie’s forehead and then slides the pillow beneath her head. “Catch your breath.” She orders the younger Amish woman to fetch a glass of water, then addresses me: “We don’t need an ambulance. What she needs is some peace and quiet, two things that don’t happen whenever you’re around, Katie Burkholder.”
I direct my words to Mattie. “You should get yourself checked out at the hospital.”
“It was just a dizzy spell, Katie. I’m okay … just tired from everything that’s happened.”
“We’ll take care of her,” Miriam tells me. “She’ll be fine once you and your questions go away.”
The words make me sigh. I shake my head, knowing that when the ambulance arrives, Mattie will probably refuse treatment. Still, I don’t cancel the call.
I glance down at her and offer a smile. She looks embarrassed, not only because she fainted, but because her caregiver is being rude to me. “I’ll let you get some rest,” I tell her.
She raises her hand to mine. I take it and squeeze. “I’m fine,” she says, offering a tentative smile. “Don’t worry. Miriam will take good care of me.”
I get the impression Miriam doesn’t much care for either of us, but I don’t say the words. “Will you do me a favor?” I ask.
“Of course I will.”
“Keep your doors locked. Watch your back.”
Miriam makes a sound of annoyance.
Mattie holds on to her smile, but for the first time I see an uneasiness that wasn’t there before. I know she doesn’t need anything more to deal with, but I also know there are times when fear is a healthy thing, when a look over your shoulder might be the only thing that saves your life.
* * *
While I’m sitting in the Explorer, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I pull out my cell and call T.J. “You in the mood for some O.T.?” I begin.
“I’m game. What do you have in mind?”
“I want you to camp out at the Borntrager farm tonight.”
“Sure.” He falls silent. “You think someone’s going to go after the wife, too?”
“I don’t know. I’d just feel better if we could keep an eye on things out here.”
“Damn, Chief. That’s bizarre. Why would someone want an Amish lady dead? I mean, an Amish mother with three little kids to take care of?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
The ambulance arrives, the red and blue lights flashing, no siren. I watch as the paramedics are turned away at the door and I sigh.
“Let me know if you figure it out.”
* * *
It’s a dangerous thing when a cop knows too much about a crime, especially if said cop possesses information that would be helpful to the investigating agency and doesn’t speak up. I don’t know if the bones found in the grain elevator will ever be positively identified. Seventeen years have passed. Investigators are reliant upon DNA or dental records, neither of which may exist. That doesn’t mean I’m home free. Not even close.
Rural areas have long memories when it comes to any kind of major crime, an inescapable fact that doesn’t bode well in terms of my avoiding getting sucked into the case. It was big news when Daniel Lapp went missing. Many believed he’d left town to escape the heavy hand of the Amish. But not everyone. Not his parents. Certainly not his brother, Benjamin.
By virtue of the timing alone, the police will question Benjamin. Once they learn Daniel was last seen at my parents’ farm, they’ll be knocking on my door, Sarah’s door, and Jacob’s door, asking questions none of us want to answer, just like they did seventeen years ago. This time, however, they’ll be wondering why I didn’t come to them first. I wonder if it would be beneficial for me to call Sheriff Redmon and start lying now, instead of waiting and letting them come to me.
I burn through an hour, stuck behind my desk, returning calls and e-mails and putting out fires. After receiving a slew of media inquiries earlier in the day, I ask Jodie to write a press release, a generic piece that basically rehashes the things everyone already knows. For now, it’s going to have to be enough. Best case, it will buy me some time, because this story has all the hallmarks of a sensational headline in the making. It’s Amish focused, includes a father and two dead children, and a mystery that expands with every new piece of information tossed our way.
At seven o’clock, Rasmussen returns my call. “Around-the-clock protection?” He laughs. “Are you kidding?”
“Not protection, exactly.” I hedge, knowing my request is so far out there, he’s well within his bounds to laugh at me. “Mattie might’ve been the target. I’d fe
el better knowing someone was out there, keeping an eye on things.”
“In a perfect world, we could do that. As you know, we don’t live in a perfect world.”
“Mike.”
“Look, I can have my guys drive by every so often,” he offers. “Round-the-clock is out of the question.”
“Can’t you spare one deputy?” I ask. “One shift?”
“Wish I could, Kate. I just don’t have the budget for O.T. We’re already operating on a skeleton crew here. I wish I could help, but I can’t.”
I sigh, only slightly peeved because I know he’d do it if he could. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Look, while I have you on the phone … I heard from the lab on that piece of wood Luke Miller found,” he tells me. “The indentation is, indeed, from a bolt. And it’s recent.”
“How recent?”
“Days or maybe even hours.”
“Is it from the sheared pin we found at the scene?”
“That’s the kicker. It’s not the same.”
“Do the lab guys have any idea what that pin is for?”
“They’re running some comps, but it’s going to take a while.”
“We’re relatively certain we’re dealing with a Ford F-250. I wonder if we should take both pieces to Ford? Or a local dealership?
“Since it was an after-market part, a Ford guy probably isn’t going to be much help.”
“Shit, Mike, you’re just full of positive offerings this evening.”
“Yeah, well, I try.”
For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, but I sense our minds working over everything we know about the case so far and how little we have to work with in terms of solid facts. “Will you do me a favor?” I ask.
“Well, since I owe you now…”
“Will you have one of your guys take that bolt to someone who knows about after-market parts? Someone who might recognize it? Maybe that custom hot-rod shop in Millersburg?”
“Worth a shot.”
I thank him and disconnect, then sit there for a moment, the exchange running through my head like a bad script. My stomach growls, reminding me the most nutritious substance I’ve put in my stomach all day is coffee.
“Damn it,” I mutter and look down at the phone.
I want to call Tomasetti and run all of this past him, but I hesitate. Only then do I realize that, while I have been busy with the case, my reasons for avoiding him are a lot more complex than I’m admitting, even to myself. The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid he’s going to ask me to move in with him again—and I don’t know how to answer. I hate it that I haven’t been honest. Not with him—or myself. I need to sort out my feelings and make a decision. He deserves an answer, and I owe it to myself to give it to him, no matter where we go from here.
CHAPTER 16
I make a stop at the grocery and buy a bottle of my favorite cabernet, a bunch of grapes, some crusty French bread, cheese, and a corkscrew bottle opener. I tuck everything into a grocery bag and makes tracks toward Wooster. It takes me twenty minutes to find Tomasetti’s new place. I get lost twice and end up having to call my dispatcher for a quick Google map search. I could have called Tomasetti, but somewhere along the way realized I wanted to surprise him.
Dusk falls in Impressionist hues of lavender and gray. I’m so intent on the peaceful beauty of the countryside, I nearly miss my turn and have to make a hard stop. The rust-bucket mailbox has been bashed in, but the number is still legible, so I turn in. The canopies of the massive elm trees arc over the lane, lending the illusion of driving through a lush, green cave.
Despite my earlier hesitancy, a sense of anticipation keeps pace with me as I barrel toward the house. I think about the man waiting for me and I suddenly can’t wait to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh at something I shouldn’t. For a little while I want to forget about this case. I want to forget about the discovery of Lapp’s remains.
The old Victorian sits at the end of the lane looking lost and out of place, like some B-movie actor who knows, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never master the part to which he’s been cast. In an instant, I take in the wraparound porch, the tall, narrow windows, and the crisp white paint. Huge shade trees hulk on every side of the house. Behind it, a rusty silo that had once been painted silver and a tumbling-down barn watch over the place with mournful, longing eyes.
Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked adjacent a one-car detached garage. I can tell by the way the overhead door lists that it’s not functional. I get out of the Explorer and I’m met by a dissonance of birdsong: blue jays and cardinals and the occasional caw of a crow. The breeze smells of cut grass and the honeysuckle that grows wild on the barbed wire fence behind a small chicken coop. I stand there, taking in the disarray, and all I can think is that this world I’ve stepped into is completely incongruous with the man I’ve come to know.
I take the crumbling sidewalk to the back porch. The door stands ajar, but the screen door is closed. I hear the crackle of a radio beyond. The smells of fresh paint and new wood waft through the screen. Using my knuckles, I rap on the door and wait, incredulous because my heart is pounding and there’s a small, insecure part of me that’s terrified he won’t come.
A full minute passes. Thinking he might be upstairs, I use my key chain and knock harder. “Tomasetti?”
When that doesn’t draw his attention, I push open the door. The hinges squeak as I step inside. The kitchen has been gutted down to the drywall and subflooring. A radio is set up on a five-gallon bucket and The Wallflowers blare “One Headlight.” A wide doorway to my right beckons, so I take it to a good-size living room. Three of the walls are painted an attractive dark tan. A stepladder stands next to a tall window. Plastic drop cloths cover hardwood floors the color of semisweet chocolate. I turn in a slow circle, spot the massive hearth behind me, and find myself smiling.
“Tomasetti?”
The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.
I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-deco–style bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.
“Tomasetti!” I call out.
No answer.
“Well, shit.” Still lugging the grocery bag, I go down the steps, through the kitchen, and back outside. The doors of the barn and silo are closed, telling me he’s not there. I stroll to the Explorer and look out over the pasture beyond. I’m about to reach through the window and lay on the horn when I spot the pond. It’s a good-size body of water—at least half an acre. A big cottonwood tree demarks the north side. A stand of weeping willows flourish near the shore to the west. I see some type of dock from where I stand and I’m pretty sure the person sitting on that dock is Tomasetti.
Hefting the grocery bag, I start toward the nearest gate, careful to close it behind me in case he inherited cattle with the place, and I follow a dirt two-track to the pond. From fifty feet away, I see Tomasetti slumped in a lawn chair with his feet stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing blue jeans, navy golf shirt, and sneakers—a far cry from his usual custom-made suits and Hermes ties. Next to him, a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red sweats atop a good-size cooler.
I make it to within twenty feet of him before he hears my approach and glances my way. His usual inscrutable expression shifts, and it delights me to see surprise on his face. He’s not an easy man to surprise. Smiling, he rises and faces me. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, contemplating, finding our feet, and the rest of the world falls away. After a moment, I look around and spot the fishing pole lying on the dock, the clear nylon line running into the water.
“Tomasetti, are you fishing?” I ask
.
He bends and opens the cooler. I’m expecting him to hand me a Killian’s Red. Instead, the cooler is filled with water and three good-size fish, which are swimming around. “I’m catching dinner, actually.”
“Are those largemouth bass?” I ask.
“You know your fish. I’m impressed.”
“My datt used to take me fishing when I was a kid.”
“Who knew? I could have used some pointers early on.”
“Looks like you figured things out.”
He replaces the cover and straightens.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night,” I say a little too abruptly.
“You’re here now.” He unfolds a second lawn chair and sets it next to his. “How’s the case coming along?”
“Still looking for the driver.”
“Anything new on those bones?”
That’s when I realize one of the reasons I’m here is to escape the pressures of my job. I know it’s shortsighted; not only does Tomasetti usually offer pretty good insight and advice, but I’m well aware that the weight of both cases will drop back onto my shoulders when I leave. But I don’t want tonight to be about work. I want it to be about us and this short stretch of time between us.
“Let’s not talk about work,” I tell him.
He tilts his head, puzzled, and then shrugs. “We could just sit here and fish.”
I look down at the bag I’m holding. “I brought wine.”
He takes the bag, peeks into it. “You want to go inside?”
From where I’m standing, I can smell the foliage and the water on the breeze. I can hear the buzz of insects and the coo of a mourning dove. “I kind of like it out here, Tomasetti. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He sets the bag atop the cooler and proceeds to set out the things I bought. Wine. Grapes. The cheese and bread. On the other side of the pond, a family of red-winged blackbirds swoop across the water’s surface and chatter from within the branches of the cottonwood tree.
Kneeling at the cooler, Tomasetti raises his brow at the plastic wine glasses. “You came prepared.”