We sip coffee, comfortable with the silence. The last hours have been intense, and we both know it will take some time to decompress.
“You haven’t talked about what happened in the tunnel,” Tomasetti says after a moment.
The truth of the matter is, I haven’t had a chance to think about the time I spent underground with Perry Mast. Now that the adrenaline is flagging and exhaustion is setting in, I realize those minutes were probably some of the most terrifying of my life.
“The worst part was having to leave those girls behind,” I tell him. “They were terrified I wouldn’t come back for them.”
“I guess they don’t know you as well as I do. Remind me to give you shit later about risking your neck, will you?” But there’s no rancor in his voice.
“Bad habit of mine.” The smile feels phony on my lips, but I don’t bother trying to disguise it. Maybe because I’m tired. Maybe because I trust him, even with the part of me that isn’t always on the up-and-up.
I think about the case and all the strange places it has taken us. I think of the body I found in the tunnel, and I wonder if the parents know of their dead child yet. I wonder if the news will give them comfort or closure, or if the not knowing was better because they still had hope.
“Did the coroner have any idea how long that girl had been dead?” I ask.
Tomasetti shakes his head, gives me a reproachful look. “You couldn’t have saved her, Kate.”
“If we’d figured this out sooner, we might have—”
“Cut it out.” He softens the words with a smile. “Those three girls are alive because of you. Because of what you did. You listened to your gut and you went into a dangerous situation. A lot of cops wouldn’t have done that, so stop beating yourself up.”
The television above the bar changes to a newscast, and the bartender reaches for the remote and turns up the volume. Neither of us looks at the TV, but we listen.
According to the Lake County sheriff’s office, a local Amish man shot and killed his wife this afternoon and then turned the gun on himself. The sheriff’s office isn’t releasing details, but according to reports, a number of hostages were being held in an underground room. The hostages, several of whom have been missing for quite some time, are recovering at a hospital in Cleveland. No names have been released. . . .
Tomasetti sets down his mug and walks over to the jukebox, digs change from his pocket, and makes a selection. A few seconds later, Red Rider’s “Lunatic Fringe” rattles from the speakers, drowning out the newscaster’s voice.
Neither of us wants to talk about the case. But it’s part of the decompression process. I sense the weight of it between us.
Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I heard from the CSU earlier,” he tells me. “They found more remains. Bones. In the hog pens.”
The hog pens. The meaning behind the words creep over me like a snake slithering around my neck. “Have any of them been identified?”
“I don’t know if the lab will be able to extract DNA from the bones. We’re going through cold missing-person cases, but I think identification is going to take a while.”
I nod, thinking about the Masts, what might have driven them to commit such horrific deeds. “We talked to them, Tomasetti. Why the hell didn’t we know something was wrong with them?”
“Insanity isn’t always obvious.”
“How did it get to this point?”
He shrugs. “Taking into consideration everything we know, I suspect it started when their daughter committed suicide.”
“They snapped,” I say, venturing a guess. “Went off the deep end.”
“Or maybe they were just a couple of fucking lunatics. Fed off of each other.”
Bitterness resonates in his voice, and for the first time I grasp fully the ironies of the case. This is about kids, our most precious resource, and the way we treat them. How out of touch parents—even good parents—can be. But this case is mostly about the lost ones who fall through the cracks, both Amish and English. Some of the children were loved; some were ignored. Others were looked upon by their parents or society with a sort of detached disdain.
I look at Tomasetti and wonder how he has fared. So many times I’ve tried to imagine him with a wife he loved and two little girls he doted on. It’s a difficult image to capture. I suspect he’s a different man now than he was before.
“I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you to deal with a case like this,” I say after a moment.
He looks down at his coffee, but not before I see the walls go up, and I realize even after three years, the deaths of his wife and children is the one topic he won’t breach.
“Tomasetti?
He looks at me. “Yeah?”
“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”
His expression softens. “I know.”
The sound of a train whistle drowns out the final notes of “Lunatic Fringe.” The liquor bottles above the bar rattle as a train passes. The tabletop shakes, and I feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.
Across from me, Tomasetti slouches in the booth, staring at his coffee, his face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s a battle-scarred face, though it bears not a single mark. I want to heal him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if he’ll let me.
“I got a room,” Tomasetti says. “The old hotel by the river.”
“The Petry,” I say slowly. “I noticed it when we drove past.”
“I figured we could both use some downtime.”
Even after so long, it unsettles me that I want him with such intensity. That I’m vulnerable to him in that way. That I’m vulnerable to my own needs and that we’re sitting here as if any of it makes sense.
I reach across the table and take his hand. Surprise flashes on his face when I tug him toward me. I lean across the table and touch my mouth to his. His lips are firm and warm against mine, and my only conscious thought is that I want more. I smell coffee and the fading redolence of aftershave, and something profound stirs inside me.
Not for the first time, I wonder where our relationship will take us. I wonder if two people with as much baggage as we have can get past it, make a go of something good. I wonder if our demons will allow it. And I wonder how long this precarious happiness will last.
After a moment, I break the kiss and move back slightly. But I don’t let go of him and our faces remain close. “You make me happy,” I tell him.
He stares at me as if I’m some puzzle that’s unexpectedly baffled him. It would be just like him to spout off something flippant or crude. But he doesn’t, and his silence leaves me stammering.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“That kiss helped a lot.”
“Maybe this relationship stuff isn’t as complicated as we thought.”
His mouth curves. “You’re complicated. I’m screwed up. That’s probably a bad combination.”
I start to pull away, but his hand tightens on mine. Pulling me close, he kisses me hard on the mouth. It’s completely inappropriate for a public place, but it feels good, and I’m too caught up in it to stop. After a moment, he pulls back and contemplates me. It’s as if he can see all of those jumpy places inside me—the ones I spend so much time trying to hide, especially from him.
I try to tug my hand from his, but he doesn’t let me. He’s so close, I feel the warmth of his breath against my face. His dark eyes are level on mine, and for an instant it’s as if there’s nothing between us. Not my secrets. Not his baggage.
That’s when the reality of what I’ve let happen strikes me. The realization staggers me. Terrifies me. A rise of panic is like a steel clamp around both lungs. I feel my mouth open, but I don’t dare utter the words. But I feel the tangled mess of them piled up in my chest.
I wonder if the truth is pasted all over my face. I wonder if he can see it in my eyes, in the way my hand is tight and wet within his.
“Tomasetti . . .”
I begin, but I run out of breath and my voice trails off.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”
CHAPTER 26
No matter where I travel, how long I’ve been gone, whether it’s for business or plea sure or something in between, there’s something special about coming home. It’s midmorning by the time I pull into my parking space at the Painters Mill police station and shut down the engine. For a moment, I sit there, taking in the facade of the building—the ugly red brick and the circa 1970s glass door. I see my office window with its cracked pane and bent miniblinds, and a few leaves from the ficus tree I’ve been nursing back to health sticking through.
It’s not the visual that grants me such a powerful sense of homecoming, but knowing what lies beyond those doors—and my utter certainty that I’m part of it. Lois’s Cadillac is parked a few spaces down and, as usual, I can tell her husband spent much of the weekend detailing it. Glock’s car sits a few feet away, waxed and lined up within the parking stripes with military precision. Mona’s still here—four hours after the end of her shift—and not for the first time I wonder if she’s got a life outside her job. There’s no sign of Pickles or Skid, but I know they’re on their way. T.J. has already gone for the day, but I’ll see him tomorrow. That’s something else I can count on.
Tomasetti was gone when I woke at just after seven this morning. There was no note. No good-bye. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he slipped out the door without waking me. He’s good at that, leaving without so much as a kiss.
God knows, I’m no expert on relationships, but I do know when something’s good. And this thing we’ve created between us is precious and rare. I only hope it’s not fleeting, because for the first time in my adult life, I’ve given someone the power to hurt me.
I get out of the Explorer and start toward the front door. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get inside. I want to talk to my team and get caught up, not only on any police matters but on the small pieces of their lives they occasionally share. I want to sit in my office and listen to Mona and Lois argue over something mundane. I want to fret over that stupid ficus and procrastinate when it comes to archiving those old files that have been sitting on the floor in boxes for the last three months. I want to talk to my sister and brother and find a way to repair all the broken things between us, things I’ve let the past and my own pride destroy. I want to call Tomasetti and say the words I couldn’t say last night.
The smells of coffee and old building laced with the redolence of something that smells suspiciously like lemon wax greet me when I walk in. Tracy Chapman belts out a bluesy tune from Mona’s radio. There’s no one in sight, but I hear Lois and Mona talking somewhere nearby. I cross to the reception desk and look over the top of the hutch. The switchboard has been shoved aside and a can of Pledge with a dirty white cloth draped over the top sits next to it.
Lois is on her knees beneath the desk, a power cord in her hand. “I don’t know where it goes,” she snaps.
“Plug it in to the surge protector.” I see Mona’s red stilettos sticking out from beneath the desk, and I realize she’s on her hands and knees. As usual, her skirt barely covers her equipment.
“What if it starts smoking again?”
“Do I look like a freaking electrician?”
I clear my throat. “Do you guys want me to have the fire department stand by?”
“Oh. Crap.” Lois crawls out from beneath the desk and gives me a sheepish look.
“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona backs out from beneath the desk, a Swiffer duster in one hand, a power cord in the other.
“Phones up and running?” I ask, only mildly concerned.
“Never unplugged the switchboard or dispatch station.”
Lois plucks a dust bunny from Mona’s hair and the two women break into laughter. I laugh, too. It starts as a small chuckle and then turns into a belly laugh powerful enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“What’s so funny?”
I turn, to see Pickles and Skid standing just inside the front door. On the other side of the room, Glock leans against the cubicle divider, his arms crossed, shaking his head.
“We’re not rightly sure,” Lois mutters, and we break into a new round of laughter.
Skid studies the tangle of wires beneath the desk. “That shit looks like a fire hazard.”
I cross to the coffee station and fill my mug. The Mast story made the morning news shows. Anchors from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego have been carrying it ad nauseum all morning. I know my team is wondering how much is true and how much is sensationalism.
“Everything quiet on the home front?” I ask as I turn to face them.
Skid makes a sound of annoyance. “Garth Hoskins ran a stoplight out on Hogpath Road and T-boned old man Jeff ers’s pickup truck last night.”
“Anyone hurt?”
He shakes his head. “I cited Hoskins.”
Garth Hoskins is eighteen years old and drives a 1971 Mustang fastback that has more horses than the kid has brain cells.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say.
The room falls silent, all eyes landing on me. I tell them everything I know about the case. “Apparently, Perry and Irene Mast suffered some kind of breakdown after their daughter committed suicide. For reasons unknown, they held their son responsible and imprisoned him. They began preying on troubled Amish teens.”
“How many dead?” Glock asks.
“Four,” I tell him. “Coroner’s office is still there.”
“How’s Sadie Miller doing?” Lois asks.
“I’m going to drive over there and take her final statement in a few minutes,” I tell her.
My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I see Tomasetti’s name on the display and hit TALK as I start toward my office. “You make it home okay?”
“Been here a couple of hours,” he tells me. “What about you?”
“Letting myself into my office now.” I toss my keys on my desk. “Any news?”
“Noah Mast is missing. He left the hospital this morning and no one has seen him since.”
“That’s odd. They checked the farmhouse? The tunnel? Sometimes people go back to the places they’re used to, even if those places are unpleasant.”
Tomasetti makes a sound that tells me he’s not convinced. “If he doesn’t turn up in the next hour or so, the sheriff’s office is going to put out an APB.”
“You don’t think he hurt himself, do you?”
“Nothing would surprise me at this point.” He pauses. “Have you talked with Sadie Miller yet?”
“I’m heading out to the farm now. I’ll send my report your way as soon as I get everything typed up.”
I find Esther Miller in the backyard of her farm house, hanging trousers on the clothesline. A wicker basket full of damp clothes sits at her feet. She smiles around the clothespin in her mouth when I approach.
“Guder mariye,” I say, wishing her a good morning.
“Wie bischt du heit?” How are you today?
She looks like a different woman. Her eyes are bright and alive, and I can tell she’s truly happy to see me. Dropping the trousers back into the basket, she crosses to me, throws her arms around me, and clings.
“Gott segen eich.” God bless you. She’s not crying, but I feel her trembling against me. “Thank you for bringing her back to us.”
After a moment, feeling awkward, I ease her to arm’s length and offer a smile. “How is she?”
“Good. Happy, I think.” She blinks back tears. “She’s to be baptized in two weeks.”
“I’m happy for you.” But I feel a pang in my gut. I think of Sadie’s passion for her needlework and the part of her that will be lost when she takes her oath to the church, and I realize something inside me mourns its loss.
“I need to get a final statement from her, Esther. Is she busy?”
“She is in the barn, feeding the new calf.” Bending, she reaches for the trousers, pins them to the clothesline. “Go on, Katie. She’ll be happy to see you
. I’ll be out as soon as I get these clothes hung.”
I take the crumbling sidewalk to the hulking red barn. The big sliding door stands open. The smells of fresh-cut hay and horse manure greet me when I enter. An old buggy in need of paint sits in the shadows to my left. I hear Sadie singing an old Annie Lennox song, and I head toward where the sound is coming from.
I find her in a stall. She’s holding an aluminum pail with a large nipple affixed to the base. A newborn calf with a white face sucks greedily at the nipple, his eyes rolling back as he gulps and nudges vigorously at the pail. The sweet scent of milk replacer fills the air, and for an instant the familiarity of the scene transports me to the past.
“He’s cute,” I tell her.
Sadie looks up from her work and grins. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a white apron and kapp. There’s no sign of the girl who was fighting on the bridge just a few days ago. The transformation seems to go deeper than clothing. There’s a peace in her eyes I didn’t see before. “He is a she and her mamm has decided she wants nothing to do with her.”
“She might come around.”
“Maybe.” She looks down at the calf and smiles. “I kind of like bottle-feeding her, though.”
We watch the animal in silence for a moment and then I ask, “How are you doing?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”
“Your mamm tells me you’ll be getting baptized soon.”
“After everything that happened with . . .” Her words trail off. “I think it was God’s way of telling me the path I should take.”
“That’s good, Sadie. I’m happy for you.”
The calf’s mouth slips from the nipple. We laugh when she makes a slurping sound and reattaches.
“I need to ask you some questions about what happened,” I say.
Sadie nods, but she still doesn’t look at me. “Are they in jail?”
“They’re dead,” I tell her.
Her mouth tightens. “They were crazy.”
“I know, honey.” I pull my note pad and pen from my pocket. “I need you to tell me what happened, Sadie. From the beginning.”
She continues to watch the calf nurse, but all semblance of plea sure is gone from her expression now. “I was walking on the road, down by that old horse farm.”