Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 18

"I don't know. I'd just feel better if we could keep an eye on things out here."

"d.a.m.n, Chief. That's bizarre. Why would someone want an Amish lady dead? I mean, an Amish mother with three little kids to take care of?"

"That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question."

The ambulance arrives, the red and blue lights flas.h.i.+ng, no siren. I watch as the paramedics are turned away at the door and I sigh.

"Let me know if you figure it out."

It's a dangerous thing when a cop knows too much about a crime, especially if said cop possesses information that would be helpful to the investigating agency and doesn't speak up. I don't know if the bones found in the grain elevator will ever be positively identified. Seventeen years have pa.s.sed. Investigators are reliant upon DNA or dental records, neither of which may exist. That doesn't mean I'm home free. Not even close.

Rural areas have long memories when it comes to any kind of major crime, an inescapable fact that doesn't bode well in terms of my avoiding getting sucked into the case. It was big news when Daniel Lapp went missing. Many believed he'd left town to escape the heavy hand of the Amish. But not everyone. Not his parents. Certainly not his brother, Benjamin.

By virtue of the timing alone, the police will question Benjamin. Once they learn Daniel was last seen at my parents' farm, they'll be knocking on my door, Sarah's door, and Jacob's door, asking questions none of us want to answer, just like they did seventeen years ago. This time, however, they'll be wondering why I didn't come to them first. I wonder if it would be beneficial for me to call Sheriff Redmon and start lying now, instead of waiting and letting them come to me.

I burn through an hour, stuck behind my desk, returning calls and e-mails and putting out fires. After receiving a slew of media inquiries earlier in the day, I ask Jodie to write a press release, a generic piece that basically rehashes the things everyone already knows. For now, it's going to have to be enough. Best case, it will buy me some time, because this story has all the hallmarks of a sensational headline in the making. It's Amish focused, includes a father and two dead children, and a mystery that expands with every new piece of information tossed our way.

At seven o'clock, Rasmussen returns my call. "Around-the-clock protection?" He laughs. "Are you kidding?"

"Not protection, exactly." I hedge, knowing my request is so far out there, he's well within his bounds to laugh at me. "Mattie might've been the target. I'd feel better knowing someone was out there, keeping an eye on things."

"In a perfect world, we could do that. As you know, we don't live in a perfect world."

"Mike."

"Look, I can have my guys drive by every so often," he offers. "Round-the-clock is out of the question."

"Can't you spare one deputy?" I ask. "One s.h.i.+ft?"

"Wish I could, Kate. I just don't have the budget for O.T. We're already operating on a skeleton crew here. I wish I could help, but I can't."

I sigh, only slightly peeved because I know he'd do it if he could. "I'll figure something out."

"Look, while I have you on the phone ... I heard from the lab on that piece of wood Luke Miller found," he tells me. "The indentation is, indeed, from a bolt. And it's recent."

"How recent?"

"Days or maybe even hours."

"Is it from the sheared pin we found at the scene?"

"That's the kicker. It's not the same."

"Do the lab guys have any idea what that pin is for?"

"They're running some comps, but it's going to take a while."

"We're relatively certain we're dealing with a Ford F-250. I wonder if we should take both pieces to Ford? Or a local dealers.h.i.+p?

"Since it was an after-market part, a Ford guy probably isn't going to be much help."

"s.h.i.+t, Mike, you're just full of positive offerings this evening."

"Yeah, well, I try."

For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, but I sense our minds working over everything we know about the case so far and how little we have to work with in terms of solid facts. "Will you do me a favor?" I ask.

"Well, since I owe you now..."

"Will you have one of your guys take that bolt to someone who knows about after-market parts? Someone who might recognize it? Maybe that custom hot-rod shop in Millersburg?"

"Worth a shot."

I thank him and disconnect, then sit there for a moment, the exchange running through my head like a bad script. My stomach growls, reminding me the most nutritious substance I've put in my stomach all day is coffee.

"d.a.m.n it," I mutter and look down at the phone.

I want to call Tomasetti and run all of this past him, but I hesitate. Only then do I realize that, while I have been busy with the case, my reasons for avoiding him are a lot more complex than I'm admitting, even to myself. The truth of the matter is, I'm afraid he's going to ask me to move in with him again-and I don't know how to answer. I hate it that I haven't been honest. Not with him-or myself. I need to sort out my feelings and make a decision. He deserves an answer, and I owe it to myself to give it to him, no matter where we go from here.

CHAPTER 16.

I make a stop at the grocery and buy a bottle of my favorite cabernet, a bunch of grapes, some crusty French bread, cheese, and a corkscrew bottle opener. I tuck everything into a grocery bag and makes tracks toward Wooster. It takes me twenty minutes to find Tomasetti's new place. I get lost twice and end up having to call my dispatcher for a quick Google map search. I could have called Tomasetti, but somewhere along the way realized I wanted to surprise him.

Dusk falls in Impressionist hues of lavender and gray. I'm so intent on the peaceful beauty of the countryside, I nearly miss my turn and have to make a hard stop. The rust-bucket mailbox has been bashed in, but the number is still legible, so I turn in. The canopies of the ma.s.sive elm trees arc over the lane, lending the illusion of driving through a lush, green cave.

Despite my earlier hesitancy, a sense of antic.i.p.ation keeps pace with me as I barrel toward the house. I think about the man waiting for me and I suddenly can't wait to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh at something I shouldn't. For a little while I want to forget about this case. I want to forget about the discovery of Lapp's remains.

The old Victorian sits at the end of the lane looking lost and out of place, like some B-movie actor who knows, no matter how hard he tries, he'll never master the part to which he's been cast. In an instant, I take in the wraparound porch, the tall, narrow windows, and the crisp white paint. Huge shade trees hulk on every side of the house. Behind it, a rusty silo that had once been painted silver and a tumbling-down barn watch over the place with mournful, longing eyes.

Tomasetti's Tahoe is parked adjacent a one-car detached garage. I can tell by the way the overhead door lists that it's not functional. I get out of the Explorer and I'm met by a dissonance of birdsong: blue jays and cardinals and the occasional caw of a crow. The breeze smells of cut gra.s.s and the honeysuckle that grows wild on the barbed wire fence behind a small chicken coop. I stand there, taking in the disarray, and all I can think is that this world I've stepped into is completely incongruous with the man I've come to know.

I take the crumbling sidewalk to the back porch. The door stands ajar, but the screen door is closed. I hear the crackle of a radio beyond. The smells of fresh paint and new wood waft through the screen. Using my knuckles, I rap on the door and wait, incredulous because my heart is pounding and there's a small, insecure part of me that's terrified he won't come.

A full minute pa.s.ses. Thinking he might be upstairs, I use my key chain and knock harder. "Tomasetti?"

When that doesn't draw his attention, I push open the door. The hinges squeak as I step inside. The kitchen has been gutted down to the drywall and subflooring. A radio is set up on a five-gallon bucket and The Wallflowers blare "One Headlight." A wide doorway to my right beckons, so I take it to a good-size living room. Three of the walls are painted an attractive dark tan. A stepladder stands next to a tall window. Plastic drop cloths cover hardwood floors the color of semisweet chocolate. I turn in a slow circle, spot the ma.s.sive hearth behind me, and find myself smiling.

"Tomasetti?"

The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.

I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-decostyle bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.

"Tomasetti!" I call out.

No answer.

"Well, s.h.i.+t." Still lugging the grocery bag, I go down the steps, through the kitchen, and back outside. The doors of the barn and silo are closed, telling me he's not there. I stroll to the Explorer and look out over the pasture beyond. I'm about to reach through the window and lay on the horn when I spot the pond. It's a good-size body of water-at least half an acre. A big cottonwood tree demarks the north side. A stand of weeping willows flourish near the sh.o.r.e to the west. I see some type of dock from where I stand and I'm pretty sure the person sitting on that dock is Tomasetti.

Hefting the grocery bag, I start toward the nearest gate, careful to close it behind me in case he inherited cattle with the place, and I follow a dirt two-track to the pond. From fifty feet away, I see Tomasetti slumped in a lawn chair with his feet stretched out in front of him. He's wearing blue jeans, navy golf s.h.i.+rt, and sneakers-a far cry from his usual custom-made suits and Hermes ties. Next to him, a bottle of Killian's Irish Red sweats atop a good-size cooler.

I make it to within twenty feet of him before he hears my approach and glances my way. His usual inscrutable expression s.h.i.+fts, and it delights me to see surprise on his face. He's not an easy man to surprise. Smiling, he rises and faces me. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, contemplating, finding our feet, and the rest of the world falls away. After a moment, I look around and spot the fis.h.i.+ng pole lying on the dock, the clear nylon line running into the water.

"Tomasetti, are you fis.h.i.+ng?" I ask.

He bends and opens the cooler. I'm expecting him to hand me a Killian's Red. Instead, the cooler is filled with water and three good-size fish, which are swimming around. "I'm catching dinner, actually."

"Are those largemouth ba.s.s?" I ask.

"You know your fish. I'm impressed."

"My datt used to take me fis.h.i.+ng when I was a kid."

"Who knew? I could have used some pointers early on."

"Looks like you figured things out."

He replaces the cover and straightens.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it last night," I say a little too abruptly.

"You're here now." He unfolds a second lawn chair and sets it next to his. "How's the case coming along?"

"Still looking for the driver."

"Anything new on those bones?"

That's when I realize one of the reasons I'm here is to escape the pressures of my job. I know it's shortsighted; not only does Tomasetti usually offer pretty good insight and advice, but I'm well aware that the weight of both cases will drop back onto my shoulders when I leave. But I don't want tonight to be about work. I want it to be about us and this short stretch of time between us.

"Let's not talk about work," I tell him.

He tilts his head, puzzled, and then shrugs. "We could just sit here and fish."

I look down at the bag I'm holding. "I brought wine."

He takes the bag, peeks into it. "You want to go inside?"

From where I'm standing, I can smell the foliage and the water on the breeze. I can hear the buzz of insects and the coo of a mourning dove. "I kind of like it out here, Tomasetti. If you don't mind."

"I don't mind." He sets the bag atop the cooler and proceeds to set out the things I bought. Wine. Grapes. The cheese and bread. On the other side of the pond, a family of red-winged blackbirds swoop across the water's surface and chatter from within the branches of the cottonwood tree.

Kneeling at the cooler, Tomasetti raises his brow at the plastic wine gla.s.ses. "You came prepared."

That couldn't be farther from the truth; I'm not prepared for any of this. Being here with him is like stepping into deep water when I've barely learned to swim. I don't want to choke, but I desperately want to explore the depths of this man and the relations.h.i.+p we're building.

He uses the corkscrew to open the bottle. "We'll just let that breathe."

"I like your new place," I tell him.

"A little different from the loft in Cleveland."

"More wildlife."

"Or less, depending on your definition of wildlife."

He's got paint on his s.h.i.+rt. A smear of white on the front of his jeans. It makes me smile. "I like the new look."

He grins. "That's what all the female chiefs of police say."

"You look happy," I say. "I like it."

He's staring at me, a.s.sessing, weighing, as if he knows something's different about me, too, and he's trying to figure out what it is. The air between us is charged, and I'm left with the sense that we're dancing around some white elephant I should see, but can't. So much of our relations.h.i.+p has taken place during the hards.h.i.+p and stress of whatever case we're working on. Our pasts are always in the backs of our minds. So much of where we are now is derived from dark times. Being here with him, like this, is new ground that feels crumbly and uncertain beneath my feet.

I suppose I've always used my job-our work-as a buffer between us. I've used it as an excuse to see him. To spend time with him. Tonight, I can't fall back on that comfortable old ground, and there's a part of me that's terrified he'll know I'm here because I couldn't stay away.

"You're thinking way too hard about something," he says.

I laugh self-consciously. "I probably am."

"Well, cut it out." He shoves the lawn chair toward me. "We need one more ba.s.s, Chief. Then we'll go inside and fry them up."

"I didn't see a stove in that kitchen."

"I've got a Coleman and cast-iron skillet in the Tahoe."

I don't take the chair. I stand there like an idiot, staring at him, trying to put my thoughts and the things that I'm feeling into some kind of meaningful order.

"Kate..."

Before realizing I'm going to move, I'm crossing the distance between us. I hear my boots scuff against the wood planks. The red-winged blackbirds calling. The next thing I know my body is flush against his. He's lean and solid and warm against me. Somehow my arms find their way around his neck and then I'm pulling his mouth down to mine.

The force of the kiss sinks into me and goes deep. His lips are firm and moist. I take in the sweetness of his breath. When I open my mouth he's ready. His tongue intertwines with mine and for a moment I can't get enough. Vaguely, I'm aware of his essence surrounding me. His hands restless on my back. His breaths in my ear.

The sound of something sc.r.a.ping across the wood surface of the dock draws me from my fugue. I glance down to see his fis.h.i.+ng pole clatter across the planks. It takes me a moment to realize what's happening.

"I think you've got a bite," I whisper.

"s.h.i.+t." Tomasetti lunges away from me, s.n.a.t.c.hes the pole off the dock, and begins to reel. "I think this might be the big one," he says.

"That's what all you guys say."