Breaking Silence

by Linda Castillo

  “Well, since you’re naked…” He smiles at me. “You know I will.”

  “Don’t ever feel sorry for me. I think that’s the one thing I couldn’t stand.”

  His expression turns puzzled. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you know what happened to me. Because I’ve … let you in. I mean, I’ve let you inside me. Inside my mind.” I swallow, not sure how much to tell him. Trust is so damn hard to come by. “My heart.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you. Not by a long shot.”

  “You know a lot about me. Probably more than anyone else in the world.”

  “I promise not to blackmail you.”

  A tension-easing laugh bursts from my throat. Gathering my emotions, I punch his shoulder. “We’re having a serious talk here.”

  He feigns offense. “I’m serious.”

  Leaning close to him, I press a kiss to his mouth, then start to rise. “I’ve got to go.”

  He stops me. Shifting in the bed, he turns me to him, then sets his hands on either side of my face. “I’ve let you inside, too, Kate. Don’t forget that. This relationship thing is a two-way street, and I’m right there with you.”

  I blink at him, stunned, and a little bit thrilled. “So I could blackmail you, too?”

  “You could, but then I’d have to kill you. That would be a shame, because I really like you.”

  We’re staring at each other. He gives me a small smile. I’m keenly aware of his closeness. I smell the lingering remnants of his aftershave, remember all the impressions his body made on mine during the night. “We’ll figure out this relationship thing sooner or later,” I tell him.

  For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. I don’t know what that might be, but I see it in his eyes. And in that instant, I want to hear it more than anything else in the world.

  The phone on my night table interrupts, and the moment evaporates. We stare at each other a few seconds longer, not speaking, wanting more time but knowing it’s not to be.

  “I’ve got to get that.” Rolling away from him, I grab the phone, put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I snap, trying to sound as if I’m not in bed, sleeping or otherwise.

  “Chief Burkholder, this is Chief Archer from Connersville, Indiana.” He clears his throat. “Sorry to call so early.”

  It takes my befuddled brain a moment to place the name. Then my intellect clicks in, and I realize he’s returning my call. Mose had told me his family was from Connersville and I wanted to check out his adoption story. “Thanks for returning my call, Sheriff.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I was out of town. Big conference over in Richmond on the meth problem.” He sounds harried, as if he’s back in town and pounding through a whole collection of messages. Mine wasn’t very high on his list, and he’s anxious to move on to the next.

  “I’m calling to verify some information about a young man by the name of Moses Slabaugh.”

  “Slabaugh…”

  “His name would have been Hochstetler. He’s living here in Painters Mill, but he’s originally from Connersville.”

  “Yeah, I know that name. Amish folks?”

  “That’s right. Mose claims his parents were killed and he was adopted by another family shortly thereafter.”

  “I remember that,” the sheriff says. “Hell of a thing. Nice Amish family, too.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Oh, gosh, I’d say it’s been ten years now. One of the worst accidents I’ve ever seen.”

  In the three years I’ve been the chief of police here in Painters Mill, I’ve investigated one fatal buggy accident. A logging truck from Pennsylvania crossed the yellow line and hit a buggy head-on. It was a triple fatality, and I was first on the scene. The images ran through my head for months.

  “We require all buggies to have ‘Slow Moving Vehicle’ signs here in Painters Mill,” I say. “Some of the more conservative families balk, claiming the signs are ornamentation.”

  A too-long pause ensues, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Sheriff Archer?”

  “The Hochstetlers weren’t killed in a buggy accident,” the sheriff tells me.

  The prickly sensation augments to a stabbing suspicion. “Mose told me his parents were killed in a buggy accident.”

  “The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. You know, methane gas. I ought to know; I was first on the scene. First damn week of work and I got two dead Amish on my hands.”

  His voice fades as the words hit home. The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. I almost can’t believe my ears. All I can think is, Why would Mose lie to me about something like that? He was seven years old at the time. Why would he lie? Muttering a thank-you, I hang up the phone, then sit there, my head reeling.

  “What is it?” Tomasetti asks.

  I look at him, feeling shell-shocked, and tell him what I learned from Sheriff Archer. “Why would Mose lie about something like that?” I ask.

  Tomasetti’s expression is dark. “Because he’s lying about something else,” he says. “Or covering something up.”

  “Or both.” My mind spins through the possibilities, and I hate all of them. I don’t want to say aloud what I’m thinking. Of course, I don’t have a choice. As much as I don’t want to confront those possibilities, they’re there, staring me in the face. Until this moment, I’ve been too blind to see them.

  “My God, he would have been seven years old,” I say, and another chill runs through me.

  Tomasetti nods, knowing what I’m thinking. “We need to get out there.”

  I’m already up, rushing toward the shower. “Could Mose be the one who pushed his parents into the pit? Has he done it before?”

  “I think it’s time we asked him.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Twenty minutes later, I whip the Explorer into the Slabaugh lane and zip toward the house. I called Bishop Troyer on the way and asked him to check on Mose. Sure enough, the boy was nowhere to be found. Concern notches up into worry as I park at the rear of the house. It doesn’t elude me that the buggy is gone, and I wonder if Mose took it, or if the Rabers went into town.

  Praying it’s the latter, I swing open the door and get out. Drizzle floats down from a slate sky as I jog toward the rear porch. Around me, fog hovers like wet ghosts, turning the farm monochrome. It’s like walking into an old black-and-white movie.

  I hear the crunch of gravel behind me and turn to see Tomasetti park the Tahoe beside my Explorer. I don’t wait for him. Reaching the door, I rap hard with the heel of my hand.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Raber?” I shout. “Police! Open up!”

  A hard-edged uneasiness steals through me as I wait. The seconds seem to tick by like minutes. I know it’s premature, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

  “They home?” Tomasetti strides toward me, his expression sober.

  I motion toward the gravel area. “Buggy’s not here.”

  “Maybe they went into town, took the kids with them.”

  “I called Bishop Troyer on my way over. Mose is gone.”

  “Shit.” Sighing, he leans past me, twists the knob. The door eases open, and we look at each other. “Reasonable cause,” he says.

  “Let’s go.” In an instant, I’m through the door, running past the mudroom and into the kitchen. “Salome!” I shout. “It’s Kate. Are you here?”

  Tomasetti takes the steps two at a time to the second level. I clear the downstairs bedrooms, the bathroom, and the basement, but none of the Slabaughs is there.

  We meet in the kitchen a few minutes later. Tomasetti looks pissed. “That little fucker lied to us.”

  I nod, hating it that I agree with him. “The question is, why?” I sigh. “Where the hell are they?”

  “Hiding,” he growls. “Let’s check the barn.”

  We move through the mudroom. Before realizing it, I’m running at a steady pace down the sidewalk. Li

ght rain is falling now, cold on my face, but I barely notice.

  “Kate.”

  I look at Tomasetti and see him motion toward a small outbuilding—a shed. That’s when I realize the overhead door is ajar. We veer left. Bending, he rolls up the door. I duck beneath it before it’s fully up. The first thing I notice is the truck. It’s an old white Chevy with bald front tires and a broken headlight. It looks out of place here.

  I glance at Tomasetti and he shakes his head. “Where the fuck did that come from?” he mutters.

  “It wasn’t there last time I was here,” I say.

  “I bet he’s been planning to run for some time.” Hands on his hips, he crosses to the truck, looks in the window. “Suitcases.”

  I think of Salome. A sweet Amish girl. Pregnant at the age of fifteen. She thinks she’s in love. The situation is a disaster waiting to happen. “I bet he talked Salome into running away with him,” I say.

  “Probably.” Tomasetti yanks at the truck’s door, but it doesn’t budge. “Locked,” he says. “No keys.”

  “Where are Ike and Samuel?” I ask.

  “Maybe they’re with the Rabers.”

  A thread of worry twists through me, a hot wire melting through flesh, touching nerves. “We need to find them.”

  “The Rabers, too.” He starts toward the door. “Let’s check the barn.”

  Then we’re outside and running, and I realize we both feel a sense of urgency. Something’s wrong, but we’re not sure what. Tomasetti slides the big door open. The smells of pigs, hay, and the wet ammonia stink of the manure pit wafts out. We enter as a single unit.

  “Salome!” I shout. “Mose! It’s Kate!”

  “Ike! Samuel!” Tomasetti goes right, toward the steps that will take him to the loft.

  I go straight. “Salome!” I check the stalls to my left, but they’re empty. Moving faster now, I duck through the rails. The concrete beneath my feet is slick with manure. The ammonia stench burns my nose, makes my eyes water. “Salome!”

  I walk to the manure pit, cast a cursory glance toward the oily bottom. Absently, I note someone has used the hose to partially fill the pit. Several objects float on the oily surface—a red inflatable ball, a length of two-by-four. Shock freezes me in place. I almost can’t get my mind around the sight of two small pale faces in the ooze. Samuel and Ike, I realize with a burgeoning sense of horror.

  “Tomasetti!” The panic in my voice shakes me from my momentary stupor. Looking around wildly, I spot the hose coiled on a wood dowel on one of the support beams. I lunge at it, yank it off.

  “Kate!” I glance up and see Tomasetti sprinting toward me. “What is it?”

  “The kids!” I shout. “They’re in the pit.”

  “What?” He rushes to the pit, looks down. “Aw, man.”

  I loop the end of the hose around the support beam, tie it in a double knot. The same way I did it the night I found Rachael and Solly in that pit. But all I can think is that I’m going to fail these two little boys the same way I failed their parents.

  “I’ve got a cable in the Tahoe,” Tomasetti says.

  “No time.” When I turn to Tomasetti, he’s already got the other end looped around his hips. “John, you can’t go down there.”

  “And you can?” he snarls. “Fuck that. Get on the horn. Now. Get the fire department out here. Open all the doors.”

  Hitting my lapel mike, I put out the code. I rush to the door, throw my weight against it, shove it open. I break two windows for a cross breeze. But there’s not enough wind to help.

  When I turn my attention to Tomasetti, he’s yanking off his coat. I watch, feeling helpless and terrified as he tosses it to the floor. Next, he rips off his shirt, tears off a sleeve, then takes the scrap of fabric to the trough and wets it.

  I rush to him. “You can’t go down there.”

  “No choice, Kate.” He ties the wet fabric around his nose and mouth. We both know it’s not going to help. Methane gas displaces oxygen.

  “Damn it.” I choke out the words. “If you pass out, I’m not strong enough to pull you out.”

  I can tell by his expression that he’s already thought of that. “Tie the hose to the bumper. I’m going down.”

  “John…”

  “Go!”

  Spinning, I lurch into a sprint, burst through the barn door. Then I’m in the rain, running like I’ve never run before in my life. I hear roaring, but I don’t know if it’s my heart or thunder or the hard pound of the rain. I hit the locks from twenty feet away, yank the door open, slide inside. I twist the key, and the engine turns over. Jamming it into gear, I floor the gas pedal. Gravel and mud spew. The Explorer fishtails, then jets toward the barn. I hit the brake. Too hard. My hand shakes as I cut the wheel, grasp the shifter to back it through the open door. Too fast. Going to screw it up if I don’t slow down. I clip the barn door with my bumper as I back through. Wood splinters and cracks, but I don’t slow down.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see Tomasetti standing at the pit, motioning for me to hurry, the hose looped around his hips. I throw the door open, grab up the other end of the hose, scramble back to the Explorer, loop it around the bumper, and tie it off. I know it’s silly at a time like this, but I want to touch him before he goes down there. Of course, he doesn’t wait. Grasping the hose like a rappelling rope, he drops into the pit.

  In that moment, I know what it’s like to go crazy. It’s like a current running through my body, causing every emotional circuit to overload, until I can’t form a single coherent thought. It takes every bit of concentration I have, but I make myself go to the pit and look down.

  He descends quickly, reaches the bottom within seconds. His feet disappear into the tarlike muck. He grasps the closest child by the coat, drags him through the muck and up onto his lap. So far so good.

  “Bring me up!” he shouts.

  I run to the Explorer, put it in gear, and ease the gas pedal down. I have to resist pulling too fast; I don’t want to topple him from the hose. I move forward ten feet, fifteen feet. Tomasetti emerges over the top of the pit. Jamming the Explorer into reverse, I back up to feed him a few feet of hose. Then I shove the shifter into park, get out, and run back to him.

  He’s breathing hard. Above the fabric tied around his nose and mouth, his complexion is deathly pale. He shoves the unconscious child at me. “He’s breathing,” he croaks. “Get him outside.”

  I take Samuel into my arms. His body feels cold and wet and utterly lifeless. I want to make sure Tomasetti is all right before he goes back down, but when I look back at him, he’s already dropping into the pit.

  Choking out sobs, I carry Samuel through the barn door and outside to the fresh air. I stop on the sidewalk and place him on his side, in case he ingested some of the liquid into his lungs. The rain is coming down in earnest, so I remove my coat and drape it over him.

  “Samuel?” I pick up his hand and rub it between mine. “Are you okay, kiddo? Can you open your eyes for me?”

  Relief sweeps through me when I notice him shivering. That’s a good sign. Bending, I put my ear to his nose. His breathing is elevated but strong.

  I don’t want to leave him like this—in the rain and all alone. But I have no choice. I’ve got to pull Tomasetti out of that pit. “Hang tight, baby. I’ll be back.” Giving his hand a final squeeze, I rush back to the barn, push myself through the rails, look down into the pit. Adrenaline punches me when I see Tomasetti struggling to lift Ike. Ike weighs less than Samuel. That tells me the lack of oxygen is already affecting him.

  I scream his name. “John! Grab him and get out of there!”

  Nodding, he signals for me to pull him up.

  In an instant, I’m through the rails, sprinting to the Explorer, sliding behind the wheel. I take it easy pulling him out, thinking, If he loses consciousness he could fall back in the pit.…

  I check the rearview mirror. Relief sends a sob to my throat when I see their heads and shoulders emerge. As I pull them out, I notice the way Tomasetti’s clinging to the hose, and I realize he’s struggling. Ramming the Explorer into park, I rush back to the pit. Tomasetti is facedown on the filthy concrete. At some point, the fabric has come off his face. He’s covered with muck and shivering uncontrollably. Next to him, Ike is as still as death.

  “Get up! Come on!” Nudging Tomasetti, I grab Ike beneath his arms. “John! Get up! Please!”

  Gripping Ike beneath his arms, I drag him toward the door. But I don’t take my eyes off Tomasetti. Midway there, I see him struggle to his hands and knees. Head drooping, he disentangles himself from the hose with one hand, supports himself with the other. I place Ike on the sidewalk next to his brother, pull my coat partially over both boys. They’re shivering and wet. But they’re alive. Tomasetti’s alive. Right now, that’s all that matters.

  I’m on my way back inside to help Tomasetti when I see him crawling toward me. Somehow he made it through the pen rails, and he’s trying to reach the door and fresh air.

  Rushing to him, I kneel at his side. “Can you stand?”

  “Just need some air,” he says.

  “Come on.” Bending, I slip his arm over my shoulder, help him to his feet, and we stumble through the door. “Ambulance is on the way,” I tell him.

  Tomasetti goes to his hands and knees, gulping air.

  “Hang on.” Rising, I go back to the Explorer, pull a thermal blanket from the trunk. When I get back, Tomasetti is sitting beside the two boys. He’s conscious and aware, but his eyes are glazed. He’s looking down at the boys. Samuel is crying. Next to him, Ike is moaning, beginning to stir.

  I kneel next to the children, reposition my coat so that both of them are covered. “You’re going to be okay,” I say.

  Ike reaches for me, clings to my leg. “I’m scared.”

  “Honey, can you tell me who did this to you?”

  Sobbing, the boy presses his face against me. “He was going to come back and get us out.”

  “Who?”

  He hesitates.

  “Was it Mose?” I ask. “Did he do this to you?”

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