After the Storm

  Usually, I’m looking forward to seeing him, no holds barred. That rise of pleasure in my chest when I spot his form on the dock where he’s fishing, and I can’t wait to tell him about my day and ask about his. Or that moment when I walk inside and he’s standing at the kitchen sink chopping something, smiling at me, a towel thrown over his shoulder. This evening there is no quickening in my chest. No pang in my gut because I haven’t talked to him all day and he thinks it’s silly that I miss him. It’s as if a fault line has shifted between us, opening a crevasse that’s deep and dark, and neither of us is quite sure how to traverse it.

  My pregnancy has been a constant in the periphery of my thoughts since the moment I found out. A weight that rests uneasily on my shoulders, on my conscience, on my heart. I know it’s a cop-out, a delay tactic, but I haven’t let myself think too hard about what I’m going to do. I’m not ready to be a mother; I’m not sure I’d be a good one at this point in my life. I work too much, putting in long hours and, sometimes, all-nighters. I take risks. I carry a gun.

  My stomach flutters uneasily as I park next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and shut down the engine. I don’t know if it’s nausea or nerves or maybe a little bit of both. I take the sidewalk to the back door. I step inside to find him at the sink, washing dishes. He looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are warm, but there’s no smile. On the table, he left a plate for me. A napkin and silverware and a glass. No wine.

  “Hey.” I hang my jacket on the coatrack next to the door. “Sorry I missed dinner.”

  “It was just leftovers,” he says. “I saved you some.”

  I unfasten my utility belt and drape it over the back of a chair. I want to get out of my uniform and take a shower. But something tells me this is an important moment. I need to stay out here and talk to him. “I’m starving.”

  He dries his hands on the towel and then goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a Tupperware container. “How’s it going with identifying those remains?”

  I relay the events of the day as I take the container from him. It’s solid ground, and my nerves begin to settle. “I got an odd vibe from Abigail Kline. Like maybe she knew more than she was letting on.”

  “You think she’s lying about knowing Nolt?”

  “I do.”

  “You think she was the girl he was involved with?”

  “Maybe. Her age is right. She’s Swartzentruber; he was Mennonite. A relationship would have been a source of conflict for both of them and their families.”

  “That fits.” He tosses ice into a glass and runs the tap. “Do you think she had something to do with his death?”

  “My gut tells me she didn’t, but … Nolt disappeared thirty years ago. That’s a long time. People change. I need to talk to her again, away from her husband.” I set the container in the microwave to warm it. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Did you get to the doctor?” he asks casually.

  I shake my head. “I was busy.”

  “Did you call? Make an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think you should have made that a priority?”

  The muscles at the back of my neck tighten as I open the microwave and pull out the food. I don’t look at him as I pop off the lid, pick up my plate, and take both to the counter. “I was tied up most of the day. A lot on my plate right now with the storm cleanup and now these remains.” I don’t mention the lawsuit filed by the Kesters.

  “You can’t put it off, Kate. I mean, you don’t have a lot of time.”

  I stop what I’m doing and look at him. “I’ll go. I was just busy today.”

  “We need to know if you’re pregnant. Get it confirmed.”

  “Tomasetti, it’s been one day since I took the test. Time is not of the essence here.”

  He looks at me for a long time before speaking. “We need to know, so we can decide what to do about it.”

  The realization of what he’s talking about creeps over me like ice, a glacier rushing down from the north to crush and freeze everything in its path. I stare at him, wanting to be sure, hoping I’m wrong. “What are we talking about here, exactly?” I ask.

  “We need to know what we’re dealing with. You can’t stick your head in the sand and hope the problem will go away.”

  “The problem? Really, Tomasetti? Is that what this is to you? A problem?”

  “You know what I mean,” he growls.

  “Maybe you should spell it out for me.”

  “Kate, don’t read anything into this that isn’t there. We have a situation on our hands. We need to talk about it. Deal with it. That’s all.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He says nothing.

  “I didn’t get this way by myself, you know. You were involved. You played a role, too.”

  His mouth goes tight. “I was counting on you to be responsible. I had no way of knowing you were playing it fast and loose with your birth control.”

  Anger sweeps through me with such force that I feel it all the way to my bones. A shock wave that topples my balance, striking some vital part of me I thought was safe. I can’t believe he would lay blame on me. “I may be a lot of things,” I tell him through clenched teeth, “but I am not irresponsible.”

  “The only other scenario is that you meant for it to happen.”

  I step toward him, jab my finger at him. “There are some words that can’t be taken back,” I say. “I suggest you shut your mouth before you take that line of thought too far.”

  We’re standing about four feet apart but it feels like a mile. For a moment, all I can hear is the blood rushing through my veins. Vaguely, I’m aware of our elevated breathing. The tension as thick and suffocating as glue.

  “We owe it to each other to be clear, Kate. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to dress this up all pretty for you. I don’t want a baby. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

  The words fall down on me like hammer blows, so painful I can’t take a breath. It hurts me to my core. I stare at him, not wanting him to see it. Not wanting to make myself that vulnerable.

  “This isn’t exactly optimal timing for me, either.” I try to keep my voice even, but I run out of breath, and when I try to get oxygen into my lungs, it sounds like a gasp.

  He stares at me for a too-long moment and then he steps back, sets both hands on the counter, and leans heavily. “I don’t want kids,” he grinds out. “I can’t love like that again. Not like that. I don’t have the capacity.”

  My initial hurt augments into a powerful sadness, a sense of finality and loss as cruel and penetrating as a machete blade. “You’re capable of love,” I say quietly. “You love me.”

  “I do.” He stares blindly at his hands as they grip the edge of the counter. “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not. Love is love.”

  “No. Kids are different. They’re…” He shakes his head. “My children. Kate, the way I loved them. It was … everything. When they died…” His mouth tightens, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I can’t do that again. I won’t.”

  That’s when it strikes me that while I’m light-years out of my element, Tomasetti has done this before. He’s loved another woman. He’s been through multiple pregnancies with her. Two births. He became a father. Loved his children. He watched them grow and experienced the ups and downs of being a dad. He’d loved two little girls for nine and eleven years, then they were taken from him—stolen from him—by violence when a career criminal decided to make an example of what could happen to a cop who dared cross him. Tomasetti has come a long way since those dark days. But he hasn’t recovered. He may never recover completely.

  “What do you suggest we do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  “What do you want?”

  He shakes his head again. “I want things to be the way they were,” he tells me. “Before.”

  “You want me to get an abortion.” The words are out, an ugly, unpre
dictable beast let out of its cage.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re thinking it. I see it on your face. All this … urgency. As if this is a problem that must be dealt with quickly, before it turns into—”

  “Don’t,” he snaps. “Just stop.”

  “Why? Because you can’t deal with it? Because you don’t want to? Because you’re afraid to try? For God’s sake, Tomasetti, I’ve never thought of you as a coward.”

  “Cut it out,” he snarls.

  “We’re talking about the life of an innocent baby that has nothing to do with your baggage. Or mine.”

  He says nothing. He doesn’t look at me. Makes no move to bridge the chasm between us. For an instant, I consider going to him. I need him. I don’t understand why he can’t open his mind. His heart. But something inside won’t let me take that first, treacherous step.

  “Have you bothered to consider the possibility that this isn’t just about you?” I ask.

  When he doesn’t respond, I turn away, grab my utility belt off the chair, my jacket off the coatrack. He says nothing as I yank open the door and go through it.

  As I run toward the Explorer, I’m keenly aware that he doesn’t call out my name.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Well, Burkholder, you handled that with your usual eloquence and grace.”

  I’m southbound on Ohio 83 just out of Millersburg. It’s past 9:00 P.M. and my police radio is quiet. T.J. made one stop about twenty minutes ago; a kid in a Mustang blew the stop sign out on Dogleg Road. On the west side of the county, the sheriff’s office is working on getting a loose horse back to its pasture.

  I’m loath to admit it, but I want to go home; leaving the house wasn’t the most reasonable thing I could have done, especially when I’m exhausted and hungry and have a full day ahead of me tomorrow. I should have simply left the room, taken a shower, and gone to bed. I know Tomasetti well enough to know he would have given me my space.

  But the fact of the matter is that this isn’t merely a lover’s spat that got out of hand and resulted in hurt feelings. The issues we’re facing are serious and far-reaching. I’ve always known we would eventually arrive at this crossroad. That we would one day have to answer pressing questions about our future and having a family. Until now, we’ve been cruising along, happy and healing and enjoying all the things that, before we met, seemed out of reach. You never expect the brick wall when you hit it.

  I’ve always planned on getting married and having children, but neither of those things were pressing issues or something that I consciously thought about. It was a happy, someday thought in the periphery of my plans for the future. A someday when I’d reach some miraculous pinnacle in my life when I wasn’t so busy or so focused on my career. A point when Tomasetti wasn’t so damaged. When we were both fully healed and ready to move on to a new phase in our lives. Honestly, I hadn’t given the prospect of children much thought. But over the last months, I’d sensed Tomasetti’s reluctance. Comments he’d made or looks he’d given me during certain conversations. I’d never given his reaction a second thought. I never pursued a definitive answer or pushed him on any of it. It was the sort of thing I made light of because I knew our love would prevail.

  The future arrived with astounding swiftness, and I’m no more ready now to have children than I was a month ago or six months ago or a year ago. Yes, I love Tomasetti. I love him with a desperation that’s so powerful it frightens me. Had he asked me to marry him, I would have said yes. But he didn’t, and now we’re out of time, and it breaks my heart that we’re unable to embrace what should have been a happy moment for both of us.

  The only thing I know for certain is that we’re not going to get anything settled tonight. Better for me to spend it at my old house in Painters Mill. Give both of us time to cool down, do some thinking and maybe a little soul-searching.

  I swing by the McDonald’s in Millersburg for a burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and then I head south toward Painters Mill, sipping on the cold drink and plucking fries from the bag as I drive. A sense of homecoming rolls over me when I turn onto Main Street, with its pretty storefronts and antique lampposts. I consider pulling in to the police station as I idle past, but I’m in no frame of mind to talk to anyone, even if I am feeling a little lonely. Better just to get to the house, eat and shower, and get a good night’s sleep.

  I’m nearly there, when my cell phone emits a chirp. I glance down at the display, expecting to see Tomasetti’s name. I’m surprised when I see Painters Mill Police. I shove my Bluetooth over my head and catch the call on the third ring. “What’s up?” I say.

  “Chief, I’m sorry to bother you at home,” my second-shift dispatcher begins, and I don’t correct her. “I just took a call from a guy using that Amish community pay phone on Hogpath Road. He says your brother was in a buggy accident and he’s hurt bad.”

  “What? Jacob?” I hit the brake and pull over. “Where?”

  “Out on CR 14.”

  “What the hell is he doing out there?” It’s nearly six miles from my brother’s farm. “I’m on my way. Get an ambulance out there. County, too.”

  “Got it.”

  Glancing quickly in my rearview mirror, I make a U-turn in the middle of the street and hit the gas. I keep an eye out for pedestrians and other motorists as I speed through town, blowing the light at Main Street. The Explorer’s engine groans when I floor the accelerator. Vaguely, I’m aware of the radio coming to life as the call goes out. I think of my brother and all the things we’ve left unsaid and unfinished, and a renewed sense of urgency strikes me dead in the chest.

  “Be okay, Jacob,” I whisper.

  By the time I reach Delisle Road I’m doing eighty. I brake hard for County Road 14. My wheels screech when I make the turn. I drive a few yards, expecting to see lantern light or headlights or debris in the road ahead. But there’s nothing. No buggy. No horse. No sign of an accident. No indication that anyone has been here. I hit my radio. “What’s the twenty on that ten-fifty PI?”

  “CR Fourteen, just off Delisle.”

  “I’m ten-twenty-three. There’s no one here.” I pause. “Where’s the RP?”

  “Reporting party didn’t leave their name. Stand by.”

  My Explorer isn’t equipped with a spotlight, so I reach into the seat pocket for my Maglite and set it on the passenger seat. When I look up, I catch a glimpse of something on the road ahead. A faint glint against the night sky. A vehicle with no headlights, or possibly a buggy two hundred yards away. I hit my brights and the emergency overhead lights and accelerate.

  I speak into my mike. “I got it,” I say, letting Jodie know I’ve found the location of the accident.

  “Roger that. County’s ten-seventy-nine.”

  I’m watching for movement, keeping an eye on the ditches on both sides of the road, doing about forty miles per hour, when a hole the size of my thumb blows through my windshield. At first I think I’ve struck a bird or an owl. But a second hole tears through the glass. A chunk of the dash hits the bridge of my nose, cutting me. Pain in my face. A thousand silver capillaries spread across the glass in every direction. Then the telltale thwack! thwack! of gunshots. The passenger window shatters. Glass pelts me. In my hair. Down the front of my uniform shirt.

  I yank the wheel right. Stand on the brake. My headlights play over tall grass. The Explorer bumps over the shoulder. I glimpse a tumbling fence. The tree comes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard but not fast enough to avoid it. The impact throws me against my shoulder belt. The airbag explodes, hitting me in the chest like a giant fist.

  For a moment I’m too dazed to move. My brain is cross firing. An engine working on one cylinder. I blink, try to get my bearings. The hood is buckled. There are two bullet holes in the glass. I raise my hand, but it’s shaking so violently I can barely get to my shoulder mike. “Shots fired.” I’d intended to shout the warning, but my voice is little more than groan. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-thirty-three.??
?

  The radio snaps and crackles with renewed vigor. I unfasten my seat belt. Free myself of the deflated airbag. I see blood on the white fabric. I’m aware of pain in my face. I don’t know if I’ve been shot.

  Using my left hand, I try to open the door, but it’s jammed. I press the window button, but it doesn’t work. I crawl over the console. The passenger door won’t open, so I slither through the window. Broken glass slices my left palm. I’m midway through, when it dawns on me that I have no idea where the shooter is. That I’m vulnerable here and not sure I have cover.

  Then I’m through the window. I hit the ground hands-first. My elbows collapse. My shoulder plows into the ground. I roll and then I’m sprawled in grass that’s wet with dew. “Shit.”

  Sirens wail in the distance. Crickets all around. The hiss of steam coming from beneath the hood. I get to my knees, draw my revolver. Then I’m crouched in the ditch. The road’s shoulder provides scant cover, so I stay low. The three-quarter moon provides just enough light for me to see that whatever vehicle or buggy I’d seen earlier is gone.

  Headlights wash over me. Blue and red emergency lights glint off the canopy of the tree I hit. I glance right to see a Holmes County Sheriff’s cruiser glide to a stop.

  “Sheriff’s department! Identify yourself! Sheriff’s department!”

  “Painters Mill PD!” I shout. “I got shots fired!”

  A Holmes County deputy, crouched low and holding a Maglite, his weapon drawn, approaches me. “Where’s he at?”

  “I don’t know.”