I’m ten minutes out of Painters Mill, doing fifty-five miles per hour with my window down and humming along to an old Sting tune when the truth of what I’ve let happen hits me. Abruptly, all the breath leaches from my lungs. I’ve never had an anxiety attack, but I’m pretty sure one has me in its grip. Tugging at the collar of my uniform, feeling as if I can’t get enough air into my lungs, I pull off the road and onto the shoulder, braking so hard the tires skid in the gravel and the Explorer goes sideways. Then I’m out the door, cool air on my face. I stumble to the front of the Explorer, breaths ripping from my throat. I set my hand against the hood, concentrate on the warm steel against my palm.
I’ve always fancied myself immune to the craziness that sometimes accompanies intense emotional entanglements. The kind that makes smart people lose perspective and do foolish things. I was always above it and too cautious to give up too much of myself to someone else. Love was some intangible frailty to which I was not predisposed. Now, standing on a deserted road in the middle of the night and in the throes of a panic attack, it shocks me to realize I was wrong.
The problem is, I like my life the way it is: even keel. I own my emotions. I call the shots. I don’t have to rely on anyone else or, God forbid, be responsible for someone else’s happiness. All I have to worry about is me—and I’m an easy keeper.
For a full minute, I concentrate on getting oxygen into my lungs. Slowly, my surroundings come back into focus. The trill of the crickets from the woods. The hoot of an owl from the abandoned barn across the road. A dog barking in the distance. When I can breathe again, I push away from the Explorer and stand there, trying to figure out how to handle this new and uneasy situation. And I realize I’ve been lying to myself all along. I can no longer deny what I’ve allowed to happen. I’m going to have to face it. Deal with it. I’m going to have to decide where I stand and if I want to move forward. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve let myself fall in love with John Tomasetti and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do about it.
* * *
At 2:30 A.M., I radio T.J., who’s on graveyard, and let him know I’m on my way to relieve him from surveillance duty at the Borntrager farm.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I begin.
“I wasn’t—” Realizing I’m ribbing him, he laughs. “You’re up late tonight, Chief.”
“I got some rest earlier,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way to the Borntrager farm. You can head out, finish your shift. Thanks for covering.”
“No problem,” he says. “Place was quiet all evening.”
“That’s the way we like it.”
He pauses. “You expecting trouble?”
“I’m probably being overly cautious.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
Our vehicles pass where the dirt road Ts at the highway, and we flash our headlights in greeting. A minute later, I park the Explorer on the gravel turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager farm.
I open the window a few inches, punch off the headlights, and kill the engine. A chorus of crickets, frogs, and peepers from the swampy area at the edge of the woods encroaches. It’s a clear, crisp night; I can see the Big Dipper through the treetops to the west. My police radio is quiet, which is normal for Holmes County this time of night. Sliding my seat back for some extra legroom, I settle in for a wait.
In the pasture, a small herd of cattle works its way toward me, watching me as they graze, curious. I can just make out the darkened silhouette of Mattie’s farmhouse two hundred yards away. When the quiet begins to annoy me, I tune my radio to an FM station out of Wooster. The same station Tomasetti and I listened to earlier. When I find my thoughts sliding in that direction, I force them back to Mattie and David and the killer who still walks free in my town.
I’ve worked some mind-boggling cases in the years I’ve been in law enforcement; I’m no stranger to all of those dark crevices of the criminal mind. Still, the things people do to each other never ceases to disturb and confound me. Usually, I can get a handle on motive relatively quickly. From there, I can develop a theory, even when information is sketchy. This case is so far out there, so utterly senseless, I can’t get my mind around it.
The evidence indicates premeditation and an effort to conceal the crime. Someone conceived the idea, anticipated the details and what the execution of it would entail, and then carried it out. But who would want to murder a well-liked Amish deacon and two children? What could he possibly stand to gain? If Mattie was the intended victim, the scenario is even more baffling. Why would anyone want an Amish wife and mother dead? What am I missing?
By 4:00 A.M. frustration and fatigue are starting to take a toll. Worse, I’m beginning to feel foolish for sitting out here in the middle of nowhere when the only things moving are the cattle. I’m about to call it a night when movement in the pasture between the house and the woods snags my gaze. I squint through the windshield, wishing I’d taken the time to clean off the bugs when I filled the gas tank.
At first I think it’s a deer that’s wandered into the pasture for some illicit grazing. But in the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds, I recognize the silhouette of a man. Six feet tall. One hundred eighty pounds. Dark clothing. Wishing for binoculars—or a night-vision scope—I watch him cross the pasture.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.
Curiosity edges into alarm when he scales the rail fence. Then he’s in the side yard and walking toward the house. I’ve got my hand on the door handle when I realize the dome light could alert him to my presence. Never taking my eyes off the intruder, I lower the driver’s side window and slither out.
Once I’m standing on the shoulder, I hit my lapel mike and whisper, “T.J., I’ve got ten eighty-eight at the Borntrager farm. Can you ten twenty-five?”
“I’m ten seventy-six.”
“What’s your ten seventy-seven?”
“Ten minutes, Chief.”
“Expedite. No lights or siren.”
“Roger that.”
The figure disappears behind an old outhouse and lilac bush, and I lose sight of him. When he reappears, he’s twenty yards from the house and making a beeline for the back door. I have no idea who it is or what his intentions are. I don’t know if he’s armed or lost or some drunken idiot trying to find his way home. The one thing I do know is that I’ve got to confront him.
“Shit.” Setting my hand over my .38, I jog through the ditch and duck between the rails of the fence. Then I’m in the pasture. Wet grass beneath my boots. Staying low, I run full out toward the house. Twenty yards in, I squeeze between the rails of the fence and then I’m in the front yard. I ascend a small hill that puts me scant feet from the porch. I go left toward the rear of the house to intercept him at the back door.
Thumbing the leather strap off my holster, I sidle along the side of the house, my senses honed on my surroundings. Every sound seems exaggerated. Something jingles my equipment belt. My boots crunch against the gravel that’s gathered at the drip line from the roof. Knowing surprise is my best tool, I slow down.
Unlike the suburbs and cities, Amish country is extraordinarily dark at night. There are no street lamps or porch lights or even light from windows. There’s not much in the way of moonlight tonight, either, so I’m working blind, relying as much on my hearing as my sight.
I reach the back of the house. From where I’m standing I can just make out the silhouettes of the barn and outbuildings. Pressing my back against the siding, I peer around the corner. At first, all I see are the hulking forms of the maples in the side yard. The pampas grass nearer the porch. The outline of a picnic table. Then I discern movement. Adrenaline jolts me when I realize the man is standing on the porch, thirty feet away.
I slide my revolver from its nest, ease my mini Maglite from my belt. The hammer clicks when I thumb it back. I cringe at the sound, but he doesn’t seem to hear. I step around the corner, bring up my .38 and shine the
flashlight beam in his eyes. “Police!” I call out. “Stop right there! Keep your hands where I can see them!”
He spins toward me, hands flying up to obscure his face, and steps back. For an instant it’s as if we’re suspended in a world without gravity, floating, two fish in an aquarium gaping at each other. I break the spell by stepping closer. “Identify yourself!” I shout.
He bolts.
“Shit.” Then I’m running full out. Past the porch, around the pampas grass, and into the side yard.
For an instant I consider firing off a shot. But it’s dark and I have no idea who I’m pursuing. A teenager. A neighbor I’ve spooked. Or a killer, a little voice adds. While I’m always cognizant of my personal safety, the last thing I want to do is hurt an innocent bystander. I jam my weapon into its holster. “Stop!” I shout. “Stop right there!”
We’ve only gone ten yards when I realize he’s faster than me. Unless he somehow screws up—or runs into a tree—he’s going to outrun me and get away. I hit my lapel mike. “Ten eighty! Ten seven eight!”
“Ten seven six.”
In the periphery of my thoughts, I hear my radio light up as the call goes out to Holmes County. But I’m so intent on following my quarry, I give it only half an ear.
He takes me across the side yard, beneath a clothesline, past several trees, and down a hill. He’s forty feet ahead and pulling away. “Stop!” I scream. “Now!”
He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even pause. He vaults the rail fence as if it’s not there, stumbles on the other side, but quickly regains his footing, and then he’s sprinting across the pasture toward the woods fifty yards beyond.
“Son of a bitch.” I reach the fence, set my right hand on the top rail, and hurl myself over the top. Too much momentum sends me to my knees on the other side. Mud soaks through the material of my trousers. Then I’m back on my feet and running as fast as I can toward the woods.
“Halt!” I shout. “Stop right there or I will shoot you!”
Mud sucks at my boots as I streak across the pasture. I’m aware of the cattle scattering to my right. The black shadows of the trees ahead. The impenetrable darkness of the forest. If he makes it to the woods, I’ll lose him.
I’m no slouch when it comes to running. In college, I could do four hundred meters in sixty-seven seconds. But I’m older now and no longer in top physical condition. My suspect, on the other hand, runs like a goddamn cheetah and disappears into the woods like some prey animal running for its life. Training my gaze on the spot where he entered, I plunge into the forest.
It’s like entering a cave. The smells of wet foliage and rotting leaves rise. I’m running blind, but I don’t slow down. Vegetation slaps wetly at my arms and face. Only then do I realize I’m on some kind of trail.
I’ve lost sight of my suspect. I stop and listen. Footfalls thud ahead, so I pick up the pace, let the sound guide me. He’s following the trail, I realize. He knew it was here, a little voice whispers. I know there’s a creek ahead. Some areas are shallow enough to cross, but there are deep holes, too. I know this because Mattie and I swam in this creek as kids. If this guy tries to cross and runs into deep water, it’ll stop him.
Slowing to a jog, I hit my mike. “Suspect is in woods,” I pant, “heading south toward the creek.”
“Ten four.”
I yank the mini Maglite off my belt. The path curves left. I hear the rush of water ahead. No footsteps, but I’m winded and it’s difficult to hear over the rasp of my breaths. I stop and listen, scanning the woods around me. There’s no movement. No sound, other than the water. Even the night animals have gone silent, as if knowing their domain has been invaded. I point my beam ahead. The cone of light reveals a dirt path, wet earth covered with leaves and trampled grass. Thick brush on either side.
“Where are you?” I mutter.
Something shifts to my right. I spin, bring up the flashlight. I catch a glimpse of a man. Dark hoodie. Pale face. Something in his hand. I hear a whoosh! Before I can bring up my .38, something cracks across my left cheekbone. White light explodes behind my eyes. Pain zings up my sinuses and slams into my brain.
The next thing I know I’m laid out on the ground. Wet soaking through the back of my shirt. Cold mud against my scalp. The salty tang of blood in my mouth. I roll onto my side and get to my hands and knees. Knowing I’m done if he hits me again, I shake off the dizziness and look around. My attacker is nowhere in sight.
I spit blood, run my tongue over my teeth, and I’m relieved to find them intact. I don’t trust my balance so I twist and push myself to a sitting position, my legs splayed in front of me. That’s when I hear him splash through water several yards away. I’m in no condition to pursue him, and I curse myself for letting him get away.
“That hurt, you fuck!” I call out to him.
After a minute or so, I get to my feet. But I’m woozy. A headache creeps up the left side of my face toward my temple. I speak into my lapel mike. “Suspect crossed the creek. Heading south toward Hog Path.”
“I’m eastbound on Hog Path, approaching the bridge,” comes T.J.’s voice. “No one in sight, Chief.”
“Vehicle?”
“Negative.”
“Damn it.”
Kicking a half-buried log, I look around for my flashlight and spot the beam in a pile of leaves. I bend, my cheek pounding, and snatch it up. I shine the light toward the creek. The trail curves, but through the trees, I see the glint of water. I lower the beam to the ground and see footprints in the soft earth. I squat for a better look and realize the tread is visible. He was wearing sneakers.
Straightening, I look around, trying to get a sense of why he’d stopped to ambush me when he could have continued on and gotten away without a confrontation. I find a two-foot-long branch lying in the path. It looks out of place, so I toe it aside, realizing that’s what he hit me with.
I follow the footprints to the creek bank where they disappear. The water is shallow and fast-moving, so he likely crossed without a problem. I run my beam along the opposite bank, but it’s too rocky to see any prints. To my left, reeds as tall as a man grow from a rocky shoal. Right, the huge stump of a dead tree leans out over a deep pool.
Aggravated because I can feel my cheekbone beginning to swell, I turn around and start back toward the house. I’ve only gone a few yards when I hear someone on the path ahead of me. I thrust my beam forward and find Glock standing on the trail, flashlight pointed down at the ground. He’s staring at me, his expression concerned.
“Shit, Chief, you okay?” he asks.
I lower my beam. “Peachy.”
He crosses to me, his expression concerned. “You’re bleeding pretty good.”
I raise my hand to check and my fingers come away red. “Great.”
“You want me to call an ambulance?”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going to have a hell of a shiner.”
“Good thing I look good in purple.”
His gaze follows the trail toward the water’s edge. “You get a look at him?”
“White male. Six feet. One eighty. Wearing a hoodie. Fast as hell.” I blow out a sigh of frustration. “Anybody else see him?”
He shakes his head. “T.J.’s out on Hog Path Road. Holmes County set up a perimeter. If this guy’s around, we’ll find him.”
“Unless he had a vehicle parked somewhere.”
“Or he lives nearby.”
I see him trying to get a better look at my cheek and I frown.
“Any idea who it was?” he asks.
“Not a clue.”
“What happened?”
“He got ahead of me. Waited for me. Ambushed me.” I motion toward the path behind us. “Hit me with that branch.”
“Motherfucker.”
I laugh despite the pain in my cheek. Glock always seems to say the right thing at the right time. “I think he knew about the path. He knew it was here. Seemed to know where he was g
oing.”
“So he’s used it before.”
“Or he’s been watching the place.”
His eyes sharpen on mine. “You think this is related to the hit-skip?”
“I think it’s a damn good possibility.”
“You think he was after Mattie Borntrager? Or the boy?”
“He was standing on the back porch when I stopped him. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, there’s no doubt in my mind he’d have gained entry.”
His brows furrow. “Maybe he thinks the kid saw something and can identify him or his vehicle.”
“I don’t know, Glock. All of this seems so … excessive. I’ve been wracking my brain and I can’t figure motive. An Amish deacon? Two kids? That’s not even to mention the premeditation factor. Who would go to those kinds of lengths?”
“Someone desperate enough to clean your clock to stop you.” His eyes catch mine and hold them. I see something in their depths that sends an uneasy prickling up the back of my neck.
“Chief, this is going to sound strange with Mrs. Borntrager being Amish and all, but she’s an extremely attractive woman.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. But while I’ve always been cognizant of Mattie’s beauty, it never crossed my mind that it could have anything to do with the case.
“Do you think this is some kind of stalking situation?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She’s … I don’t know … she’s got that sexy librarian shit going on, you know?” Looking uncomfortable, which is unusual for Glock, he shrugs. “If she’s caught the attention of some nutcase … that kind of obsession can be a powerful motivator.”
It’s an angle worth looking into. “I’ll talk to her.” I motion toward the place on the path where I found the footprints. “Will you keep an eye on the scene until I can get a CSU out here?”
“I’m on it.”
“And tell him to bag that damn branch, will you?”