“I knew you’d be impressed.” He closes the door behind me. “Sorry, but we’re out of food. I didn’t have time to stop at the grocery.”
“It’s late. Cereal’s perfect.”
He’s at the refrigerator, peering inside. I look down at the bowl in front of me and go to him. “Tomasetti.”
He straightens, turns to me. Before he can say anything, I step close and put my arms around his neck. He smells of aftershave and shampoo and his own unique scent I’ve come to love. “I miss you,” I whisper, and I press my mouth to his.
His arms encircle me, pull me close. He kisses me back, long and slow and with a certain reverence. After a moment, he pulls back and gives me a long look. “I think I’ll serve up cereal for dinner more often.”
My laugh feels good coming out. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home much.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been better company.”
“It’s just that this case…”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it.”
I stop myself. “Tomasetti, it isn’t about the case. I mean, not all of it.”
He tilts his head as if trying to lift my gaze to his. “I think I got the other thing, too, Kate.”
“This is new ground for me. I’m scared. I don’t know how to do this. And I don’t know how you feel.”
“It’s new ground for me, too. Having a kid … it’s a big deal. It’s okay to be scared.”
Turning slightly, I run my arms over his shoulders and grip his biceps. “It’s not only the pregnancy I’m afraid of. It’s us. There’s this … distance between us now that wasn’t there before. It’s like I can touch you, but I can’t reach you.”
“I know,” he tells me. “It’s my fault, not yours. Whatever gap exists, we’ll bridge it.”
“You didn’t want this.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, I didn’t. That said, we both know life rarely serves it up just the way you want.”
“I don’t want this to get in the way of us.”
“I’m not going to let it.” He reaches for my hand. “Come here,” he says. “I want to show you something.”
Hand in hand, we leave the kitchen and take the stairs to the guest bedroom. It’s a large space with tall, narrow windows that look out at the front of the property. Shortly after I moved in, Tomasetti added a bathroom and walk-in closet. The additions gobbled up some space, but there’s still plenty of room, which includes a sitting area near the window.
The light flicks on and I find myself looking at a wooden bassinet. I recognize the Amish craftsmanship immediately: the dovetail joints and corkscrewed spindles. It’s made of maple and stained the color of cherrywood.
“I found it at an auction in Geauga,” he tells me. “It’s Amish-made. The guy I bought it from said it’s about sixty years old.”
I can’t stop looking at the bassinet. There’s something about that solid piece of furniture, so sturdy and with so much history, that drives home the fact that all of this is real. That my life—our lives—are about to change in a very big way. The world is spinning out of control, and I feel the sudden need to hold on tight or else risk being flung off into space.
“I’m working on a case there,” he tells me, “assisting the sheriff’s office with the murder of a small-time meth dealer who’s turning out to be not so small-time.” He motions toward the bassinet. “There’s a nick on the leg, and it’s missing a caster wheel in the back. Both are easy fixes. I picked up a caster at the hardware store. And I think I’ve got some wood filler and stain in the garage.”
It’s not like Tomasetti to prattle. In fact, he’s more likely to clam up. For the first time I realize he’s nervous about what he’s done. About how I’m going to react to it.
“Kate?”
I tear my gaze away from the bassinet and look at him. I see concern and uncertainty in his expression, and I realize this is an important moment. One that’s going to define how we navigate this new turn in our lives.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
He reaches for the bassinet and gently lays it over on its side. “Look at this.” Beneath the crib section, carved into the wood are the words from an Amish proverb I hadn’t heard or thought of in years.
A CHILD IS THE ONLY TREASURE YOU CAN TAKE TO HEAVEN.
I’m not a crier. I can count the number of times I’ve cried in the last five years on one hand. But the sight of those words inscribed in the wood and the knowledge that the man I love bought it for our child bring a rush of heat to my eyes.
I raise my gaze to Tomasetti’s. “It’s perfect.”
“You sure? I mean, if you want something new, I can—”
“I love it.” He starts to say something else, but I press two fingers against his mouth. “For God’s sake, Tomasetti, if you say or do one more nice thing, I’m going to start blathering like an idiot.”
“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“I’d rather it not be that.”
“Okay.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist and lowers my hand from his lips. Then his mouth is against mine and my back is against the wall. He leans into me and kisses me without finesse. A hundred thoughts scatter and fly, and I forget about everything except this moment between us and the promise of a future that, for the first time in my life, might just be within reach.
* * *
There are times when a case sinks so deeply into my psyche that I mull it even in my sleep. By the time morning rolls around, I’m convinced of two things: Jeramy Kline’s untimely death was no accident, and his wife, Abigail, is responsible.
It’s implausible to believe an Amish woman would mistake pokeweed for dandelion greens; the two plants are noticeably different in appearance and taste. If Abigail intended to include the pokeweed, she would have known it must be “thrice” boiled in order to cook out the toxins. I believe she purposefully poisoned her husband by serving up a toxic amount of underboiled pokeweed mixed in with a batch of dandelion greens.
The problem, of course, is proving it. In order to do that, I need motive, which I believe is inexorably linked to the as-yet unsolved mystery of Leroy Nolt.
Tomasetti had an early meeting with the suits in Richfield and left the house at a little before six. He didn’t wake me, which has become the norm since I found out about my pregnancy. It’s a little after seven when I pad to the kitchen, still wearing my sweatpants and T-shirt. Outside, a summer storm has moved in. Thunder rattles the decorative plates hanging on the wall. The curtains above the sink billow in a breeze laden with humidity.
I’m pouring my first cup of coffee when I find the note tucked beneath the coffeemaker. Let’s go fishing this weekend.
I laugh in the silence of the kitchen. It’s the sound of a happy woman, and I pause to remind myself that that woman is me. That I laugh when I’m alone in the privacy of my own kitchen. And I will take to work with me today the knowledge that I am loved.
Pulling a pen from the drawer, I write: Last to show baits the hook.
I’m tucking the corner of the note under the coffeemaker, thinking about going upstairs for one more peek at the bassinet before jumping into the shower, when the back door creaks. I turn from the coffeemaker to see the door open a couple of inches, pushed by a gust of wind. Uneasiness flutters in my gut. Tomasetti is far too cautious to leave any door unlocked. Then I notice the sheen of rain on the floor. The sparkle of broken glass. A smear of mud on the tile. And I know someone’s in the house.
Adrenaline ignites and spreads to my arms and legs with enough force to make me shake. My every sense flashes to high alert. The hum of the refrigerator. The din of rain against the roof. The slap of water against the ground. The hiss of the radio I left on in the bedroom upstairs. Outside, thunder rumbles like the footfalls of some massive primordial beast. My first thought is that Nick Kester found out where I live and has broken in. My second thought falls to my .38, which is lying on th
e night table upstairs next to the bed.
I set down the cup of coffee. My eyes dart to my cell phone charging on the counter a few feet away. I lunge at it, yank out the cord, and hit 911 with my thumb. Never taking my eyes from the door, I take a step back and look over my shoulder at the stairs. The living room is silent and dark, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t there, intent on doing me harm.
I’m about to charge up the steps, when someone comes around from the front of the house. Even in the dim light I recognize Kester. He’s wearing blue jeans. Pistol grip sticking out of his waistband. Dirty denim jacket. His hair is soaked and dripping, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I smell the cigarette stench coming off him. For an instant, he looks surprised to see me.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
He jolts at the sound of the tinny voice. His eyes dart to the cell phone in my hand.
“Sheriff’s Department is on the way,” I tell him. “You’d better run.”
His mouth opens. I see jagged yellow teeth from within pale lips. A flash of uncertainty in his eyes. A glint of something ugly just beneath the surface. His right hand twitches, moves toward the pistol.
I hurl the cell phone, striking him beneath his left eye hard enough to open the skin. He reels back, hands coming up. “What the fuck!”
Spinning, I grab the banister, swing around it, and fly up the steps two at a time. Kester bellows a curse. I reach the top of the stairs. My stocking feet slide on the hardwood floor. I scramble left and sprint down the hall, arms outstretched.
“Fucking bitch cop!” Kester pounds up the steps behind me. “I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!”
A gunshot snaps through the air. A hollow thunk! sounds as the bullet tears into the sheetrock to my right. Then I’m through the bedroom door, slam it behind me, slap the lock into place. Two steps, and I yank my .38 from the holster. Revolver trained on the door, I back toward the bench at the foot of the bed and snatch up my police radio. “Ten-thirty-one E!” I shout out my address. “Shots fired! Ten-forty!”
In a fraction of a second, Skid’s voice snaps over the radio. “Ten-seven-six.”
“Stand by,” comes Mona’s voice.
“Kester, I’m armed!” I scream. “You come through that door and I will fucking shoot you!”
“You got an ID?” Skid asks.
“Nick Kester,” I pant. “He’s armed with a handgun.”
“Fuckin’ MUTT!” Over the radio I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine as he cranks it up. “ETA two minutes. Hang tight.”
“SO’s en route,” says Mona.
Never taking my eyes from the door, keeping the pistol leveled and ready, I back up and kneel beside the bed. I know it won’t stop a bullet; the best I can hope for is that it will buy me a few seconds. If he comes through the door, I’ll open fire until he stops moving.
“Anyone hurt?” Mona asks.
“No.”
“Ten-twenty-three.” Skid, letting me know he’s arrived on scene. “Where’s he at?”
“I don’t know. Second level maybe. Be careful.”
Holding my breath, I listen for movement in the hall. The only sounds come from the rain tapping against the window and the distant wail of sirens. I leave my position behind the bed and go right to avoid approaching the door directly in case Kester fires through it. I sidle along the wall and pause at the dresser.
“Nick Kester!” I shout. “The police are out front! Drop your weapon! Do it now!”
No response.
I wonder if his wife is with him. If she’s somewhere in the house or sitting in a vehicle waiting for him.
I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!
And I realize he knows I had nothing to do with his daughter’s death.…
Around me, the house is quiet. The silence unsettles me. Where’s Kester? Where’s Skid? My heart is pounding too hard. My hands are shaking. I edge around the dresser, set my left hand on the knob. A quick twist, and I swing open the door.
“Police!” I scream. “Drop the weapon! Get your hands up! Get on the fucking ground!”
A door slams somewhere downstairs. I can’t tell if it’s the front or the back. I don’t know if it’s Kester fleeing—or one of my own making entry.
“Skid!” I shout.
“I’m in the kitchen!” Skid’s voice sounds from downstairs.
“I’m upstairs!” I shout. “Where’s Kester?”
“Downstairs is clear!” shouts Glock, and another layer of relief goes through me.
Gripping my .38, I step into the hall. Skid bounds up the stairs, pistol leading the way. He makes eye contact with me and then enters the first bedroom. I pull open the hall closet, peer inside, find it empty. When I close it, Glock is coming down the hall.
“You okay, Chief?”
I jerk my head.
“Clear!” Skid exits the bedroom, nods at Glock, and then disappears into the bathroom.
I look at Glock and motion toward the remaining bedroom. “Let’s clear it.”
Nodding, his sidearm leading the way, he enters the room. I follow. While he checks the closet, I drop and look under the bed.
“Clear,” he says as he emerges.
He looks at me closely as he holsters his weapon. I see his eyes fall upon the bassinet. He stares at it a moment, then looks away as if realizing he’s intruded upon my private domain.
“Fucker’s gone.” Ducking his head slightly, Glock speaks into his lapel mike. “House is clear. Suspect at large.”
Skid stands at the door. He’s also noticed the bassinet. He’s not quite as good as Glock at concealing his surprise, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
I start toward the door. “You call Wayne County?”
Skid steps aside as I shoulder past. “They’re setting up a perimeter now.”
I look at Glock. “See if someone can get a K-nine Unit out here.”
Nodding, he tilts his head and speaks into his shoulder mike. I start down the hall. My stride falters when I notice the hole in the drywall. Specks of plaster on the hardwood floor.
“Son of a bitch wasn’t messing around, was he?” comes Skid’s voice from behind me.
I stave off a chill, but I don’t do a very good job of ignoring the little voice whispering in my ear: That could have been you.
“We need to find him,” I hear myself say. “Pull out all the stops.” I make eye contact with Glock. “You notify SHP?”
“Holmes County, too,” he says. “BOLO is still active.”
My arms and legs are beginning to shake in earnest, so I keep moving down the hall. “He could still be on the property.”
“I’ll round up some guys and take a look around,” Glock says.
“Those woods in the back are thick as hell,” Skid puts in.
“Kester’s got to have a vehicle somewhere nearby,” I say.
“If there is, we’ll find it,” Glock tells me.
“Unless he already got to it and left,” Skid puts in.
“You see anything when you pulled up?” I ask.
“No, but there are plenty of places to pull off the road and use trees for cover.” Skid shakes his head. “Fuckin’ meth heads can move pretty fast when you put a cop in the picture.”
Glock and I chuckle, and I feel myself settling down, falling into cop mode, a frame of mind I’m much more comfortable with than traumatized homeowner. Or pregnant female who’s just been shot at by an armed intruder.
I glance over my shoulder at Glock. “We need to get someone out to Paula Kester’s father’s house. Carl Shellenberger. Take a deputy with you. And wear your vest.”
Touching the brim of his hat as he passes me, he jogs down the hall and disappears down the stairs.
Skid and I follow. At the base of the stairs, I glance right to see a deputy kneeling next to the cell phone I tossed at Kester. He rises upon spotting me. “You okay, Chief?”
“Yup.” I start toward my phone but realize it’
s probably evidence and may have Kester’s DNA on it. “You contact BCI?” I ask the deputy.
He nods. “CSU is en route.”
I think about Tomasetti, wincing inwardly at the thought of his finding out what happened from someone else.
“Just make sure everyone knows Kester is armed and dangerous.” The image of him flashes in my mind’s eye. “He looks like he’s been up for a few days—”
The deputy nods. “We got people on it, Chief. Everyone and their uncle’s out looking for this guy.”
I nod and start toward the kitchen to call Tomasetti on the landline. He picks up on the first ring. “Kate?”
I can tell from the tone of his voice that he already knows. “I’m okay,” I tell him.
“What the hell happened?”
“Kester broke in. After you left.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Was he armed?”
“With a handgun.”
“Jesus Christ, Kate.”
“Tomasetti, I’m okay.” I hear static in the background and realize he’s already in his vehicle. “Where are you?”
“Fifteen minutes away. Do me a favor and don’t go anywhere.”
“I’ll be here,” I tell him, and the line goes dead.
* * *
I’m standing on the back porch, talking with a Wayne County sheriff’s deputy, when I hear the crunch of gravel beneath tires. I look up to see Tomasetti’s Tahoe barrel down the lane, make a slight right, and then skid to a halt behind my borrowed Crown Vic. I have no idea how he made the drive from Richfield so quickly, but I don’t care. All I know at the moment is that I’m glad to see him.
His face is grim when he exits the vehicle. He walks around the rear with long, assured strides, nodding at the deputy as he approaches. His face doesn’t change when his gaze flicks to me. I think I see the flash of emotion in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I can’t be sure.
“You okay, Chief?” he asks easily.
I roll my eyes and sigh but don’t manage the cocky attitude I’d intended to project.
He reaches me and stops a scant foot away. His gaze finds mine, and he runs his hands over my shoulders and down my arms as if he doesn’t quite trust what his eyes are telling him.
After the Storm Page 26
