A Gathering of Secrets

by Linda Castillo

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Where’s that phone of yours?” she mutters.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I rasp.

  She sets her hands on me, digs into my pockets, grapples for my phone and yanks it out. “Danny Gingerich was a devil in disguise,” the Amish woman says. “Looked like some mama’s boy. Let me tell you something, he was a monster.”

  I don’t know if she’s speaking to me or talking to herself. The one thing I do know is that I’m in trouble.

  “That boy hurt everyone he came into contact with,” Edna tells me. “Man like him has no place on this earth. God struck him down is what He did. I just helped Him get the job done.”

  I just helped Him get the job done.

  I flop onto my side. Cold earth against my cheek. Dirt on my lips. Grit in my mouth. But my coordination coming back. My brain beginning to clear.

  “Where’s Neva?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  The shaft of light moves toward me. I try to get up, but my arms and legs fail. I get my first good look at the stun gun as she thrusts it at me. I roll, make it to my belly. “Don’t!” I shout.

  The electrodes snap. She stabs it hard against my back. Agony streaks up my spine, burns like a lit fuse down my limbs. A grand-mal seizure of pain that leaves me twitching and helpless.

  “You know what he was,” she says. “You should’ve looked the other way. Let it be so we could all be done with it.”

  She blinds me with the flashlight. I catch a glimpse of her face. Her expression is chillingly serene, her eyes alight with intent.

  My brain is misfiring. I try to sit up, end up wallowing in the dirt. “People know where I am,” I manage.

  “Nothing I can do about that.”

  She starts toward the stairs. I’m aware of the hiss and bark of my radio as she carries it away. Skid trying to get me on the horn. I think of him walking into this. She’s armed with my .38. No one is suspicious of her.

  “You would have gotten away with it, Edna. Why do this now?”

  She stops, turns to me, blinds me with the flashlight. “I did what I had to do. There was no pleasure in it. But it had to be done. He had to be stopped.”

  I try another tactic. “You’re right about Daniel. Let me go, and I won’t say a word.”

  The Amish woman crosses to me, squats a safe distance away, keeps the light in my eyes. “I don’t believe you. I know your kind.”

  “You have my word,” I say.

  “Too late for that now, Kate Burkholder.” She rises. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  For an instant, I think she’s going to level the .38 and empty the cylinder into my body. Instead, she lowers the flashlight and starts toward the stairs.

  I struggle to my hands and knees, scramble to my feet. She’s midway up the stairs; there’s no way I can catch her. “I’m a cop, Edna. You can’t lock me in this barn and hope I’ll go away. People know where I am. They’ll be looking for me.”

  I stumble toward her, teeter right, careen off a beam. But my coordination is returning. I dash to the base of the stairs, look up to see her go through the door at the top. I clamber up the steps, using my hands, as fast as I can manage. I’m halfway there when the door slams. The lock snicks into place.

  “Edna!” I reach the door, grab the knob and twist, but it’s locked. “Open the door!” I shout. “Open it! Now!”

  Nothing.

  Setting my ear against the wood, I listen, hear her drop the barricade lock into place. I yank the knob, rattle the door. “Open it!” I listen, but I can’t hear anything over the din of rain overhead. What the hell could she possibly be thinking? Skid knows where I am, as does Dispatch. When they can’t raise me on the radio, he’ll drive over straightaway.

  Frustrated, I slap my hands against the door. “Open it!”

  Out of habit, I touch the place where my radio would have been. My weapon. Cell phone. All of them gone.

  Turning, I face the darkness, wonder if there’s another way out. I feel my way down the stairs, carefully because there’s very little light. Just a jagged circle of gray seeping in through the hole in the ceiling where I fell through.

  Reaching the base of the stairs, I take a moment to get my bearings. I’d had my flashlight in my hand when I fell. Did it come down with me? Or did Edna take it? It had been on; I should be able to see the beam.

  I make my way over to the place I landed and kick away some of the wood and debris. Sure enough, I spot the beam and I snatch up the flashlight. I get my first good look at my dungeon. The space is about thirty feet wide with a low ceiling comprised of wood support beams and planks, all of it held up by massive columns resting on concrete piers. The floor is dirt. The exterior wall is a mosaic of wood siding set atop an ancient stone foundation. There are no windows on this level. Just the staircase to my left.

  I point the beam upward and look at the hole from which I fell. No dangling boards or wiring; nothing I can use to pull myself up with. Probably safer to stay put until Skid arrives.

  The good news is that I now know Edna Lambright is either guilty of—or at the very least involved in—the death of Daniel Gingerich. I think about Neva and I wonder if her going missing was a ruse, or if she’s somehow involved, too.

  A noise from above quiets my thoughts. Flipping off the flashlight, I look up, listening. I hear footsteps, movement, something being dragged across the floor. Through the opening, I see the shifting of shadows.

  “Edna, you need to open that door and let me out of here. One of my officers is on the way. It’s over.”

  I wait but there’s no response.

  “It’s not too late to stop this, Edna. Think of your family. They need you. Talk to me and we’ll work through this together.”

  Nothing.

  The rain is still coming down, but not as hard and I can hear her moving around. What the hell is she doing?

  “Talk to me, Edna,” I say. “Come on, work with me.”

  The next thing I know, something heavy lands a few feet away from me. Flicking on the light, I realize she tossed a wood pallet through the opening. Dust flies in the cone of light. I shift the beam upward in time to see a wooden crate tumble down, nearly striking me. A second crate follows, busting on impact. What the hell?

  I’m about to call out to her when I discern the unmistakable smell of gasoline. Fear lands a punch squarely in my chest. If this woman was capable of locking Daniel Gingerich in that tack room and setting the barn on fire, who’s to say she won’t do the same to me?

  “Edna!” I shout. “Don’t do anything foolish. Unlock that door and let me out!”

  Several more boards fly down through the hole. The smell of gasoline intensifies and I realize she’s dousing all that old wood with gas.

  I try to appeal to her. “Mer sot em sei eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die seine nicht.” One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon His own.

  Another board clatters atop the others.

  “Edna!” I shout. “Don’t do this! The police are on the way!”

  Silence.

  Spinning, I shine the beam around the room, looking for an escape, windows, doors, loose siding or even a loose stone in the foundation. Seeing nothing, I hasten to the staircase, take the steps two at a time to the top. I try the knob again. No go. I check for hinges, thinking I might be able to tap out the pins, but they’re on the other side of the door.

  Without hesitation, I step back, raise my right leg and kick the wood next to the knob hard enough to jolt my bones. Once. Twice. Three times. I look around for something heavy with which to ram it. But there’s nothing. Getting a running start, I thrust my shoulder and hip into the door, putting as much body weight as I can behind it. The door holds solid.

  “Edna! Don’t do anything stupid.” Grinding out the words between gritted teeth, I take the steps back down to ground level.

  My eyes scan the area, looking for something I can use to bus
t down the door. A cinder block. A length of wood. A stone from the foundation. All the while I’m aware of the shuffling of feet above. Someone moving around. Something scraping against the floor. I spot a T-post, rush to it. I’m bending to pick it up when I hear a tremendous whoosh! A fireball the size of a car flares above and then plummets downward.

  A gust of intense heat shoves me backward. Turning away, I sprint to the stairs. At the base, I glance over my shoulder to see the pile of wood ignite. For an instant, I consider trying to douse the flames, but the fire is too large, there’s too much gas, and I don’t have the means.

  “Edna!” I scream. “Open the door!”

  Panic jabs my solar plexus hard enough to take my breath. Smoke rises and expands along the ceiling, pouring out through the opening from which I fell.

  I dart to the T-post I saw earlier, snatch it up. I run to the fire, poke at it with the post, hoping to disperse the fuel source, weaken the flames. Within seconds the heat and smoke drive me back. Steel post in hand, I rush back to the stairs, take them two at a time to the top. Using the post like a battering ram, I slam it into the door as hard as I can. The impact jars my body, scrapes my palms. But the door holds.

  All the while smoke billows all around, a noxious cloud reaching for me with black, toxic fingers. I ram the post against the lock. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Help me!”

  In the back of my mind I wonder where Skid is. If he’s tried to raise me on the radio. If he’s on his way. Images of Daniel Gingerich’s burned body flash in my mind’s eye. I see the contracted tendons and charred, split flesh, his face blackened beyond recognition. I wonder if his last minutes were like this. If he’d thought up until the end that he was going to survive. It’s a terrifying thought that pushes me to the edge of panic.

  Setting down the T-post, I snatch the flashlight from my waistband and descend the stairs. Another layer of fear tears through me when I see that the fire has doubled in size. A bellowing monster spewing smoke and heat and snatching all the air.

  I stand there, heat singeing my face, smoke burning my lungs. I look up at the hole in the ceiling. No one there. I scream out her name anyway. “Edna! Open the door!”

  Heat sends me backward. Coughing, I look around. I’m not strong enough, heavy enough, to break down the door. There are no windows. No other doors. No escape.

  “Help me!” I scream.

  Smoke scorches my throat. My shirt is still damp from the rain. Not bothering with the buttons, I tear it open, rip it off my shoulders. Setting down the flashlight, I use my teeth to tear off one of the sleeves, wrap it around my head, cover my nose and mouth, and tie it at my nape. I put what’s left of my shirt back on and jog to the wall farthest from the fire. The stone and concrete foundation is a couple of feet high. I run my hands over the wood siding, looking for loose or rotting boards, but there’s nothing.

  Turning, I rush the stairs, snap up the T-post I left on the landing and I clatter back down. Once again at the farthest point from the fire, I draw back the T-post and smash it against the siding. I ram it again and again; I swing it like a bat, but the wood holds firm.

  The fire has transformed into a living thing. A merciless, bellowing monster bent on devouring everything in its path.

  “Help me!” I try to scream the words, but I break into coughing. The smoke is choking and so thick I can barely see. It’s acrid and caustic. The heat is unbearable. I can feel it scorching my shirt, smell it singeing the fabric.

  Dropping the T-post, I go to my knees, hacking and retching. I think about Tomasetti and a scream of outrage pours from my throat. I don’t want to do this to him. I don’t want him to suffer the unbearable pain of losing another loved one.

  I don’t want to die.

  I drop to the ground, set my face against the dirt. The air is marginally cleaner. I scoot closer to the stone foundation. Still hot, but cooler. I want to go back to the stairs, try the door again. It’s my only hope. My last hope. I’m not sure I can make it.

  Disbelief swamps me. I can’t believe my life is going to end this way. I think of the people I’ll leave behind. My brother and sister. My team of officers. The Amish community that has shunned me, yet that I still love.

  But it’s John Tomasetti that dominates my thoughts. Even in the throes of a chaotic and mindless horror, it’s he who lights the darkness. The intensity of my love for him. Even if I die here today, I know that will live on.

  A crash shakes the building. In my peripheral vision I see sparks raining down, and I know the ceiling is starting to cave. If I don’t get out now, I’ll either be crushed to death or burned alive.

  “Tomasetti…”

  I scoot closer to the foundation. Nowhere else to go. No air to breathe. Just fire and heat and smoke.

  Dear God.

  A cool puff hits my face. At first, I think my mind is playing tricks. Then I smell rain. The flashlight is still in my right hand. Groaning, I drag it up. The beam illuminates nothing but dirt and stone, all of it obscured by smoke. Then I spot the gap where the mortar has crumbled. Water seeping in from the outside.

  The urge to run back and grab the T-post again is powerful, but there’s too much smoke, too much heat; I might not make it back. Instead, I roll onto my back, set my feet against the stone foundation, and I stomp as hard as I can. Hope leaps when the stones shift. I kick again, this time with so much force that my body slides away. I reposition myself, mule kick with all my might.

  Another surge of hope when I feel movement. The stone is smaller than a cinder block; even if I manage to dislodge it, I won’t fit through the hole. But I’ll be in a better position to kick out a second one.

  Lifting both legs, I stomp the stone, again and again. It slides a couple of inches. Finger-size chunks of mortar fall toward me. I scream and kick and choke in a frenzy of panic and resolve and the will to survive. All the while the fire rages. Debris crashes down from above. I ignore all of it and kick, kick, kick.

  The stone gives way. The one above it shifts down. Mortar crumbles. Sobbing, lungs burning, I kick it. Once. Twice. And it’s gone.

  Twisting, I sit up, set my face against the rush of cool, clean air. I thrust my hands and arms and head through the hole. Digging my toes into the dirt, I shove my torso and hips through. Drizzle and cool night air greet me. I’m still coughing and sobbing. I grab handfuls of weeds and grass and mud, and pull myself free of the hole. I hear someone laughing maniacally, realize it’s me.

  Then I’m outside, gulping fresh air, coughing. Rain cools my heated skin. I roll onto my back, look up at the night sky. For an instant I can’t move. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  A crash from inside the barn snaps me from my stupor. I sit up, struggle to my feet. The flashlight is lying in the weeds, so I bend and pick it up. The fire lights up the entire area. I back away from the barn. I’m on the downhill side of the structure. Unseen from the parking lot. I’d been so focused on escape, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Edna Lambright is still around. That she’s got my .38. Starting up the hill, I make my way toward the Explorer to radio for help.

  CHAPTER 22

  I’m midway to the Explorer when I hear tires on gravel. I’m about to take cover when I see the flash of emergency lights against the treetops. Skid’s cruiser pulls up next to my Explorer.

  The driver’s-side door flies open. Skid jumps out and jogs toward me. “Chief!”

  I break into a run. “Edna Lambright is armed!” I call out. “She locked me in the barn. Set it on fire.”

  He flicks the thumb strap off his sidearm and pulls it. Simultaneously, he speaks into his lapel mike. “Ten-thirty-five,” he says, putting out the code for a major crime alert.

  “I think she’s in a 2005 Taurus,” I tell him. “We need to stop her.” I reach him, aware that he’s staring at me with concern as he relays the information into his mike.

  “You okay, Chief? You need an ambulance?”

  I yank open the passe
nger door of his cruiser. “I’m fine. Let’s go get her.”

  I slide into the seat. Gravel flies from beneath the tires as he turns around and starts toward the road. “She’s probably on her way to her farm.”

  He makes a right. The engine groans when he floors the accelerator and cranks the speedometer to seventy.

  “Skid, she’s got my gun,” I tell him. “You got an extra?”

  “Just that shotgun in the trunk.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The radio lights up with activity as the alert goes out to dispatch and the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. Most days Skid is Mr. Laid-Back Practical Joker. Tonight, he’s all business. He’s driving fast, eyes scanning left and right as he passes dark country roads, fields, and lanes obscured by trees.

  Taillights appear ahead. “There,” I say.

  “Looks like our vehicle.”

  I pick up the mike. “Ten-thirty-eight,” I say, letting our counterparts know we’re about to stop a suspicious vehicle. “That’s her,” I tell Skid.

  Hitting his bright lights, he pulls up close behind the car, keeping slightly left. We’re moving at about forty miles per hour; she’s not slowing quickly enough, so he pulses the siren three times.

  For a second, I think she’s going to run. Then the turn signal flicks on; she pulls onto the shoulder and stops. Skid sticks with her, keeping left, and stops. He jams the shifter into park, glances my way. “I’m going to get her out.”

  “Armed driver protocol,” I say. “Pop the trunk.”

  “Yep.” He draws his weapon.

  The trunk mechanism clicks.

  Opening his door, he grabs the mike for his loudspeaker. “Driver! Turn off the engine! Roll down your window and let me see your hands!”

  Never taking my eyes from the Taurus, I open my door and, staying low, slink around to the trunk. Ever aware that a .38 round will penetrate everything but the engine, I lift the trunk and unseat the Remington 870 from its mount.

  “Driver!” Skid’s out of the car now, his weapon trained on the vehicle. “Show me your hands now!”