Somehow I get my hands and knees under me. Pieces of wood and glass fall from my hair and shoulders as I struggle to my feet.
The shotgun clatters to the floor.
“Mattie!” Armitage screams her name, but I barely hear him.
I stare at the dark shadow of her standing motionless just inside the French door. Not trusting my legs, I lean heavily against the desk, holster my .38.
“Nobody move.” I’d intended the words as a command, but they’re little more than a whisper. “Don’t move.”
On the wall next to the ruined door, I see a wash of headlights and the flashing red and blue strobes from T.J.’s cruiser. I choke out a sound; I don’t know if it’s a sob or a laugh of irony because even though no one was killed here tonight, he’s too late to save any of us.
In the dim light I see Armitage lying on the floor, looking at me, his hands still secure behind his back. “I’ve been shot,” he croaks.
I see blood on his shirt, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I don’t go to help him. I’m not sure I can move, even if I wanted to. My arms and legs are shaking violently. I can feel my heart pulsing in my throat. The pound of it making me dizzy. I stumble to the light switch by the door, flip it on. Stark light rains down. Glass and bits of wood from the French doors cover the floor. The shattered lamp lies in pieces next to the desk. Drops of blood from my injured hand glitter like tar against the hardwood floor. The shotgun lies just inside the French doors. I see Mattie standing on the deck outside, unmoving, looking like the dazed survivor of some natural disaster.
Using the desktop for support, I start toward her. Glass crunches beneath my boots as I cross to the door. I open it, step onto the deck. “Mattie.”
Slowly, she turns to me. Her face is pale. Eyes that had once been so lovely and full of mischief are cruel and level on me.
I know better than to feel anything at this moment, especially for a woman who doesn’t deserve compassion, least of all mine. But some emotions are so powerful, some losses so profound, that they can’t be stubbed out by logic or will. My brain orders me to go through the motions and do my job. Cuff her. Make the arrest. Be done with it.
Since I used my cuffs to secure Armitage’s hands, I tug the zip ties from my belt. “Turn around and give me your wrists,” I tell her.
When she doesn’t move, I reach out, turn her around, and slip the ties around her wrists, pull them tight. It doesn’t elude me that while my hands are shaking, hers are rock steady.
Once the ties are in place, I turn her to me. “Where’s David?” I ask.
She looks at me, but there’s nothing behind her eyes. It’s like looking into the face of a mannequin and expecting to see life. “I had to do it,” she says. “He wasn’t supposed to live, you know. He was the only one left who knew.”
Using my forearm, I push her against the wall, hold her in place. “What did you do?”
“Chief?”
The sound of T.J.’s voice spins me around. He’s standing at the door, his .38 in his hand. “You okay?” He starts toward me, his eyes flicking from me to Armitage to Mattie. “What happened?”
“Get someone out to the Borntrager farm,” I tell him. “Fast. I think she hurt the boy. Ambulance, too. Hurry.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, he hits his lapel mike and puts out the call. When he’s finished, he crosses to me. “What the hell happened?”
Somehow I get the words out. It’s as if someone else is speaking them. Someone stronger than me. Someone who isn’t coming apart on the inside.
The radio cracks to life as the call goes out and I know every cop on duty within a ten-mile radius is making tracks to the Borntrager farm.
“I need to get out there. Check on the boy.” I start toward the door only to realize I don’t have a vehicle.
“No offense, Chief, but you’re looking a little shaky on your feet.”
He’s right. I don’t know if it’s from my ordeal in the water, the alcohol that was injected into my bloodstream, or the shock of learning my childhood friend is a monster, but I’m shaken and dizzy. That’s not to mention the shard of wood sticking out of my hand, which is starting to hurt in earnest now that my adrenaline has ebbed. But I’m worried about David. I can’t help but think of all the terrible things that could have happened to him.
T.J. squats next to Armitage and begins checking him for weapons. I turn toward Mattie. She’s looking at me, as if trying to figure out how to work the situation to her advantage, how to play me. Never taking my gaze from hers, I place her under arrest. She remains silent as I Mirandize her. “Do you understand your rights?”
Before she can reply, a communiqué crackles over T.J.’s radio. The Borntrager farmhouse is in flames. I listen, horrified and outraged, on the verge of a panic I can barely contain. I wait, expecting the worse.
I turn back to Mattie. I feel my eyes crawling over her, and I understand how a police officer could step over the line. “How could you do that to your own child?”
She regards me with a cool resolve. “David saw us together. Michael and I. At the clinic. I told him it would be our little secret, but I knew eventually he’d tell someone. He was a stupid, stupid child.”
“What in the name of God happened to you?” I ask.
“You think you know what it’s like.” Her voice is so cold I feel the rise of gooseflesh on my arms. “Being Amish. Having three special-needs children. A weak, ignorant husband who was so afraid of God he could barely bring himself to touch me. They were a burden. They relied on me for everything. Everything. I was a slave to them. To the Amish and all of their self-righteous morals. I wanted more. I deserved more.”
“You could have left.”
“That’s so easy for you to say.” Venom leaches into her voice. “You got out. You found your life. I stayed and they were killing me. I hated them for it.”
Sirens wail in the distance. Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness I hear T.J. moving around. His boots grinding broken glass against the floor. The hiss and chatter of his radio.
I glance over my shoulder to find him looking at me expectantly. I don’t know what he sees in my eyes, but I’m compelled to say, “I’m okay.”
“I know you are,” he replies.
He’s barely gotten the words out when a Holmes County Sheriff’s deputy’s voice comes over the radio to report that he’s found David Borntrager unharmed.
Casting a final look at Mattie, I walk away.
CHAPTER 25
The next hours pass in a flurry of activity of which I don’t seem to be a part of because I’m not participating. I’m not in shock, but as I answer a barrage of questions from T.J. and two deputies from the Holmes County Sheriff’s department, I feel as if I’m operating from inside an airtight jar. I hear my voice, I see their responses, hear their words. But somehow we’re not quite connecting.
Within minutes of T.J.’s initial call, Glock and a young social worker with Children Services were sent to the Borntrager farm. A second deputy was dispatched to the quarry where my vehicle sits in sixty feet of water. I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the clinic with a blanket over my shoulders when Mattie is taken into custody. Time slows to a crawl when her eyes meet mine. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she can’t seem to stop looking at me. I’d wanted a few minutes alone with her. I want to know how much she knew. When she knew it. I need to know if she’s as guilty as Armitage. But I let the moment pass and then she’s gone.
I was given an obligatory physical exam by an EMT at the scene. I balked, of course, but because of my ordeal in the water, the injury to my hand, and the injection administered earlier by Armitage, I was taken by ambulance to the ER at Pomerene Hospital, where a young resident took two vials of blood, removed a four-inch sliver of wood from my hand, and spent an hour bandaging, prodding, and making jokes that weren’t quite funny. I appreciated the attempt at humor nonetheless.
Sheriff Mike Rasmussen showed up sho
rtly after my arrival and stuck by me like a two-year-old to his mommy. I don’t know if he was there in a law enforcement capacity or if he was there to support me. It didn’t matter; I was glad for the company. Once I was given a clean bill of health, he whisked me to his cruiser and did a decent job of making small talk during the drive to the Sheriff’s Department in Millersburg. Once there, I was given coffee, offered a cigarette—which I accepted despite the fact that the office is a smoke-free environment. I was taken into the largest and most comfortable interview room and spent the next hour going over every detail, from the moment I found the pin in the gravel behind the clinic to when T.J. arrived on scene. I answered every question posed, laughed when appropriate, and basically played the role to which I’d been cast. By the time we’re finished, I’m exhausted and numb and want badly to go home, shower, and fall into bed.
I don’t know who called Tomasetti, but he’s waiting for me when I walk out of the sheriff’s office. My stride falters when I spot him, leaning against the Tahoe, his cell phone against his ear. He watches me approach, mutters something into the phone, and hangs up, all the while his eyes never leaving me.
I greet him with, “Who are you talking to at two o’clock in the morning?”
“My mom.”
The sound that escapes me sounds nothing like the laugh I intended. His mother passed away some ten years ago. I suspect he was getting a quick update from Rasmussen.
He rounds the front of the SUV and opens the passenger door for me. “Everything go okay in there?”
“I’m probably off the case.” I slide onto the seat and fasten my belt.
“You’re too close to it. Might be a good thing.”
“I wanted to finish this.”
“Imagine that.” His voice is teasing, but a thread of gravity comes through. “Just so you know, Kate, I’m not going to let you go home and lay into that bottle of vodka.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
He gives me a knowing look before slamming the door.
We don’t speak on the drive to my house. He doesn’t bother parking in the alley this time, but I don’t remind him about small towns and gossip. The truth of the matter is, I don’t care. I’m like a zombie as he guides me to the front door and takes my key to open it.
It’s strange, but my own house feels alien to me. After the last hours, it seems too normal and homey, as if I don’t belong in such a place after everything that transpired tonight. Tomasetti takes me to the bathroom off the hall, shoves open the shower curtain, and turns on the water.
“I’ll get you some clothes and a plastic bag for that hand,” he tells me.
My uniform smells of lake water and sweat. When I look down at the front of my shirt and slacks, I’m shocked by the sight of blood. I don’t know if it’s mine or Armitage’s. Tomasetti returns with a plastic bag, which he places around my bandaged hand and secures with a rubber band at my wrist. Then he’s gone and I’m alone again. I try to avoid the mirror as I undress, but it’s a small room and I catch a glimpse of myself as I peel off my shirt. I see a pale, bruised face and haunted eyes and all I can think is that I don’t know this woman. She can’t be me because she looks like a victim and that’s the one thing I swore I’d never be again.
Turning away, I drop my clothes on the floor and step into the shower. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand and spend ten minutes scrubbing my skin pink. I don’t let myself think as I go through the motions. My mind flatlines. When I’m finished, I emerge to find sweatpants, underwear, and a tee-shirt on the counter.
I find Tomasetti sitting at the kitchen table, texting. He looks up when I enter and puts away his cell. He’s got a good poker face, but I don’t miss the quick flash of concern at the sight of me—or the wariness that follows.
“Texting your mom?” I ask.
He withholds a smile. “How’s the hand?”
“Hurts.”
“Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. “Any word on David Borntrager?”
“I talked to Glock while you were in the shower. David’s fine. He’s going to spend the night with a foster family. It’s still early in the game, but the social worker thought they’d eventually place him with his grandparents.”
“He’s only eight years old. In the last week, he’s lost his entire family. His datt. His siblings.” I can’t bring myself to say Mattie’s name. “Have they taken Armitage’s statement?”
“He’s asking for his attorney.”
“We’ve got him dead to rights.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Did they find the pin?” I ask. “The piece I found?”
“Rasmussen didn’t say.”
“They’re still processing the scene?”
“Probably going to be there all night.”
“What about the quarry?”
“Highway patrol and a couple of your guys are out there now. First light, they’ll send in a couple of divers, get a wrecker out there to pull out your Explorer.”
For an instant I’m back in the vehicle. Black water closing over my face. Like ice against my skin. The stink of mud in my nostrils. The need for a breath an agony in my chest …
The sound of my name snaps me back. I think about the Explorer sitting at the bottom of the quarry, and I choke out a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical. “The town council is going to have to buy me a new vehicle.”
Tomasetti smiles, but it’s a polite gesture. He’s worried about me and trying to get a handle on my frame of mind. Good luck with that.
We fall silent again. To my right, the faucet drips into the sink. The vent at the bottom of the refrigerator rattles when the motor kicks on. “Did Rasmussen find the truck parked in the barn behind the clinic?”
Tomasetti nods. “It’s already been towed to impound for processing.”
“It’s the vehicle Armitage used to killed Paul Borntrager and his two children. Tomasetti, there was a snow blade attached…” I lose my breath and can’t finish the sentence.
“I know,” he says gently.
“That son of a bitch murdered those two sweet children,” I tell him. “How could someone do that? How could Mattie allow it?”
He stares at me. “I don’t know.”
For the span of several minutes neither of us speaks. We contemplate each other. I can only imagine how I must look to him. Emotionally shaky. Too involved. Slightly off. I feel like glass that’s been blown too thin and will shatter at the slightest touch.
“She almost killed me.” I try to swallow, but I don’t have enough moisture in my mouth. “I loved her like my own sister. What in the name of God happened to her?” It hurts to say the words, and for the first time tears threaten.
Tomasetti looks away, sighs. “I don’t know, Kate.”
“Have her parents been told?”
“I don’t know.” He glances at his watch. “Probably by now.”
“I should have done it. I should have been the one to tell them.”
“You’re the last person who should be talking to them about their daughter. You’re exactly where you need to be.” He walks to the refrigerator, pulls two bottles of Killian’s Irish Red from the shelf, turns back to me, and holds them up. “In lieu of the Absolut.” He sets the bottle on the table and pulls out my chair. “Sit down.”
I lower myself into the chair and pick up the beer, but I don’t drink. “Mattie and Armitage … I think they were having an affair.”
“That makes sense.”
“The night there was an intruder at her farm. It was Armitage.” I think about that a moment, feeling foolish and inept. “He couldn’t stay away from her. He didn’t know I was watching the place. It was Mattie who broke the glass. To cover for him. I was too blind to see any of it.” I look up from the tabletop and meet his gaze. “He killed Paul and the children so he could have her for himself.” I take a drink of the beer, but I don’t taste it. “I think she knew. About all of it.”
> “The truth will come out.”
“Tomasetti, I knew her. Inside and out. Her thoughts. Her dreams. Her heart. I can’t believe I didn’t see something. I should have—”
“Some people lie to their last breath.”
“She was my best friend.”
“I’m your best friend.”
The words, the kindness, and the truth behind them triggers something inside me, like the shattering of glass. Setting down the beer, I lower my face into my hands and begin to cry.
* * *
It took me two days to catch the cat. It’s not that he doesn’t like me. He does. But he’s feral. Like me, he’s been kicked around a little and sometimes it shows, usually to his own detriment. He doesn’t easily trust. Sometimes he scratches the people who care for him most. I finally nab him using his favorite food. He’s not a happy camper when I put him in the carrier.
“It’s for your own good,” I tell him as I lug the carrier to my rental car and place it on the passenger seat.
He responds by hissing at me.
Ten minutes later, I take the Toyota Corolla down the lane of Mattie’s parents’ farm. I pass by an old barn with a fresh coat of white paint, and then the lane curls right, taking me toward the house.
It’s been seventeen years since I’ve been here, but so little has changed I feel as if I’m fifteen years old again as the house looms into view. The kitchen window where Mattie and I used to wash dishes while we whispered about boys still looks out over a cornfield that never seems to produce enough corn. The big maple tree still stands sentinel outside the window that had once been Mattie’s bedroom. The same tree she climbed down the night we went to see the midnight screening of Basic Instinct. Even the clothesline post still leans slightly toward the barn. I wonder how a place can remain the same for so many years when the rest of the world barrels on with such astounding speed.
It’s been two days since my ordeal at the clinic with Mattie and Michael Armitage. I’ve been put on administrative leave, though I’ve been told I’ll be back on the job by tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t slept since that night. Strangely, I’m not tired. I haven’t been able to eat, but I’m not hungry. I’m hurting, but it’s a silent pain because, after that first morning with Tomasetti, I haven’t been able to cry.