After the Storm

  He approaches me, his eyes sweeping left and right. “Burkholder?”

  “Yup.”

  He tries the passenger door, hoping to use it for partial cover, but it won’t open, so he kneels next to me. “You okay?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  I start to get to my feet, but he sets a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa. You’re bleeding, Chief. There’s an ambulance on the way.” He gives my shoulder an awkward little pat. “You need to get yourself checked out,” he says, and then he speaks into his radio. “Ten-seven-eight.” Need assistance.

  A second cruiser arrives. I discern the Painters Mill PD insignia just as T.J. throws open his door and, using it for cover, draws his weapon. “Chief! Where’s the shooter?”

  “Unknown!” the deputy next to me calls out and speaks into his radio. “Suspect at large. We need a perimeter. Delisle Road. County Road Fourteen. Township Road Two. And Gaylord.”

  Another Holmes County cruiser arrives, engine groaning as it flies past T.J.’s cruiser. The ambulance parks several yards behind T.J.’s cruiser. All the while, the radio burns up the airwaves as law enforcement from miles around converge on an unknown shooter.

  “What happened?” the deputy asks.

  Quickly, I relay everything I know. “The caller said my brother was in a buggy accident.” I hit my lapel mike. “Any sign of a buggy?” I say. “Casualties?”

  “Negative.”

  The deputy and I exchange looks.

  “Chief?”

  I look past him to see T.J. trotting up to us. His stride falters when he spots my Explorer against the tree. “Shit.” Then he’s kneeling next to me. His eyes widen when he gets a better look at my face. “You hit? You’re bleeding pretty good.”

  “Piece of the dash caught me, I think.”

  The deputy, still speaking into his radio, rises and goes to the front of the Explorer.

  “You sure?” T.J. takes my arm as I get to my feet.

  “I didn’t get shot in the head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You’ve got two bullet holes in your windshield.” The deputy approaches, his expression grim. “I don’t think he was aiming for the dash.”

  T.J. blinks at me. “Any idea who it was?”

  I shake my head. “No clue.”

  The deputy curses. “We got no sign of the shooter. The son of a bitch booked. We’ll take a look around, see if we can find some brass and tire marks.” He turns his attention to me. “You get eyes on a vehicle? Lights? Anything?”

  “I saw something. A vehicle or buggy. Then he started shooting.” I frown at the front of my vehicle. “Don’t know where that tree came from.”

  The men’s laughter is interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics. I groan and the paramedic grins. “Don’t look so happy to see us.”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  “Yeah, I can tell by all the blood streaming down your face,” he says, unfazed by my resistance.

  I’ve met him at some point. He’s competent and good-humored, and everyone calls him Fish. “Humor us, Chief. We’re kind of sensitive about rejection, you know.” Clucking his tongue, he frowns at the sight of my Explorer. “Anyone ever tell you you’re tough on vehicles?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Last time I wrecked one.”

  He whistles. “Town council’s going to love you.”

  “They already do,” I mutter, and I let myself be helped toward the waiting ambulance.

  * * *

  There are certain advantages to being the chief of police in a small town. Coffee on the house at LaDonna’s Diner. Free apple fritters at the Buckhorn Bakery. The occasional dinner or lunch that comes without a check. The generosity of local merchants is a benefit I never take for granted and rarely partake in. Tonight, however, I don’t argue when the doc at Pomerene Hospital gets me in and out of the ER quickly. I assure him I didn’t hit my head or lose consciousness, but like most medical professionals, he’s a stickler about the possibility of a traumatic brain injury, so they send me to radiology for a CAT scan. Then it’s down to the lab for blood work. A young nurse cleans the cut on the bridge of my nose, deeming it superficial and predicting two black eyes before butterflying it and leaving me with instructions for an ice pack and Tylenol.

  I’ve reached for my phone a dozen times to call Tomasetti, but I haven’t yet made the call. I tell myself I’m too busy trying to stay abreast of the search for the as-yet-unidentified shooter. Besides, a few bruises don’t warrant getting him out of bed at one o’clock in the morning … do they?

  It’s not until I’m alone in the ER, waiting to be released, when the seriousness of the incident hits home. An unknown individual fired at least four shots into my vehicle. I could have been killed. Was it random? Would the shooter have fired at any vehicle that happened to be driving down that particular road at that particular time? Were they targeting law enforcement? Or were they hell-bent on shooting me?

  I’m sitting on a gurney, wearing a gown that looks as if it’s been washed in a wood chipper, when I hear voices in the corridor outside the ER, and I think: Shit. I’d known the sheriff’s department and SHP and about a hundred other agencies would want to talk to me about the incident. I’d only hoped to be out of here and dressed when it happened. There are few things that are quite so unnerving as talking to a bunch of guys when you’re half-naked.

  I glance down at my bare legs and feet. “Damn it.” Snatching up the sheet at the foot of the gurney, I quickly snap it open and drape it over my legs.

  “Chief? Knock-knock.”

  Sheriff Mike Rasmussen’s voice calls out to me from behind the curtain. I roll my eyes and then paste a smile to my face. “I’m right here.”

  The curtain is shoved aside. Looking none too happy, the ER nurse offers me a commiserating frown as she walks the curtain around its track, opening my previously private space. “You have visitors,” she says, handing me an ice pack. “I’ll go check on your paperwork.”

  The sheriff is flanked by Glock and, of course, Tomasetti. The three men are staring at me, and I resist the urge to pull the blanket up to my chin. Instead, I look directly at Tomasetti and say, “I was just dialing your number.”

  “Uh-huh.” Neither the tone of his voice or his expression give away his frame of mind, but I see him studying the bandage on the bridge of my nose. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. No stitches. CAT scan is fine.” I shrug, trying not to wince because my shoulder hurts. “Kind of pissed about the Explorer, though.”

  “I put a call in to the mayor.” Glock grins. “I figure I’d save you the headache and break the news.”

  I smile back. “You enjoy provoking Auggie.”

  “I’ll take the fifth on that.”

  Rasmussen clears his throat. “You feel up to answering a few questions, Kate?”

  I nod. “Did you get him?”

  The sheriff shakes his head. “He beat it out of there quick.”

  “Did you find anything at the scene?” I ask. “Brass? Tire tread?”

  “A single .22 casing.” Rasmussen nods at Tomasetti. “We brought in BCI. I don’t know if they’ll assign John the case.…” His voice trails as if he’s not exactly sure how to end it. “You know, personal relationships and all.”

  The sheriff knows we’re involved; I’m pretty sure he knows we’re living together, too. I don’t, however, know if Tomasetti has communicated either of those things to his superiors at BCI. If he has, he won’t be working this case.

  “Even if I’m not officially assigned,” Tomasetti says, “I can help expedite things, cut through some of the red tape.”

  “We appreciate that.” Rasmussen turns his attention to me. “Kate, I know you’ve already been through this half a dozen times. Can you do it one more time for us? Take us through everything that happened this evening?”

  “I was on my way to my house in town,” I begin, thinking of the fight I’d had with Tomasetti, “and dispatch called, telling me my
brother, Jacob, had been in a buggy accident out on County Road Fourteen.” I look from Tomasetti to Glock. “There wasn’t an accident, was there?”

  Glock shakes his head. “No accident. And no sign a buggy had been there. Your brother was home and didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Do you know who called it in?” Rasmussen says.

  “Dispatch said the call came in from the Amish pay phone on Hogpath,” I tell them.

  “We’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything,” he tells me.

  “One thing we do know,” Tomasetti says, “is that whoever made the call wanted you out there, Kate. This wasn’t random.”

  “Or they wanted a cop out there,” I say. “Maybe any cop would’ve sufficed.”

  “They mentioned your brother specifically,” he points out. “They used that information to lure you out there.”

  “CR Fourteen is pretty remote,” Glock puts in. “Not many houses. Lots of trees.”

  “Perfect place for an ambush.” Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face.

  I spend fifteen minutes taking them through everything that happened, from the moment I arrived on the scene until the Holmes County deputy showed up.

  When I’m finished, the sheriff asks, “Do you have any idea what kind of vehicle was parked on the road?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not even one hundred percent sure there was a vehicle. It was dark. All I really saw was the glint of something up ahead. I think it was my headlights shining off the hood or windshield. But I didn’t get a good look at it.”

  Tomasetti glances at Rasmussen. “You’re aware that Kate, the police department, and the township of Painters Mill were recently sued, correct? It’s a contentious case.”

  “There’s motive for you,” Glock says. “Sounds like something that fuckin’ Kester would pull.”

  Rasmussen nods. “I’ll get someone out there to talk to Kester and his wife. Roll their asses out of bed.”

  “You might talk to Paula Kester’s father, too,” I tell him.

  “A lot of animosity from all three of them,” Tomasetti says.

  Nodding, Rasmussen turns his attention back to me. “Any other disputes or arguments you’ve been involved in? I mean, as chief?” He clears his throat. “Or your personal life? Neighbors? Anything like that?”

  It feels strange to be the recipient of such questions. Usually I’m the one asking them. “No.”

  “You piss off anyone in the course of your job?” he asks. “Maybe someone doesn’t like the way you handled something? Got pissed off about a ticket?”

  “Not recently.” I say the words lightly, but no one laughs. “The only other case I’m working on is the remains that were discovered under that barn,” I tell him.

  “Foul play involved?” the sheriff asks.

  “It’s possible, but we’re not sure yet. We don’t have a cause or manner of death. But I’ve been asking questions.”

  “To whom?”

  I list the names and give the spellings. “Vern and Sue Nolt. Rachel Zimmerman. Clarence Underwood. Abigail and Jeramy Kline. The Amish women at the sewing shop in town.” I go on to tell him about the possibility that domestic hogs were involved in the man’s death.

  “Holy shit,” he mutters. “Hogs?”

  “Figure that one out,” Glock says.

  “We have no way of knowing if it was a freak accident, if he fell into the pen and was killed by the animals or if someone pushed him,” I tell them. “But even if it was an accident, from all indications, it looks like someone made an effort to conceal the remains.”

  “So it’s not unreasonable to believe someone has something to hide,” Rasmussen says.

  Tomasetti looks at me. “As usual, Kate’s been poking the bees’ nest with a short stick.”

  I frown at him.

  “Clarence Underwood was recently released from prison,” Glock adds. “Former meth head.”

  “See if he has an alibi,” I tell him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tomasetti levels his gaze on me. “Might be a good idea for you to take a few days off.”

  “Probably not a bad idea,” Rasmussen agrees.

  Glock is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  I sit up straighter, annoyed that they’re ganging up on me. “I can’t put this John Doe thing on hold—”

  “Chief Burkholder?”

  I look past my counterparts, relieved to see the ER doc approach. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “As long as you’re here to spring me,” I grumble.

  “In about two minutes.” He looks at the men. “I need to have a word with the chief, if you’re finished.”

  “I think we’ve annoyed her enough.” Grinning, Rasmussen offers his hand, and we shake. “Glad you’re okay, Chief. Let me know if you need anything or if you think of something else that might help us figure out who did this.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “Same goes, Chief.” Glock gives me a small salute and heads for the door.

  The doc and I look at Tomasetti. For an instant, he looks uncertain, as if he isn’t sure if he should stay or go. When the moment gets awkward, the doc tosses me a questioning look.

  I address the doc. “It’s okay, Doc. We’re … together.”

  “Oh. I see. All right then.” He saunters to my bed and glances down at the clipboard. “We got the results back on your tests,” he tells me. “CAT scan looks good. Blood work is within normal ranges.” He grins at me. “I also had the lab run a qualitative hCG test. It’s routine in case we need to do X-rays. You know you’re pregnant, right?”

  “I do now.”

  He grins stupidly at Tomasetti, who’s standing beside him looking shell-shocked. “Congratulations. To both of you.”

  I mutter a thank-you. But my mind is reeling. I’d been harboring the hope that the pregnancy test was a fluke. That this whole thing was a blip in the radar and everything would get back to normal in a day or two.

  “Any idea how far along?” I manage.

  “You’ll need to see your ob/gyn for that.”

  He’s still speaking, but at some point I stopped hearing the words. I can’t stop looking at Tomasetti, who’s looking everywhere except at me.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’m certain I set my alarm clock for my usual 5:30 A.M. I’m just as certain that at some point after I fell asleep, Tomasetti turned it off. When I awoke in a panic at a little after eight, I wasn’t sure whether to be pissed or pleased. He persuaded me to go with the latter, because I walked into the kitchen to find an omelet, toast, and juice waiting for me.

  We didn’t talk about my pregnancy last night. Instead, and in usual Tomasetti fashion, he grilled me about my personal safety and possible suspects. For once, I was happy to oblige. I’m not sure what it says about us as a couple that it’s easier to talk about my near-death experience than the fact that I’m going to have a baby.

  Over breakfast, he informed me that Rasmussen called earlier with news that Paula and Nick Kester, as well as her father, have alibis for the time of the shooting. Of course, that doesn’t mean they didn’t hire someone. They’re not the hiring types, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility that any one of them could have traded drugs for a favor. Tomasetti also confirmed that because of our personal relationship, he won’t be assigned the case. But he reiterated that he will have access to information and will be able to expedite things that might otherwise take a while.

  I didn’t feel all that banged up last night; I didn’t think I hit the tree that hard, but then adrenaline and anger can be effective analgesics. This morning, a headache the size of a T. rex rages between my eyes. Every muscle in my body feels as if it’s been twisted into a knot. I down a couple of Tylenols with breakfast. A hot shower, and I’m feeling almost human.

  Tomasetti puts up a valiant fight about my going to work, telling me I need to stay home to recuperate and give Rasmussen and my guys at least a day to get a handle on whoever might be behi
nd the shooting. But he knows me well enough to know I’m not going to hide out. When I don’t acquiesce, he moves on to plan B and suggests I take the .22 mini Magnum in my ankle holster as a backup weapon. I’m no fan of getting shot at, so I take his advice without argument.

  He drops me off at the station at 10:00 A.M., before going to work in Richfield. I look like the walking dead. The bridge of my nose is bruised, and I’m pretty sure both eyes will be fully black by the end of the day.

  Lois is at the switchboard with her headset on when I walk in. She gives me a double take, and gets to her feet. “Oh my.”

  Her expression makes me smile, which causes the bridge of my nose to hurt. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything funny.”

  “I’ll try not to.” Her expression sobers. “I figured you’d take the day off.”

  “I thought this place might get kind of boring without me around to liven things up.”

  Lois hefts a laugh. “You guys have any idea who did it?”

  “Not yet.” I reach the dispatch station and pluck messages from my slot. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I want you to keep a close eye on the door for suspicious visitors, will you?”

  “You bet I will.”

  I go to the coffee station and find a mug. I feel her eyes on me as I pour.

  “You need an ice pack, Chief? I think there’s a bag of frozen peas in the fridge.”

  “That would be great.” I touch the bridge of my nose. “I could use a loaner car, too, while the Explorer is in the shop.”

  “I’ll call the garage and have them send one over.”

  * * *

  I spend the morning rereading the file I’ve amassed on my John Doe aka Leroy Nolt case. An e-mail from Skid tells me Jeramy Kline’s parents are deceased. Abigail Kline’s parents, Naomi and Reuben Kaufman, sixty-four and sixty-seven years of age respectively, live on a county road outside of Charm. Neither has a record, although Reuben was cited multiple times for failure to display a slow-moving-vehicle sign on his buggy. The last ticket was issued three years ago. Either he’s stopped driving the buggy or he’s decided the slow-moving-vehicle sign isn’t too ornamental after all.

  Abigail has two sisters, both of whom are now married and living in Upstate New York. Her brother, Abram, still lives in the area. I make a mental note to pay him a visit, too, to see if he came into contact with Leroy Nolt.