He’s better now. Not fully healed, but I know he has happiness and hope in his life. I know I’m part of both of those things and that we’ve been good for each other.
“Do you remember that house in Wooster I told you about last summer?” he begins.
“The old farmhouse, on acreage?” An alarm begins to wail in the back of my head. A few months ago, I consulted on a case for the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. Several Amish teens had disappeared during their rumspringas. During that investigation he told me about a farmhouse he was thinking about buying, and then shocked the hell out of me by asking me to move in with him. I panicked and waffled and basically handled the situation badly, giving him a slew of mixed signals instead of the straightforward answer he deserved.
It was a cowardly response, but I’d felt waylaid and unprepared. He was astute enough to give me an out, but I knew the issue would resurface. He isn’t the kind of man to give up, after all, especially when he wants something. I’m going to have to figure out how I feel about the prospect of moving in with him and give him a definitive answer, whether it’s the one he wants to hear or not.
“I bought it,” he tells me. “I closed last month.”
I stare at him, aware that I’ve broken a sweat. The bottle of beer feels like an icicle in my hand, the cold emanating up my arm and into my shoulder.
“Congratulations,” I manage.
“The place needs work, so I took some time off. New kitchen. Painting. Floors need refinishing.”
Discomfort climbs over me, a big, lumbering beast that presses down with the weight of a house. I don’t know how to react to this. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. I look away, take a long drink of beer.
“If you’re game, I’d like to show it to you.”
I meet his gaze to find his eyes already on me. He’s looking at me as if I’m a math problem that has unexpectedly perplexed him. “Sure.”
“I promise not to tie you to a chair and keep you as my sex slave.”
I laugh outright and some of the discomfort sloughs off. “Are you thinking about moving in?”
“When it’s ready.”
“What about the commute?”
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive from my office in Richfield.” His eyes burn into mine. “Half an hour from Painters Mill.”
“Convenient.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to move in with me again.” Studying me, he takes a long pull of beer. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“I’m not sure what I want. I think that’s part of the problem.” I set down my beer, look down at the tabletop. “Tomasetti, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He laughs. It’s not the response I expected. When I look at him I see something a little too close to sympathy reflecting back at me.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to commit and you’re trying not to break my heart.”
“That’s not exactly what’s going on here.”
“Feel free to jump in and correct me at any time.”
“I’m still trying to figure this out, okay? I don’t want to screw things up.”
“You can’t.”
“Believe me. I can. Tomasetti, I could screw up a funeral.”
“Kate, I appreciate your handling me with kid gloves. But I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
We stare at each other. My heart is pounding. I wish I could read him, wish I knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, but his expression is inscrutable. “Moving in with you would be a huge step for me. A big change. I need some time to think about it.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” He contemplates me. “Come by the farm for dinner tomorrow. I’ll grill steaks if you bring the wine.”
“Steaks and wine.” I smile. “That sounds serious.”
“As serious as you want it to be.”
He surprises me by scooting his chair back and rising. I feel my eyes widen as he steps toward me, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet. “Maybe we ought to sleep on it.” He pulls me to him.
My arms find their way around his neck. “I have an early day,” I whisper, but there’s no enthusiasm behind the words.
“Me, too.”
When he kisses me, the doubt falls away.
And thoughts of the case dissolve into the night.
CHAPTER 5
At 9:00 A.M. I’m back in the Explorer, on my way to Pomerene Hospital to check on Mattie and her son. Tomasetti was gone when I woke up, but I still feel his presence both on my body and in my heart. We talked until the wee hours of morning and made love until the eastern horizon turned pink. Shortly thereafter, I fell into a fitful slumber, but even in the afterglow, I couldn’t shut down my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mattie or get the images of Paul and those two dead children out of my head.
I call Pickles to see how the canvassing of the farms near the accident is going. “You guys have any luck?”
“Wish I had better news for you, Chief, but no one saw shit.”
The news isn’t a surprise, but I’m disappointed nonetheless. “You hit the Stutz place yet?”
“We’re heading that way now.”
“Keep me posted, will you?”
“You got it.”
I dial Glock’s number as I pull into the hospital parking lot. “You have any luck at the body shops?”
“Struck out, Chief. No one’s brought in a vehicle with a damaged front end, but they all agreed to let us know if something suspicious came in.”
I slide the Explorer into a No Parking zone near the front entrance and shut down the engine. “Will you do me a favor and help Lois set up a tip hotline? Let her know there’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for information that leads to an arrest and conviction. Tell her to get a press release out and send it to everyone she can think of.”
“Damn, Chief, how did you manage that reward?”
“I haven’t.” I don’t know where I’ll get the money; I’m already over budget for the year and it’s only September, but I know this is one expenditure the town council will support me on. If they balk, I’ll write the damn check myself.
“You been to the Brass Rail?” he asks.
“I thought I’d wait until the same shift comes on.”
“Good idea. Let me know if you need backup.”
I snort. “You just want to crack some heads.”
“Hey, a guy can hope.”
Disconnecting, I clip the phone to my belt, get out, and cross the parking lot at a brisk walk. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping the kid made it through surgery and is improving. I go through the double front doors and take the elevator to the second level. I’m expecting to find Mattie and the bishop in the surgical waiting area where I left them, but when I arrive they’re nowhere in sight. The television is tuned to an infomercial no one’s paying any attention to; a young couple sits in the corner talking quietly. For a moment, I’m afraid the boy passed away during the night. Feeling gut-punched, I stride to the nurses’ station where I’m told David Borntrager is being moved to a regular room.
They give me directions and I take the elevator to the third floor and the patient rooms that were added during a recent renovation. I find room 308 and enter to find Mattie in a chair next to the hospital bed—which is vacant. She’s leaning forward with her head against the mattress, her arms folded beneath her cheek, sleeping. In the corner, Bishop Troyer is lying in a recliner, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows.
Mattie startles awake and springs into an upright position. “Oh. Katie. I thought you were the nurse.” She rises abruptly and looks toward the door. “They’re supposed to bring David.”
She sways as if she’s not steady on her feet, and I wonder if she’s had anything to eat. I step forward, set my hands on her shoulders to support her. “Did you get any rest?”
“I’m not tired.” She makes a halfhearted a
ttempt to shake off my hands and cranes her neck to see into the hall, her face twisted into a mask of worry. “They should have brought him in by now. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s fine, Mattie. I just talked to the nurse. They’ll bring him up soon.”
She looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. “But they told me the same thing an hour ago. Do you think something’s happened?”
“Why don’t you sit down and catch your breath, and I’ll check on him, okay?” Gently, I ease her backward toward the chair, but she refuses to sit.
She looks at me, blinking back tears. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed from crying. The delicate area beneath them is the color of a bruise. Her complexion is so pale it’s almost translucent; I see the blue strip of a vein at her temple. Her lips are nearly white beneath the fluorescent lighting of the room. But even sleep deprived and in the throes of a powerful grief, she’s lovely.
“I keep expecting Paul to walk through the door,” she whispers. “He always knew what to do.” Her legs give way as if they no longer have the strength to support her, and she collapses into the chair, leans forward, and puts her face in her hands. “I need him. What am I going to do without him?”
“Everything’s going to be okay.” But my words ring hollow even to me. This is one of those times when everything isn’t okay and may never be okay ever again.
Across the room, the bishop brings the recliner to an upright position, but he’s having a difficult time getting to his feet. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks fragile and old and utterly exhausted. I start toward him to help, but he raises a hand to stop me. “No, Katie. I’m fine.”
Feeling useless, I step back. “I’ll check with the nurse to see what the holdup is.”
I’m midway to the nurses’ station when I see an orderly and a nurse wheeling a gurney down the hall. There’s an IV stand connected to it. Both bed rails are raised, and there’s a small figure beneath the sheet. The nurse is wearing SpongeBob scrubs, with a pen behind her ear. Her name tag heralds her name as SUSAN M. The pin above it warns: I CAN BE DIFFICULT.
“Is that David Borntrager?” I ask as they approach.
The nurse looks up from the clipboard, gives my uniform a quick once over, and smiles. “This little champ is ready for his room.”
Keeping pace with them, I glance down at David. He sleeps soundly, his mouth slightly open, head crooked to one side, completely unaware. His left arm is swathed in some kind of purple wrap, and he’s got a raw-looking abrasion on his forehead. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in decent light, and I can’t help but notice the heavy brows and the down-slanted eyes, the too-small distance between his nose and upper lip, his obesity, and I remember hearing talk about Mattie and Paul having a special-needs child.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Doctor Reinhardt repaired a blood vessel in his abdomen and removed his spleen. He lost quite a bit of blood, so we gave him two units. It was touch and go for a bit, but his blood pressure is stable now. The only other trauma is the broken arm and a slight concussion.” Another smile. “This little guy is going to be just fine.”
Relief shudders through me, and I release the breath I’d been holding. I follow alongside the gurney as they wheel him to room 308. We arrive to find Bishop Troyer standing at the door. His old face breaks into a grin when he spots the boy.
Mattie springs from her chair, one hand over her mouth, and rushes toward her son. “Is he all right?” Her gaze goes to the nurse. “Can I touch him?”
“He’s going to be fine. And, yes, you can touch him all you like. Just don’t jostle him or press on his tummy.” Unfazed by the fact that Mattie is Amish and there’s a bishop standing a few feet away, the nurse smiles. “I’m Susan, by the way. You must be Mom.”
Some of the desperation leaves Mattie’s expression, but her eyes never leave her son. “Ja.”
“I’m David’s nurse today.” Her voice is devoid of the phony cheeriness that grates in situations like this, and I find myself liking her.
The orderly, a big teddy bear of a man wearing blue scrubs with a long-sleeve tee-shirt beneath, maneuvers the gurney so that it’s lined up with the bed. Mindful of the IV line and stand, the nurse peels down the blanket and sheet and fluffs the pillow. In tandem, they lift the boy and transfer him to the bed. The child stirs briefly, but doesn’t wake. Once he’s lying supine, the orderly covers him with a sheet and woven blanket, while the nurse hooks the IV bag to the portable stand next to the bed.
Mattie can’t seem to take her eyes off her son. She’s standing too close, getting in the way, but neither the nurse nor the orderly seems to mind.
The nurse picks up the clipboard and makes a note. “The doctor will be in to talk to you later.”
“Thank you.” Mattie bends and presses her cheek against her son’s, her eyes closed. “My sweet little miracle,” she whispers.
Using an ear thermometer, the nurse takes the boy’s temperature and scribbles something on the clipboard. “If you folks need anything, just press the button over there.” She indicates a call button next to the bed, makes a quick adjustment to the IV drip, and leaves the room.
Mattie hovers over her son, caressing his forehead, rounding the bed and touching him through the sheets, looking down at him as if she’s afraid to break contact lest he slip away.
I sidle over to Bishop Troyer. “Do you need anything Bishop?”
“We are fine.”
“You should go home and get some rest.”
He gives me a stern look. “If you’re worried that I’m going to collapse from old age, I should tell you that Mattie’s mamm is on her way.”
“I would have picked her up and brought her.”
“I know.”
“And it never crossed my mind that you’re old.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. That the boy is going to survive has eased the oppressive sense of doom from earlier. Still, we’re mindful that we’re in the midst of a monumental tragedy.
“Everything is taken care of at the house?” I ask, referring to Mattie’s farm. “Someone is there to feed the livestock?”
“Of course,” the Bishop replies. “We are Amish.”
I’d known that would be the case, but I was compelled to ask. The Amish may not have phones in their homes, but the community has a healthy grapevine and news travels fast, especially in the face of tragedy. The instant word got out about Paul’s death—probably with the help of the bishop’s wife—Mattie’s friends and neighbors converged with prayers and able hands.
“Katie?”
I look up to see Mattie approach. Though she’s lost her husband and two of her children, the hopelessness is gone from her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For what you did. For being there. Thank you for everything.…”
The next thing I know her arms are around me, pulling me close and squeezing hard. Her mouth is close to my ear and I hear her sob quietly. Her body shakes against mine. As if of their own volition, my arms go around her. She smells of laundry detergent and sunshine and I find myself hugging her back with a fierceness that surprises me. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.
“God called Paul and Norah and Little Sam home. It was His will and I accept that. But He decided this was not David’s day to go to heaven. He answered my prayers and gave me back my boy. For that, I am thankful.”
There’s more to say. At some point, I’ll need to tell her the accident was a hit-and-run. If she asks about Paul’s final moments, I’m obliged to tell her he was alive when I arrived on the scene. But for now, she has enough on her plate.
And I have a killer to find.
CHAPTER 6
I’m on my way to the station when my cell phone erupts. I glance down, see Sheriff Rasmussen’s name on the display, and snatch it up.
“Where you at, Chief?”
“Just left the hospital.”
“How’s the kid?”
I give him the rundown on David. “He’s going to make it.”
“That’s terrific news.” But I know that’s not the reason he called. “Look, we may have gotten a break on identifying the hit-skip vehicle. One of the deputies thinks the side-view mirror we found at the scene is from a Ford truck.”
“That is a nice break.” But a cynical little voice reminds me: Nothing is ever that easy. “Now all we have to do is find the truck it belongs to.”
“I’m about to run it over to the Ford dealership. If they can confirm it, I’ll add the make to the BOLO.” He pauses, gets to the point. “Impound garage didn’t have room for the buggy inside, and I didn’t want to leave it outside, so I had it hauled down to the volunteer fire department garage. Prosecutor wants us to reconstruct it, so that once we get a positive ID on this guy, he’ll be ready to file. If this case goes to trial, we need to have all our ducks in a row. What are the odds of your pulling some of your Amish strings and getting a buggy maker out here?”
“Pretty good.”
“I’m here with Maloney and we’ve been combing through this shit all morning.” He lowers his voice. “We have two pieces from the vehicle. The mirror, and then this morning we found some kind of pin that’s been sheared in half.”
“What kind of pin?”
“Not sure just yet. Almost looks like something you’d find on a tractor. To tell you the truth, we’re not even sure it came from the hit-skip.”
My conversation with Glock floats uneasily through my mind. “If this guy was going as fast as Maloney says, there should have been a lot of debris, Mike, even if there was a brush guard or something.”
“We thought maybe the driver stopped and picked it up.”
“It’s possible.” Even as I say the words my gut tells me it’s not probable. “But it would have taken a lot of time and effort for someone to sift through all the debris and pick up only what he needed to cover his tracks. Think about it. It was dark. Drizzling. After an impact like that, the driver would have been shaken up. Maybe even injured.”