The Taurus’s engine goes silent. Headlights still on. Brake lights glowing. I watch, waiting, holding my breath. All the while, my heart pounds adrenaline to every muscle in my body. I can hear myself breathing heavily, the rush of blood through my veins.
Two hands appear through the driver’s-side window.
“Open your door and step out of the vehicle! Keep your back to me.”
The driver’s-side door opens. The Amish woman sets her feet on the ground and slides out of the vehicle.
“Get your hands up! Turn away from me! Face the other way!”
I raise the shotgun, praying I don’t have to use it.
Edna Lambright stands quietly with her back to us, her hands raised to shoulder level. She’s shaking. It’s a surreal scene. Because she’s Amish. A woman. A mother. The last kind of person anyone would expect to be involved in a situation like this.
“Walk backward!” Skid shouts the command twice.
When she’s a few yards away, he orders her to stop. “Get down on your knees! Keep your hands up.”
She turns her head to look at him, but he shouts her down. “Do not look at me! Face forward! Get on your knees!”
Skid’s .38 is aimed at the woman, center mass. I move forward, round the front right quarter panel, shotgun at the ready.
“Do not move!” he tells her. “Do you understand? Do not move!”
In the light of his headlights, I see him remove the handcuffs from his belt. Cautiously, he approaches her. I stay slightly behind and to the right of them. Shotgun level, my finger inside the guard.
“Where’s the gun?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” she cries. “I dropped it. In the car.”
He’s a few feet away from her. The cuffs are in his left hand. He’s reaching out to cuff her left wrist when her right hand drops.
Skid sees it at the same time I do. “Get your hand up!” he shouts. “Get it fucking up!”
As if in slow motion, Edna Lambright turns, still on her knees. In the glare of the headlights I see a black weapon in her right hand. Coming up. Her eyes on Skid.
“Drop it!” I scream. “Drop the weapon! Drop it!”
Skid is too close to her for me to fire the shotgun. I see his gun hand move upward.
“Drop it!” he shouts.
The gunshot freezes everything in place. I see a tremor pass through Skid. The Amish woman on her knees, twisting around, facing him. Face contorted. Her right arm straight, the weapon pointed at him.
Two more shots in quick succession are like an explosion in my brain. Edna Lambright pitches forward, falls facedown on the asphalt.
“Skid! Skid!” I lower the shotgun, dart over to him.
He backs up a couple of steps, nearly runs into me. I set my hand on his shoulder. “Are you hit?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Check, damn it.” But my eyes are already moving to Edna Lambright.
“I’m okay.” He takes another step back, lets out a sigh that shudders. “Might’ve crapped my pants, though.”
I don’t have my radio, so I look at Skid. “Ten-fifty-two.”
He’s already making the call and giving our location.
I kneel next to Edna Lambright. She’s lying prone with her head turned. She’s alive, her eyes open and blinking. She’s not moving, but I can see the rise and fall of her back as she breathes. There’s blood on her dress. A hole in the fabric where the bullet struck her.
I touch her shoulder. “An ambulance is on the way, Edna. Just stay calm for me. You’re going to be all right.”
“Neva,” she whispers.
“Neva will be fine,” I say. “You, too. Just hang on.”
She closes her eyes. “I set the fire.”
“I know. We’ll deal with that later.”
“No. The Gingerich fire. I set it. I did it.”
I look at Skid. He heard it, too. I look down at her, but the Amish woman is gone.
* * *
Never doubt in the dark what God has shown you in the light.
The words were one of my mamm’s favorite sayings, especially in the face of tragedy, and I heard it often growing up. When my grossmudder passed away. When a neighbor was killed in a buggy accident. The day I was attacked by Daniel Lapp. The axiom reflects the Amish tenet of maintaining faith in times of heartbreak. One of many reasons I never fit in.
Edna Lambright was pronounced dead at the scene a little after ten P.M. It took the fire department an hour to extinguish the blaze. Because the incident included an officer-involved shooting, I called Tomasetti. Somehow, he made the thirty-minute drive from Wooster in under twenty. At that point, BCI assumed control of the scene. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen showed up a short time later along with the BCI crime scene unit truck, and the technician set to work, photographing, videotaping, and collecting evidence. Later, Bob Schoening with the fire marshal’s office arrived and I spent another half an hour or so answering questions.
I stuck with Skid throughout. He’s my officer and, at the moment, my number-one priority. We stayed on scene until the coroner pulled up. That’s when Tomasetti offered us a ride to the police station. We accepted the offer. Of course neither of us had a choice.
Once we arrived at the station we were separated. Tomasetti interviewed Skid. He collected Skid’s revolver, which will be tested and, later—once Skid is off administrative leave—returned to him. I gave my statement to one of the other BCI agents. He was professional and straightforward; he was decent enough to do a welfare check on Neva Lambright, who was safe at home and hadn’t left the house all evening. He even brought me coffee. But he was excruciatingly thorough. None of the Painters Mill police vehicles have dash cams—it’s not in the budget—and so the initial officer interview is extremely important.
As chief, one of the responsibilities I take very seriously is the death notification to the deceased’s next of kin. I disliked the idea of sending T.J. to break the horrific news to Edna’s husband, Isaac, and Neva. But because I was personally involved in the shooting, I couldn’t do it myself.
“Go to Bishop Troyer’s house first,” I told him as he headed out. Even though the Lambrights are Beachy Amish, the bishop will be a comfort to them. “Tell him what happened and ask him to go with you.”
“You got it, Chief.”
I know T.J. will be the consummate professional. He’ll be kind, but straightforward. Still, it’s a difficult assignment and I hated to put it on his shoulders.
It’s now two A.M. I’m sitting at my desk, a cold cup of coffee in front of me. I’m trying not to notice the smell of smoke and singed hair that clings to me. I’m wondering if Tomasetti is still around—if they’re finished with me for the night—when Skid walks in. Something shakes loose inside me at the sight of him. He’s the one member of my team I don’t worry about; he’s got a resilient personality. He doesn’t lose sleep over things he can’t control. He’s a natural-born smartass with a wicked sense of humor and no sense for political correctness. Tonight, he looks as troubled and vulnerable as I feel.
“You’re looking a little worse for wear,” I say.
“You, too.”
“Figured.” I motion to the chair opposite my desk. “They done with you?”
“I think so.” He looks down at his uniform. “I feel kind of naked without my gun.”
“I’m glad you’re not naked.” It’s a lame joke, but we both smile. “You’ll get it back in a week or so.”
He takes the chair, and an uncomfortable silence ensues. Though the last hours have been busy, my mind keeps taking me back to the moment when Edna Lambright reached for that weapon and Skid reacted—rightfully—with deadly force. It was a nightmare scenario that no cop ever wants to face. It’s a scene both of us are going to be reliving for a very long time.
“So are you okay?” I ask.
“Me?” He forces a laugh. “I’m fine.”
Another silence. Longer. He
’s not fine. No one is fine after killing another person, justified or not.
Finally, he meets my gaze and grimaces. “Chief, an Amish woman? For God’s sake … why the hell did she pull that gun? I mean, we had her. It was done. For her to do something like that … she had to have known it wouldn’t end well. For any of us.”
I think about that fateful moment and I shake my head. “You heard her last words, right?”
“Yep.”
“You put that in your statement?”
“I put everything in there exactly the way it happened.”
“Good,” I tell him. “I did the same.”
“You think that’s why she did it?” he asks. “Why she pulled the gun? She figured her life was over anyway and she decided to go fucking death by cop?”
There’s a bitterness to his voice I don’t like. “Maybe. I don’t know. Skid, the most important thing for you to remember right now is that we get to walk away from this. Because you did your job. You stuck to your training. You did everything right.”
“I killed a fucking Amish woman.” He leans forward, sets his elbows on his knees, scrubs his hands over his face. “That’s so nuts I can’t even get my head around it.”
“I know. Me, too. She didn’t leave you any choice.”
A soft tap at the door draws my attention. I look up to see Glock and Pickles standing in the doorway, peering in tentatively. Mona stands behind them, craning her neck to see over Pickles’s shoulder, listening for the phone.
“I hope we’re not interrupting,” Glock says.
I stand, drawing their attention, giving Skid a moment to shore up. “I probably don’t have to point out it’s after two o’clock in the morning.”
“Bladder keeps me up half the night anyway,” Pickles grumbles. “Always keep an ear on the scanner. Heard what went down.”
“That’s a little TMI about your bladder, dude,” says Glock.
The old man mutters something appropriately rude beneath his breath.
Skid looks over his shoulder at them. “There goes the neighborhood.” But he’s off-kilter; the words lack his usual cockiness.
Glock and Pickles shuffle in. I make eye contact with Mona and, with a nod, she heads back out to reception.
That’s one of the things I love about my team. Not only are they good cops, but they’re good people. When one of their own is in trouble, they drop everything and show up in force to support them. Skid might be resilient, but he doesn’t have family here in Painters Mill. Last I heard, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend. Tonight, he shouldn’t be alone.
I notice the brown paper bag Glock’s holding at his side and I shake my head. “You sure you want to break the seal on that tonight?” I’m not kidding.
“When the shit hits the fan, Jack Daniel’s comes to the rescue,” Pickles says.
“He’s in good hands,” Glock assures me.
“We’re professionals, Chief,” Pickles adds.
I nod, trying not to notice that Skid has his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Glock jabs a thumb toward reception. “Those suits out there done with this guy?”
“I think so.” I turn my attention to Skid. “You’re off for a few days, Skidmore. Protocol for an officer-involved shooting. I’ll keep you posted on how things are going, and let you know if we need anything.”
“Great.” He runs his palms over the thighs of his uniform pants and rises. “Appreciate it, Chief.”
Glock cocks his head at me. “You want to come with us, Chief?”
I shake my head. “Jack and I are sort of on the outs.”
He chuckles. “Gotcha.”
I let my gaze connect with Glock’s and then Pickles’s. “If it’s not too much to ask, stay out of trouble.”
“We got this, Chief,” Pickles says, and they usher Skid through the door.
CHAPTER 23
It’s not until I’m home that I realize what an absolute wreck I am. I put on a fresh shirt at the station, but I reek of smoke and sweat and singed hair. The bathroom mirror reveals a face and neck that are smudged with soot and dirt. Hair that’s singed on one side. My left palm is blistered, but I haven’t the slightest idea how it happened. I’ve got a dozen or so pockmarks on my right cheek, small burns more than likely caused by sparks or flying ash.
Tomasetti was with another BCI agent when I left. I caught his eye as I headed toward the door. I could tell by his expression he didn’t want me to leave without him. But I needed to get out of there. On the drive to the farm, I called T.J. to see how it went with the Lambright family. In typical Amish fashion, they’d taken news of Edna’s death—and the circumstances of it—quietly. He’d spent twenty minutes with them, answering questions. Bishop Troyer stayed on, saying he would get a ride home later.
It’s only when I’m in the shower that I examine my own emotions—and relive the horrific moments I was locked inside the barn. The ordeal lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. The sense of being trapped. The terrifying thought of being burned alive. The all-encompassing panic and disbelief.
When I close my eyes, I see Edna Lambright as she lay dying on the ground. I see the blood on her dress. The hole in the fabric where the bullet entered her body. The resolve on her face when she’d spoken her final words.
The Gingerich fire. I set it.…
I rush through the shower, scrubbing myself clean, my hair and face and hands, wishing I could scrub away the images. I don’t want them in my head.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my old sweatpants and a T-shirt from my police academy days when Tomasetti comes in the back door. I can tell by his expression that he’s concerned.
“I couldn’t get away,” he tells me as he closes the door behind him.
I smile. “Kind of hard to carry on a relationship with a bunch of nosy cops around.”
“Probably not much of a secret these days.” He crosses to me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay. Hair didn’t fare so well.”
Spotting the tumbler of whiskey in front of me, he growls low in his throat. “You hate whiskey.”
“It’ll do in a pinch.” I look over at him. “Want one?”
“I have no such aversion.” I start to get up, but he stops me. “I got it.”
He pours two fingers of eighty-proof into a glass. He’s still wearing the suit he put on this morning. The tie I bought him for his birthday last September. He’s rumpled, with a five-o’clock shadow. He wears all of those things very well.
“Tomasetti, you are an extraordinarily nice-looking man,” I say.
He arches a brow. “How many of those whiskeys have you had?”
I smile, and it makes me feel almost normal.
He takes the chair across from me, sets the glass on the table, and reaches for my hands. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. I just … when I got the call…” He turns my hands over in his, looks down at the smattering of blisters on my palm, and frowns. “You’re burned.”
“I don’t think they’re bad.”
“Uh-huh.” He leaves the kitchen and returns with the first-aid kit. After washing his hands at the sink, he sits and pops the lid. “Let’s have a look.”
Taking my hands in his, he studies the blisters and reaches for the burn gel. “Blisters are broken, so I’m going to bandage your hand, okay?”
Neither of us speaks as he tears open a roll of sterile gauze, wraps it loosely around my hand, and tapes it.
“You’ve got great hands, Tomasetti.”
“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”
“I bet.”
“How does it feel?”
“Hurts.”
“You planning on milking this thing or what?”
“To the max.”
He’s trying to distract me. I’m
not sure if it’s working just yet, but I like it.
“How’s Skid?” he asks.
“Not sure. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
“Tough thing for anyone to deal with.”
“I think what makes this even worse is that she was Amish. And a woman…” I shrug. “Glock and Pickles showed up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to take him home.”
“What could possibly go wrong?” He tucks the remaining gauze and gel back into the first-aid kit and closes the lid.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, staring at the kit. Then he raises his gaze to mine. “Kate.” He takes both my hands in his and squeezes my uninjured one. “Look, this isn’t official yet, but I thought you should know. The crime scene technician found several rounds in the console and on the floor of Edna Lambright’s car. When he checked your thirty-eight … the cylinder was empty.”
“What? But … that doesn’t make sense. She drew her weapon.” My thoughts fragment, part of my brain trying to figure out why she would have done that, the other half jumping ahead to how the news will affect Skid.
“It looks like she emptied the cylinder,” he says.
“Why would she do that?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I pick up the glass and sip. “You know she confessed to setting the fire that killed Daniel Gingerich.”
“I read your statement.” He looks down at the glass in his hands, swirls the whiskey. “Hard to figure.”
I shake my head. “Tomasetti, suicide by cop?”
“We’ve seen crazier things.” He shrugs. “With her being Amish, maybe the guilt was too much.”
“She knew what Gingerich was.”
“Even so.” He shrugs. “Maybe she couldn’t handle what she’d done and decided to end her life without having to do the dirty work herself.”
It’s a solid theory. But Edna Lambright was so far removed from the profile of someone who would do something so desperate, I can’t accept it. “Was there a note?”
“Not in the vehicle,” he tells me. “Or on her person. Agent talked to the family earlier and there’s nothing there.”