At dark, I go back into the house. I light the lantern on the kitchen table, filling the room with yellow light and the smell of lantern oil. I light a second lantern in the living room, then go upstairs and light another in the master bedroom. Just another ordinary night in the Zook home.
Back in the living room, I close the curtains and hit my lapel mike. “Skid, all clear in the barn?”
“Just me and these stinkin’ pigs.”
“T.J.?”
“Not a single car in the last half hour.”
I sigh. “We may be here a while.”
“What if they don’t show, Chief?” T.J. asks.
I’ve been a cop long enough to know stings like this one rarely go as planned. There are so many variables it’s hard to pinpoint where things might go awry. But the killer not showing is certainly high on the list.
“We don’t have the manpower to stake this place out more than a few days,” I say. “If he doesn’t show tonight, I’ll call BCI or the sheriff’s office and request assistance.”
“Good plan.”
I end the call and sigh. In the kitchen, I find another lantern on the counter, light it, turn up the wick. I want it light in here. Crossing to the sink, I open the curtains. Lightning flickers above the trees to the north. A cool breeze wafts in, and I smell rain. The storm would be perfect cover for a home invasion. I go to the living room and pull open the curtains. I want him to see me. An Amish woman staying up late to mend trousers and socks or maybe work on a quilt. Her family is already in bed for the night. The doors are unlocked. They are the perfect victims.
“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m waiting. Come on in and get me.”
It had been about forty years since Tomasetti had a temper tantrum, but he felt one coming on now. He wanted to break something. Preferably, Kate Burkholder’s pretty neck. Goddamn woman cop. What the hell was she thinking trying to pull off a dangerous sting with nothing more than a couple of cops to back her up?
But Tomasetti already knew the answer. He’d spelled it out for her over the phone. This wasn’t about justice. It was about retribution. He ought to know. Two and a half years ago he’d killed a man in the name of revenge. Then he’d taken it a step further and framed a career criminal—a second man who’d been involved with the murders of John’s family—for the crime. Tomasetti hadn’t felt a goddamn thing but satisfaction.
Yes, John Tomasetti was a master on the subject of payback. He’d destroyed his career. Nearly finished off what was left of his life. All in the name of retribution under the guise of justice. What a goddamn joke.
He’d been pacing the house for an hour now, but it wasn’t helping. The place was a dump. Empty. Like nobody lived there. That’s how he felt inside. No one’s home. No one who cared, anyway. The problem was, Tomasetti was beginning to care, and that was one place he didn’t want to be.
He looked down at the tumbler in front of him and a wave of self-loathing swept through him. Picking up the glass, he hurled it into the sink as hard as he could. Glass shattered. Shards scattered like pieces of ice. He could smell the whiskey from where he stood. He could still taste the sour tang of it in his mouth. Feel the warm buzz of it running through his brain.
He shouldn’t even consider driving down to Painters Mill in his current state. He’d been drinking, enough so that he shouldn’t be driving. He shouldn’t get anywhere near Kate. But it wasn’t the fear of doing physical violence to her that gave him pause. Tomasetti didn’t like where his head was when it came to her. He didn’t want to care for her. He didn’t want to care about anyone. He was just getting to the point where he could get through the day without thinking about Nancy and the girls. He could go the entire night without thinking about putting a bullet in his head. And now his feelings for Kate were jeopardizing all of it.
For the first time in a long time, Tomasetti’s feelings for someone else were overriding his hatred for himself. But he knew the kinds of terrible things that could happen to the people he cared about. There was no way in hell he ever wanted to go through the horror of losing someone he cared for ever again. It was easier not to give a damn.
Kate hadn’t left him a choice.
“Goddamn you, Kate.”
Yanking open the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it and drank it down without stopping. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t exactly sober. He wasn’t impaired, but that wouldn’t keep him from getting a DUI if some trooper pulled him over, decided to give him a breath test. Tomasetti was over the limit in more ways than one.
Cursing, he snagged another bottle of water from the fridge, grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for the door.
It’s three A.M., and the house is so quiet I can hear the oil sizzling on the lantern wicks. The wind hisses and sighs through the window above the sink. I sit at the kitchen table with two pair of trousers and an open sewing basket in front of me. I’ve made several passes in front of the windows, making myself visible. From all appearances I’m the only family member awake. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for half my life. Or so says Tomasetti.
I’ve tried hard to maintain my edge. But my focus has shifted to him a dozen times in the last few hours. I don’t like the way we left things. I don’t like the things we said to each other. There was too much emotion. Maybe even a little bit of truth. I’m not sure which is worse.
Rising, I carry a pair of trousers through the living room, passing close to the window, and walk into the bathroom. There, I sit on the side of the tub and hit my radio.
“You guys there?”
“If these sons of bitches don’t show tonight, I swear to Christ I’m wearing a gas mask tomorrow,” Skid says.
With the loneliness of the house pressing down on me, I’m unduly glad for his particular brand of humor. “T.J.?”
“Gonna storm, Chief. I’ve got the radio on and they’ve got warnings out.”
“Keep your eyes open. They might try to use the rain as cover.”
“Bring it on,” Skid says.
“I’m going to douse the lights. But I’ll be in the kitchen. Just so you know.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
Picking up the trousers, I leave the bathroom. The thunder is closer now, a low rumble that rattles the glass in the windows. The air is thick with humidity and the wet-earth smell of rain. I walk the house, turning down the wicks in each lantern as I pass. In the upstairs bedroom, I extinguish the last lantern when the first fat drops of rain hit the windows on the west side of the house.
I can feel the energy of the storm now. That sharp zing in the air, the anticipation of violence. I feel a similar anticipation running through my veins. Predator hunting predator. I’m ready for him.
The cloud cover obliterates any moonlight and the house is incredibly dark. I wish for a flashlight as I descend the stairs. But even blind and deaf, I feel as if my other senses are heightened. Even with the thunder and the drone of the rain, I would know if someone were in the house.
I’m reassured by the .38 in my pocket, the backup .22 sheathed at my thigh, the knife in my boot. I’ve branded the location of each weapon into my brain. When the time comes, reaching for the right one will be second nature, pure instinct, no hesitation. Pausing at the front door, I check the knob. Unlocked, the way I want it. I peek out the window. Lightning flickers, illuminating the white rail fence and the cherry tree beyond the porch. The rain is coming down in torrents. The branches of the trees sway in the wind, spindly fingers clawing at the night sky.
The rain will affect visibility. If someone were to approach the house on foot, Skid and T.J. may not see them. They wouldn’t be able to alert me. But I’m not unduly alarmed. The killer is expecting an Amish family, not an armed cop.
Leaving the living room, I head toward the kitchen, keeping an eye on the windows. I’ve already decided that if someone were to enter the house, they’ll probably do it via the kitchen door. It’s the point of entry farthest from the be
drooms. Not visible from the road. And there’s plenty of glass to break if needed. Tonight, that won’t be necessary because I’ve left the door unlocked. . . .
I decide to spend the night there, at the table, where I have a decent view of both the rear and front doors. If I’m going to get ambushed, I want to see him coming.
I enter the kitchen. Cool, wet air brushes against my legs. The hairs at my nape prickle. Lightning flashes, illuminating the silhouette of a man, standing just inside the door. Adrenaline blasts through me. I reach for the .38. Hand in my pocket, fingers closing around the wood stock. Gun coming up. Finger on the trigger.
I’ve got you, fucker.
“Police!” My voice comes out as a scream. “Put your hands up now!”
Lightning flickers like a strobe. I catch a split-second glimpse of wet hair plastered to a pale face. Water dripping onto the floor. Recognition kicks my brain. Jack Warner, I realize and shock reverberates in my head.
He doesn’t obey my command.
“Get them up!” I scream. “Now!”
I see something in his hand. Too dark to discern what it is. His hand rises. I fire twice in quick succession, center of mass. Thunder drowns out the sound of my gunfire. He stiffens, then drops to his knees.
Something clatters to the floor. Gun, I think. Keeping my weapon poised on the intruder, I kick it away. “Get facedown on the floor! Do it right fucking now!”
“You shot me.”
His voice is startlingly boyish. I’m shaking violently, but my gun hand is steady. If he moves I have no compunction about finishing the job. “Don’t move,” I say as I reach for my radio.
“Drop the gun, bitch. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The voice comes from behind me. Shock is a knife slash across my back. Two of them, I think. For an instant, I consider spinning, taking a wild shot. But he’s got me dead to rights. Lowering my weapon, I slowly turn. I see the silhouette of a man. The black outline of a sawed-off shotgun.
Lightning flashes.
Recognition staggers me. Scott Barbereaux levels the shotgun at my chest. I see deadly intent in his eyes, and I know as surely as the rain pounds down outside that he’s going to kill me.
“Drop the gun, bitch.”
Knowing I have a backup weapon, I offer the .38. butt first.
Barbereaux makes no move to take it. “Drop it and kick it to me.”
Moving slowly, I do as he says, kicking it so that he has to come closer to retrieve it.
He directs his attention to his fallen comrade. “How bad are you hurt?”
“She got me twice,” Warner chokes out. “I’m bleeding. I think it’s bad.”
“You’re going to be okay. Hold tight.”
In that moment, I realize I probably only have seconds to live. Terror sweeps through me. Vaguely, I wonder if I can hit my lapel mike without being noticed. Even if I can do that, I know that unless I can somehow keep Barbereaux and Warner talking, T.J. and Skid won’t be able to get here in time to save me.
I look down at Warner. He’s lying on the floor to my left, bent slightly, holding his abdomen with both hands. A slowly growing puddle of blood encircles his body like a black halo.
I turn my attention to Barbereaux. “I’ve got EMT training. Let me stop the bleeding.”
Barbereaux hikes the shotgun. “Where’s that fucking Amish kid?”
Only then do I realize he still believes Billy Zook can identify him. I try to think of a way I can use that to my advantage. A dozen lies fly at my brain. “I’ll take you to him,” I blurt out.
“You’ll tell me where he is or I’ll cut you down where you stand,” he says between gritted teeth.
No matter what happens, the one thing I will not do is reveal the boy’s whereabouts. “I’m a cop, Scott. If you kill me, they’ll put a needle in your arm.”
Behind me, I hear Warner whimper. “I need to get to the hospital.”
I glance over at him. The puddle of blood has doubled in size. I can smell it now. That awful, metal-and-methane stench. “He’s bleeding out. Let me help him.”
His expression doesn’t change. There’s no sympathy for the dying man, no fear of discovery, just a deadly determination and all of it is focused on me. “You’ve got one more chance. Where’s that fuckin’ kid?”
“He’s at a safe house, surrounded by a dozen cops—”
He moves so quickly, I don’t see the blow coming. One moment I’m scrambling for a lie, trying to think my way out of this. The next I’m reeling sideways. For a crazy instant, I think he’s shot me, then I realize he swung the shotgun, striking my left temple. I stumble, make a wild grab for the counter, careen into it hard enough to cave in the wood front, and go down hard.
The next thing I know, I’m on my back. Barbereaux straddles my chest, shoving the shotgun crossways against my throat. “Where’s the kid!” he screams.
Around me the room spins crazily. Lightning is like a strobe on his face. The shotgun grinds hard against my windpipe and Adam’s apple. I turn my head, try to raise my hands to push it away, but he’s got them trapped with his knees.
“You better start talking!” he shouts.
I open my mouth, but the steel barrel is crushing my voice box. Cursing, he removes the shotgun.
I gulp air. “We set you up,” I croak. “That kid didn’t see anything. We knew you’d show.” I cough. “Cops are outside.”
“Well, aren’t you a smart little bitch?” Cruelty and a barely controlled rage glints in his eyes. We stare at each other while the storm rages on. A few feet away, Jack Warner groans in agony. Then Barbereaux smiles. “If you’re talking about that hayseed fuck in the barn, he’s dead.”
Skid. I stare at him, outrage billowing through me with such force my entire body trembles with it. Not Skid. Not one of my own. My brain chants the words like a mantra. And in that moment, I know I could kill this man with my bare hands if given the chance.
Somehow I muster the presence of mind to keep him talking. “It’s over,” I tell him. “We know about you and Mary Plank. She kept a diary.” I barely hear my own voice above the roar of blood through my veins. “She wrote about you.”
His eyes sharpen and for the first time I see uncertainty. He didn’t know about the journal. I’ve got his full attention now, so I keep going. “We know what you did to her. We know everything.”
“She was dumber than a box of rocks,” he says. “Had the mentality of a ten-year-old.”
“She was just a kid.”
“She liked to fuck.”
“She loved you.”
His smile chills me. “If she’d named me in some book, we wouldn’t be here, you lying bitch.”
He slaps me open-handed in the face, then rises and walks over to Warner, taking the shotgun with him. I use that moment to take a quick physical inventory. My head throbs where he hit me with the stock. I think of the .22 mini-magnum strapped to my thigh, the knife in my boot, and I realize I still have a chance to get out of this alive. I push myself to a sitting position, then get to my feet. The room dips and spins, so I hold on to the counter for support.
A few feet away, Barbereaux bends and pulls Warner to his feet. Warner groans. “I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll get you there, buddy. Just hang tight. Let me figure out what to do with the bitch, and then we’ll go.”
The other man is too weak to stand, so Barbereaux yanks out a chair, muscles him into it, then turns to me, thrusts the shotgun at me. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”
He’s going to kill me; I see intent in his eyes. It’s just a matter of time. The realization sends a shudder of terror through me. Holding his gaze, I ease my right hand down, feel the mini-magnum through the fabric of my skirt. I wonder if I can take aim and pull the trigger without having to draw the weapon out from under my skirt.
“You still have a chance to get away if you run now,” I tell him.
“You know this isn’t going to end nicel
y for you, don’t you?”
“If you kill a cop, they won’t ever stop looking for you. Ever.”
“You’re forgetting one thing.” One side of his mouth curves. “They don’t have my name.”
“We have you on disk. It’s only a matter of time before they tie you to it.”
He smirks nastily. “I guess that’s why you’re here, dressed like that. Because of all that fuckin’ evidence you’ve got.”
“We’ve got the other disks, too. The ones we found at Long’s place.”
“Just when I was starting to think you’re smart, you blow it by saying something stupid.” He shakes his head, feigning pity. “There’s nothing incriminating on any of those disks. Just that little bitch getting what she wanted. Who do you think planted them, for fuck sake?”
Now it’s my turn to smile. “You screwed up. We’ve got you dead to rights on one of the disks.” I need to buy some time, keep him talking, thinking.
Next to Barbereaux, Warner coughs up a spray of blood. “For God’s sake . . . get me to the hospital. Fuckin’ dying . . .”
Barbereaux steps quickly away from the other man, casts me an irritated look. “Bullshit, I went through every disk.”
“You willing to stake your life on that?” I shrug, let the statement hang. When he says nothing, I add, “Technology is an amazing thing. You’d be surprised by the information those techies can pull off a disk these days. That scar on your hand?”
He glances quickly down, then back at me. The look he gives me is so utterly devoid of emotion that it’s like looking into the eyes of a corpse. I sense he’s going to raise the shotgun and kill me. The urge to appeal to his compassion is overwhelming, but I know it would be futile. He’s a sociopath, incapable of feeling remorse. My heart pounds so loudly, I can no longer hear the storm. Keep him talking . . .
“How could you do that to those two girls?” I ask.
Pray for Silence Page 30
