The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel Read online

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  To all of my readers who have read and loved the books.

  Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Also by Linda Castillo

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m incredibly lucky to make my living doing what I love. And while writing a book is a solitary endeavor, the publishing of a book takes the talent, the passion, and the hearts of many.

  I wish to thank the team of publishing professionals at Minotaur Books for always going above and beyond to help me bring the Kate Burkholder series to life: Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Baldacci. Jennifer Enderlin. Jeanne-Marie Hudson. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Courtney Sanks. Stephanie Davis. And of course I cannot close without mentioning the late and much-loved Matthew Shear, who is greatly missed by all. My heartfelt thanks to all of you at Team Minotaur!

  I’d also like to thank Trisha Jackson, my wonderful editor at Pan Macmillan, for your always brilliant suggestions and editorial expertise. And of course for the lovely tea in Glasgow! It was a true pleasure to finally meet you.

  I also owe many thanks to my dear friend and agent extraordinaire, Nancy Yost. You are the voice of reason and the architect of everything brilliant. Thank you for your keen guidance, your unwavering support, and for always leaving me with a smile.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the group of women who are my inspiration and partners in crime. You are so much more than a critique group. You are my best friends, my writing sisters, my sounding boards and rabble-rousers, and instigators of all that is fun. I cherish each of you: Jennifer Archer, Anita Howard, Marcy McKay, Jennifer Miller, April Redmon, and Catherine Spangler.

  As always, I’d like to thank my husband, Ernest, for being there from the beginning and through all the craziness that is sometimes a writer’s life. I love you.

  “Let the dead Past bury its dead.”

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “A Psalm of Life”

  PROLOGUE

  March 8, 1979

  He dreamed of pneumatic sanders flying over the finest burled wood and full-blind dovetail joints chiseled with such precision that you couldn’t see the interlocking pins and tails. He and his datt were working on the dry sink his mamm had been pining for since spotting a similar one in the antique store in Painters Mill. He couldn’t wait to see her face when they gave it to her—

  Fourteen-year-old Billy Hochstetler jolted awake with a start. He wasn’t sure what had wakened him. A noise downstairs. Or maybe the rain hammering against the roof. He lay in the warm softness of his bed, trying to get back to the dream and failing because his heart was pounding and he didn’t know why. He stared into the darkness, listening. But the only sound came from the growl of thunder and the intermittent rattle of the loose spouting outside his window. One of these days he and datt were going to get up there with the ladder and fix it.

  “Billy?”

  He’d just dozed off when his little brother’s whispered voice brought him back. “Go back to sleep,” he groaned.

  “I heard something.”

  “You did not. Now, go back to sleep before you wake everyone.”

  “There are people downstairs. Englischers.”

  Propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frowned at his younger brother. Little Joe had just turned eight and looked so cute in his too-big nightshirt that Billy had to grin, despite his annoyance at having been wakened. “You’re just afraid of the storm. Scaredy-cat.”

  “Am not!”

  “Shhh.” Billy chuckled, not quite believing him. “Do you want to sleep in here?”

  “Ja!” The little boy ran to the bed and jumped as if he were diving into the creek for a swim.

  As his younger brother snuggled against him, Billy heard it, too. A noise from downstairs. A thud and then the scraping of wood against wood. He looked at Little Joe. “Did you hear that?”

  “I told you.”

  Rolling, Billy grabbed his pocket watch off the night table and squinted at the glowing face. It was half past three in the morning. His datt didn’t rise for another hour. So who was downstairs?

  Billy got out of bed and crossed to the window. Parting the curtains, he looked out at the gravel driveway, but there was no one there. No buggy or vehicle. No lantern light in the barn. The workshop and showroom windows were dark.

  He grabbed his trousers off the chair. He was stepping into them when the faint murmur of voices floated up through the heat vent at his feet. He and his family generally spoke Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch at home. Whoever was downstairs was speaking English. But who would be in their house in the middle of the night?

  “Where you going?” Little Joe whispered.

  Billy glanced at his brother, who’d pulled the covers up to his chin. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I wanna go with you.”

  “Shush.” After slipping on a shirt, he opened the door and started down the stairs, already anticipating a big helping of mamm’s scrapple. He hadn’t yet reached the base of the stairs when the yellow slash of a flashlight beam played over the wall.

  “Datt?” he called out. “Mamm?”

  The shuffle of shoes against the wood plank floor was the only reply.

  He reached the kitchen only to find himself blinded by the beam of a flashlight. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. “Who’s there?”

  “Shut up!” A male voice snarled the words.

  Shock sent Billy stumbling back. In the periphery of the beam, he got the impression of a man wearing a denim jacket and a knit face mask. Then rough hands gripped his arm and hauled him into the kitchen. “Get over there! On your knees!”

  A hammer blow of fear slammed into him when he saw his mamm and datt kneeling on the other side of the kitchen table, their hands clasped behind their heads. On shaking legs, Billy rounded the table. Who was this Englischer? Why was he here? And what did he want?

  No one spoke as he knelt beside his mamm. Leaning forward, he made eye contact with his father, hoping the older man could tell him what to do. Willis Hochstetler always knew what to do.

  “God will take care of us.” His father whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Shut your mouth!” The man drew a pistol from his waistband and jabbed it a
t them. “Get your hands up! Behind your head!”

  Billy raised his hands, but they were trembling so violently, he could barely lace his fingers.

  “Where are the lights?” the man demanded.

  “There’s a lantern,” Datt said. “Next to the stove.”

  The man strode to the counter, snatched up the lantern, and thrust it at Billy. “Light it.”

  Billy jumped to his feet and crossed to the counter. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, resolving to be brave, he pulled the matches from the drawer and lit the mantle. He thought about Little Joe upstairs and prayed to God the boy had fallen back to sleep.

  “Give it to me.”

  Billy passed it to the man, who yanked it so forcefully, the kerosene sloshed.

  “Get back over there and be quiet.”

  Billy took his place next to his mamm, praying they would just take what they wanted and leave.

  A second man entered the kitchen, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was heavily built with blond hair and a bandanna over his nose and mouth. He glared at Billy’s father. “Where’s the cash?”

  Billy had never seen his datt show fear. But he saw it now. In the way his eyes went wide at the sight of the second gunman. The way his mouth quivered. He knew the fear was not for his own safety or for the loss of the money he’d worked so hard to earn. But for the lives of his wife and children.

  “There’s a jar,” his datt said. “In the cabinet above the stove.”

  Eyes alight with a hunger Billy didn’t understand, the blond man walked to the stove and wrenched open the cabinet door. Pulling out the old peanut butter jar, he unscrewed the lid and dumped the cash on the counter.

  Billy watched the money spill out—twenties and tens and fives. At least a month’s worth of sales.

  “If you were in need and asked, I would have offered you work and a fair wage,” Willis Hochstetler said.

  The blond man didn’t have anything to say about that.

  “Mamm?”

  Billy jerked his gaze to the kitchen doorway, where Little Joe stood, his legs sticking out from his nightshirt like pale little bones. Something sank inside Billy when he noticed Hannah and Amos and Baby Edna behind him.

  “Die kinner.” Mamm got to her feet. “Die zeit fer in bett is nau.” Go to bed right now.

  “What are you doing?” the blond man turned and shifted the gun to her. “Get back over there!”

  But Mamm started toward the children. She was so focused on them, she didn’t even seem to notice that he’d spoken.

  “Tell her to get down!” The man in the denim jacket shifted the gun to Datt. “I mean it! Tell her!”

  “Wanetta,” Datt said. “Obey him.”

  As if sensing the wrongness of the situation, Baby Edna began to cry. Hannah followed suit. Even Little Joe, who at eight years of age, considered himself a man and too old to cry.

  Kneeling, Mamm gathered the children into her arms. “Shhh.”

  “We’re not fucking around!” The blond man stomped to Billy’s mother and tried to separate her from the children. “Get back over there!”

  “They’re babies.” She twisted away from him, put her arms around the children. “They don’t know anything.”

  “Mamm!” Billy hadn’t intended to speak, but somehow the word squeezed from his throat.

  “Wanetta.” Datt lurched to his feet.

  A gunshot split the air. The sound reverberated inside Billy’s head like a shock wave. Like a bullet passing through water, the concussion spreading in all directions. His datt wobbled, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  The house went silent, as if they were all trapped inside an airtight jar.

  “Datt?”

  Billy had barely choked out the word when his father went down on one knee and then fell forward and lay still. Billy held his breath, praying for him to get up. But his datt didn’t stir.

  The blond man swung around and gaped at the man in the denim jacket. “Why did you do that?” he roared.

  The kitchen exploded into chaos. The two men began to scuffle, pushing and shoving. Angry shouts were punctuated by Mamm’s keening and the high-pitched cries of the children. A terrible discord echoed through the house like a thousand screams.

  Billy didn’t remember crawling to his father. He didn’t notice the warmth of blood on his hands as he grasped his shoulder and turned him over. “Datt?”

  Willis Hochstetler’s eyes were open, but there was no spark of life. Just pale gray skin and blue lips. “Wake up.” Billy’s hands hovered over the blood on his father’s shirt. He didn’t know what to do or how to help him. “Tell me what to do!” he cried.

  But his datt was gone.

  He looked at the man who’d shot him. “He gave you the money,” he cried. “Why did you do that?”

  “Shut up!” The man snarled the words, but the eyes within his mask were wild with fear.

  “Let’s get out of here!” the other man yelled.

  “Put the money in a bag!”

  Somewhere in the periphery of his consciousness, Billy was again aware of screaming. His mamm or the kids. Or maybe it was him.

  A third man, wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, his face obscured with some type of sheer fabric, entered the kitchen. He pointed at Billy. “You and the kids! In the basement. Now!”

  The children huddled around Mamm, whimpering, their faces red and wet with tears.

  “Don’t hurt them.” Mamm looked at the man, her eyes pleading.

  Billy made eye contact with her as he started toward the basement door, urging her to follow. But as she rose, the man in the denim jacket clamped his hand over her shoulder.

  The three men exchanged looks, Billy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was only fourteen years old, but he knew that as terrible as this moment was, the worst was yet to come.

  The blond man raised his gun and pointed it at Billy’s face. “Take the kids to the basement.”

  Billy’s brain began to misfire. His body was numb as he herded his siblings toward the basement door. He did his best to calm them as he opened it and ushered them onto the landing. Before stepping in himself, he turned to look at his mamm. The blond man had her by the arm and was forcing her toward the living room. A second man had his hand clamped around the back of her neck. At some point, her sleeping dress had torn, and Billy could see her underclothes.

  He started to step back into the kitchen, but the man with the sheer fabric over his head slammed the door. The latch snicked into place. Darkness descended like earth over a casket. Billy tried the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. He could hear the children behind him, sniveling and whimpering again. He knew they were counting on him to keep them safe.

  “Billy, I’m scared.”

  “I want Mamm.”

  “Why wouldn’t Datt wake up?” Hannah snuffled.

  “Shush.” Staving off panic, he turned to them. The meager light coming from beneath the door illuminated just enough for him to see the shine of tears on their faces. “Little Joe, there’s a lantern on the workbench. Help me light it.”

  Without waiting for a response, Billy grabbed the banister and descended the stairs. Upon reaching the dirt floor, he went left and felt his way toward the workbench where Mamm made soap. He ran his hand along the surface, knocked something over; then his knuckles brushed the base of the lantern. He located the matches next to it and lit the mantle.

  “Little Joe.” Billy thrust the lantern at him. “I need you to be brave and keep an eye on your little brothers and sisters.”

  The boy took the lantern. “B-but where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get Mamm.” Billy hadn’t even realized what he was going to do until the words left his mouth. He darted to the ground-level window. It was too high for him to reach without something to stand on. There was no ladder. He looked around. The wood shelves were jammed with tools and jars and clay pots. Then he spotted the old wringer washing machine in th
e corner.

  “Help me roll the washer over here.”

  Choking back sobs, Little Joe handed the lantern off to Hannah and dashed to the washer. The old caster rollers dug grooves into the dirt floor as they shoved it to the window.

  Billy heaved himself onto the rim of the washer tub, then stepped onto the wringer and used his elbow to break the glass. He glanced over his shoulder. In the flickering light from the lantern, he saw his siblings huddled a few feet away. A mass of wet, frightened faces and quivering lips.

  “I’ll be back with Mamm,” he said. “I promise.”

  Grasping the window frame with both hands, he heaved himself up and wriggled through. Then he was outside. Drizzle on his face. Somewhere in the distance an engine rumbled. Turning, he spotted taillights and saw that the car was midway down the lane. Praying he could catch them before they reached the road, he sprinted toward the car. Gravel cut his bare feet, but he didn’t feel the pain. Hot breaths tore from his throat. He didn’t know how he was going to stop them. Didn’t have a plan. All he knew was that he couldn’t let them take his mamm.

  The car was nearly to the road when Billy caught them. He ran alongside the vehicle, slapped his palms against the window. “Stop! Stop!”

  The tires made a wet concrete sound in the gravel as the car skidded to a halt. Billy stopped outside the driver’s door. “I want my mamm!”

  The door swung open. He saw movement inside. Mamm trying to claw her way out of the backseat. “Billy! No! Run! Run!”

  The driver punched him in the face. Billy’s feet left the ground. Pain zinged along the bridge of his nose. He landed on his back, head bouncing against gravel, his arms splayed above his head. Vaguely he was aware of mud soaking through his shirt. The sound of tires crunching over gravel. The smell of exhaust.

  Groaning, he struggled to his hands and knees. Panic leapt inside him as the car turned onto the road. “Mamm!” he screamed.

  He was thinking about pursuing the car when he noticed a strange orange glow against the treetops. Puzzled, he turned toward the house. Horror froze him in place when he saw the yellow flicker of a fire. Then he remembered the lantern.