“Bishop Troyer has given his blessing. I will allow you to use the farm, but that is all.”
My relief is so profound that for a moment, I fumble for words. “I appreciate that.”
“I do not want Billy to be in danger, Chief Burkholder.”
“None of you will be in danger,” I say firmly. “Two of my officers will be taking you and your family to a safe house.”
“I do not understand what that is.”
“A house where you’ll stay while we wait for the killer.”
“No English house,” he says.
I tamp down impatience while my brain scrambles for a solution. “Is there an Amish family you could stay with for a few days?”
He considers that for a moment. “Rachael and Joe Yoder. The storm blew down some of the pens and chicken coop. It will take Joe and me a few days to make repairs.”
“All right. Two officers will be with you at all times.”
Williams sighs. “So be it.”
Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.
Steve Ressler stands behind his desk, his hands on his hips, glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so. He’s a small, wiry man with red hair and a ruddy complexion that glows like a bad sunburn when he’s frustrated or angry, which seems to be all the time. He’s a hard-driving, type-A personality and always looks as if he’s on the verge of having a stroke.
“I want you to run a special edition of The Advocate,” I begin.
“A special edition? That’s kind of expensive. Maybe I could just put something on the Web site. . . .”
“I need both,” I tell him. “A story on the Web site as well as a special edition.”
“Is there some news item I don’t know about, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m working on something now.” I hand him the bogus press release. “Everything you need to know is there.”
Ressler skims the paper, his red brows knitting. “This is pretty explosive.”
“I’d appreciate it if you kept your source confidential,” I say.
“Of course.” Then Ressler sighs. “I hate to ask this question, Kate, but will I be compensated? Running a special edition is not cheap.”
I give him a wry smile. “As chief of police, I’ve gotten pretty good at squeezing blood out of a stone.”
“Excellent.” His cheeks flush red with excitement. “When do you want me to run it?”
“This afternoon. In time for dinner.”
“Gonna be tight.” He glances at his watch, frowns. “That only gives me a few hours.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to have to hustle. I’ve got some ads and other stories I can use for fill.” He’s thinking aloud now. “I’m going to need to call in a few people. Ad girl. Layout guy. Typesetter. Circulation. Route people.”
I look at my own watch. Almost one P.M. “How soon can you get it out?”
“Going to need at least four hours. That’s pushing it.”
“We need it out by five P.M. Grocery stores. Bars. Convenience stores. Doctor offices. All of your subscribers.”
Heaving another sigh, Ressler looks at his watch. “Okay, okay.”
“I don’t have to tell you this is strictly confidential, do I, Steve?” I ask. “You can’t tell anyone I was your source. Not your wife. Not even your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog,” he snaps. “Who the hell has time for a damn dog?”
Glock and I hold back grins when we walk out.
Dusk at an Amish home is a special time. Sunlight slants through the windows, washing the rooms in golden light. Dust motes spiral and dance in the glowing shafts. Quiet falls and shadows lengthen. It is a time when the chores are done. The heat of the day is fading to cool comfort. Everyone’s tired and looking forward to the evening meal, conversation, prayer and rest.
It’s strange to walk the rooms of a farmhouse so much like the one I grew up in. Around me the house is so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the open windows, the tap of the curtain hem weights against the sills. The occasional creak of a century-old house settling. Sparrows chatter in the maple tree outside.
I’m standing in the kitchen and my memories are keeping me company. Some of those memories are good. There’s laughter. A keen sense of belonging. The kind of security I felt knowing I was part of a family unit. But some of the memories are bad, too. I was introduced to violence in a pretty country kitchen much like this one. That single event forever changed my life and set me on a path I have not veered from to this day.
Despite the peacefulness of the house, an edginess creeps over me. The kind of dark anticipation you feel right before a storm. The thought that my plan won’t work is a cloud that has shadowed me all afternoon.
I look down at the plain dress, apron, kapp and stockings folded neatly in my hands. I haven’t worn traditional Amish clothing for about thirteen years, and it’s disconcerting to contemplate wearing them now. It’s the small, everyday things that take me back. Donning these clothes will be like stepping into a time machine and being thrust back to a time I’m not sure I want to revisit.
The special edition of The Advocate went out as scheduled two and a half hours ago. My copy was still warm from the presses when I swung by the diner and picked it up. Steve Ressler did a good job with the information I gave him.
With the apparent suicide of murder suspect Todd Long, everyone believed the Plank case was solved. But in a shocking turn of events, The Advocate learned from an anonymous source inside the Painters Mill Police Department that a new witness has materialized. This unidentified witness claims there was an accomplice.
A call to Chief of Police Kate Burkholder netted a stern “no comment.” The Advocate has since learned from a source inside the PD that an unidentified Amish boy witnessed the crimes and may be able to identify a second man responsible for the murders of the Plank family. In a videotape obtained from an anonymous source, the boy can be seen looking in a window, ostensibly at the Plank farmhouse on the night of the murders.
When confronted, Chief Burkholder verified the information, but told The Advocate that the Amish parents will not allow the boy to speak with the “English” police. “We believe the boy will eventually cooperate and identify an accomplice,” she said yesterday. “Because of obvious safety issues, we’re keeping his identity confidential.”
The Advocate attempted to locate the Amish parents, but was unsuccessful.
I called dispatch a few minutes ago and was told the phone lines were lit up like Christmas tree lights. The grapevine is abuzz with the news that a killer lurks somewhere in this peaceful little town. Alone at the Zook farmhouse, I don’t believe the situation will stay peaceful for long.
In the main bathroom, I change into Alma’s clothes. Most Amish do not use buttons or zippers, and I’d forgotten how tedious the pins are. Alma is larger than me, so I have room for the Kevlar vest. It’s uncomfortable and hot, but I know better than to let myself get caught unprepared.
Since the Amish don’t use mirrors, I have a difficult time with my hair and end up using a dozen bobby pins and tucking the loose strands beneath the kapp with my fingers. The feeling of déjà vu is overwhelming and strange as I walk back into the living room. I entered the bathroom as a cop; I walked out as the Amish woman I might have been.
Back in the kitchen, feeling conspicuous in the clothes, I pick up my radio. “Skid, are you in position?”
“That’s affirm, Chief. Fuckin’ stinks out here.”
The apt description makes me smile. I positioned him in the barn where he has an unencumbered view of the house, the driveway as well as the back and side yards.
“Might be more tolerable in the hayloft.”
“Better vista, too. I’ll head up there now.”
“What about you, T.J.? Any movement?”
“Just me and the mosquitoes.”
Since my Explorer is the only four-wheel-drive vehicle in the fleet, I put T.J. in it and sent him to a small parking area under the Painters Creek Bridge. People go there to fish. It’s relatively close to the farm, yet out of sight from the road. The only thing I don’t like about the location is that he can’t actually see the Zook house, which means we’ll have to rely completely on our radios for communication. But if I call for backup, he’ll be able to get here quickly.
“Keep your eyes open, guys.”
“Roger that,” comes Skid’s voice.
“You think he’s going to show?” T.J. asks.
“I’d hate to have to smell these damn pigs all week.”
All of us know the livestock is the least of our problems. “Let’s hope so.”
I disconnect, and the silence presses down on me. Outside the kitchen window, birdsong is slowly giving way to the night sounds of crickets and frogs. An edgy energy runs like mercury through my veins. But impatience and a lowgrade anxiety dog me. I’ve never been good at waiting, but I have a feeling I’ll be doing plenty in the next few days. It’s going to be hard because in the back of my mind, I know there’s a high probability my plan will fail. The killer won’t show.
That he’ll kill again . . .
A glance at my watch tells me the newspaper has been in circulation for almost three hours now. I wonder if the killer has read the story. I wonder if he’ll take the bait. If he’ll review the video and identify the face in the window. If he’ll come here to silence the only living witness . . .
It’s not easy getting into the mind of a psychopath; they don’t think the same way the rest of us do. I envision this going down any number of ways. The killer waits until nightfall. He’s armed and wears a mask, does a quick and violent home invasion with plans to kill the boy in his bed. Another scenario is that the killer will use a stealthier plan. Wait until dark. Sneak in. Take the boy from his bed. And either kill him there or make it look like an accident. A fall from the loft in the barn would do the trick.
More than likely the killer will scope out the place first. Tonight, it’s my goal to let him know the Zook family is home, totally unaware. They are vulnerable to attack. Come get us. . . .
Tomasetti has been on the periphery of my mind since he left. I’m not sure why I’ve put off calling him. Maybe because I know he’s got enough on his plate at the moment. Or maybe a part of me fears he’ll find fault with my plan, and I know that no matter what he says, I won’t scrub it. Still, I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh. The vehemence of those feelings scares me a little. One of many hazards of a relationship.
Pulling out my phone, I dial his number from memory. He answers with his usual growl of his last name.
“It’s Kate.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist calling me much longer.” His words are easy, but something in his voice puts me on alert. Some subtle note I can’t quite identify.
“I wanted to fill you in on something I’ve got going on here,” I begin.
“You catch a break?”
“Not exactly.” I lay out the plan.
A charged pause ensues. “You’ve been busy.”
“Things happened fast.”
“You’re at the Zook farmhouse alone?”
“Skid is in the barn. T.J. is parked out of sight by the bridge.”
“What about your other guys?”
“Glock and Pickles are with the Zook family a few miles from here.”
“Kate, that’s not enough men.”
That’s when I realize he’s been drinking. Tomasetti is good at pretending. Good at faking. Hell, he’s an Academy Award–worthy actor half of the time. But I know him well. I know every nuance of his voice. I know how to read between the lines. I know he can be a prick when he’s hurt or angry.
“Sheriff’s office has stepped up patrols,” I say. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“Why the hell didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”
“You’re not exactly on active status.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“John, look, you’ve got a lot going on right now. And I’ve thought this thing through. We’re organized. Prepared. I think we can handle it.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure we can.” But I fumble the words.
“Or maybe you didn’t call me because you think I’m going to freak out at some inopportune moment and fuck things up for you.”
“That’s not true,” I say evenly.
He cuts me off. “Better to wait until I’m a hundred miles away. A safe distance where I can’t do any harm. Did you discuss my precarious state of mind with your team, Kate? Did they agree with your assessment?”
“I’m not going to justify that with a response.”
“That’s rich.”
“I just wanted to let you know we might be getting a break soon. I wanted you to know what we were doing. How we were handling—”
“You wanted to let me know you can do this all by yourself.”
The words sting. They make me feel like a selfish bitch. Like maybe this is more about me than catching a killer, and I’ve put my officers and myself in harm’s way because I’m trying to prove something I don’t have to prove. I defend my position anyway. “That’s not true.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“I’m sure you’re shocked.”
“Look, I just called to let you know what’s going on.”
“Waiting until now to call me was a goddamn bitchy thing to do.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“I’m always like this. Wake the hell up.”
Fury burns through me with such force my hands shake. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Goddamn you, Kate. How the hell do you expect me to sleep tonight, knowing you’re alone in that house?” he shouts.
“I’m not alone.”
“You don’t have enough backup. T.J.’s a rookie and Skid isn’t exactly top notch. Do you think that’s good police work? That’s insane.”
“They’re good cops, and this is a good plan.”
“Sometimes good doesn’t matter! Don’t you get that?” He’s shouting at the top of his lungs now. “This guy comes calling in the middle of the night and gets by one of your guys, you’re going to find yourself in big trouble.”
“I’m armed. I’m wearing a vest—”
“Going to do you a hell of a lot of good if he takes a head shot!”
“John, you’re overreacting.”
“What the hell are you trying to prove, Kate?”
“I’m trying to catch the son of a bitch who killed seven people!”
“Or maybe you finally see a chance for retribution for what happened to you. Maybe you want to prove the Amish aren’t easy victims. Maybe you’re going to blow this guy’s shit away the moment he walks in the door.”
I almost can’t believe what’s coming from his mouth. “That’s psycho bullshit, Tomasetti.”
“I’m right and you know it! And now I’ve got to sit here and do nothing while you get yourself and maybe one of your guys fucking killed. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself? Did it even cross your mind that I would worry? That maybe I wanted to be involved?”
“You’re not part of this case!” I shout.
“And that’s exactly the way you want it, isn’t it?”
His words leave me reeling. The depth of his anger shocks me. Worse, it fills me with doubt. About the plan. About my motivations. About my abilities as a cop. “I don’t need this.”
“Evidently, you do.”
“I have to go.”
“Don’t you fucking hang up on
me!”
I snap my phone closed. His words ring in my head. For a full minute, I stand there, looking down at my phone, wondering what the hell just happened.
Turning off the phone, I drop it into my pocket and wander into the living room. Through the window, dusk wanes. Full darkness will be here soon. Several Jersey cows graze in the pasture. The long and narrow lane is empty. I can’t see the road from the house, but I know Skid can see it from the hayloft. He’ll let me know if anyone shows.
Still, the farm is large and there are a dozen places someone could approach and remain unseen. From the back pasture. They could slink along the green-belt that runs along the creek. They could use the cornfield for cover. On the outside chance someone is watching, I decide to use the last of the daylight to make myself visible.
CHAPTER 27
The garden is a cornucopia of autumn vegetables and berries. Standing in the final remnants of daylight, I take in the perfect rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, cucumber and green peppers. The rear perimeter is a briar patch of blackberry bushes drooping with ripe berries. In the spring, I know strawberries abound, and it’s a constant battle to keep the birds from stealing the fruit.
We had a similar garden when I was a girl growing up. I used to sneak into the garden and eat strawberries right off the plants, sometimes before they were even ripe. The season is long past now, but the blackberries are at the height of ripeness. I walk to the bushes. Being careful of the stickers, I pull off a couple of berries and pop them into my mouth.
Even as I enjoy the impromptu snack, I’m aware of the .38 in the pocket of my apron. The .22 mini-magnum strapped to my thigh. The knife in my ankle boot. I’m also keenly aware of my surroundings. It’s so quiet, I would have no problem hearing a vehicle come up the driveway. But if the killer makes an appearance, I don’t think he’ll use the lane. He’ll wait for full darkness, try for stealth. He’ll probably enter the house via the back door, try to find the boy without waking the rest of the family and kill him in the most expeditious manner possible.
Determined to make the farm appear normal, I spend a few minutes picking weeds. I check the laundry left on the clothesline—at my request. Thoughts of Tomasetti try to pry their way into my brain as I stroll the yard, but I don’t let them. I need to stay focused.
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