Down a Dark Road--A Kate Burkholder Novel

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  For my husband, Ernest

  Always

  Acknowledgments

  Researching and writing a novel is a monumental undertaking and I owe thanks to many people who generously shared their knowledge, time, and expertise with me. As always, I’d like to thank my publisher, Minotaur Books, and all the wonderful people who bring the books to fruition. Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Jennifer Enderlin. Sarah Melnyk. Kerry Nordling. Paul Hochman. Kelley Ragland. Marta Ficke. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Martin Quinn. Joseph Brosnan. Allison Ziegler. Lisa Davis. You guys are my dream team and I’m so pleased to be part of your publishing family. I also wish to thank my friend and agent, Nancy Yost, who just happens to be the best in the business. Many thanks to the fine professionals at the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation for the fascinating tour and for answering my crazy author questions without so much as a blink. Thank you to Wally Lind, retired Senior Crime Analyst and police officer, and founder of the Crimescenewriter email loop, for answering my questions about hostage negotiations. I also want to mention that I took much literary license in the depiction of several law enforcement agencies. Any procedural errors and creative embellishments are mine.

  PROLOGUE

  Two years earlier

  He waited until the children slept. It was his final kindness. Give them a few more hours of peace before he took from them the thing they loved most. Before he shattered their innocence forever. Took something from himself he would never get back.

  He didn’t have a choice. Not now. He’d made the decision months ago, after spending a hundred nights tossing and turning beneath sheets damp with nervous sweat. He’d decided to kill her as he lay next to her, listening to her breathe, her body soft and warm against his. Even as the thought of having her again titillated that dark part of him that had spiraled out of control so long ago he couldn’t recall.

  He parked midway down the lane, walked the hundred or so yards to the house. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, wet earth and growing things. Thunder growled in the distance, a beast prowling the countryside, hungry and snuffling the air for blood. He crossed the wet grass of the side yard, traversed the sidewalk. It was the same track he’d taken a thousand times before. Tonight would be the last.

  He let himself in through the back door that was never locked. Standing in the mudroom, rain dripping to the floor, mud and gravel sticking to his boots. Darkness all around. Propane refrigerator hissing from its place in the corner. Around him the house slept.

  He found the shotgun in its usual spot, leaning against the wall, next to the coatrack. His hands shook as he picked it up. Breaking it open, he checked for shells, found it loaded. He started toward the kitchen. The lingering aromas of coffee and this morning’s cornmeal mush and maple syrup.

  Lightning flickered as he crossed through the living room. A snapshot of familiarity. How many times had he sat here with her on that eyesore of a sofa, piled high with homemade pillows etched with the silly stitching she was so fond of? The memories tore at him, and the now-familiar grief moved heavy and bittersweet through his chest.

  Boots silent against the hardwood floor. The steps creaked as he started up them. On the landing at the top, dim light slanted in through the window at the end of the hall. The three bedroom doors stood open. His feet whispered against the rug as he went to the first, where the boys slept. He reached for the knob with a gloved hand. The latch clicked when he closed it. He went to the girls’ room next and stood in the doorway, hearing the soft purr of a child’s snore. He lingered, regret echoing inside him despite his resolve because he knew after tonight it would be lost.

  No time to dwell. He’d weighed his choices, made his decision. The only one he could. It was him or her. He’d chosen his life, his future. A dark curtain fell over his emotions, snuffing them out, and he pulled the door closed.

  The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Door open a few inches like it always was, so she could hear the children if they woke during the night. Stupid, fretful woman. Using his free hand, he pushed open the door the rest of the way. The silhouette of the bed beneath the window. Too dark to make out details, but he had an image of it in his head. Cheap knotty pine, yellowed with age. Threadbare sheets that smelled of laundry detergent and sunshine and woman. He had an image of her, too. The way she looked up at him when he was inside her. The way she sighed when he came. The sound of her laughter when it was done …

  There was just enough light filtering in for him to discern the lump of her body beneath the quilt. The faint scent of kerosene from the lantern hovered in the air, and he knew she’d stayed up late reading, the way she always did.

  A flash of lightning lit the room and in that instant he saw himself with her, their bodies arching and entwined, and he had to choke back emotions that threatened to strangle him. His conscience told him it didn’t have to be this way. They could be a family. A real family. But he knew that was only the fear talking. He had too much at stake and far too much to lose.

  He swallowed the bile that had crept up the back of his throat. The fear crowding his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” His heart was beating so hard he didn’t know if the words were a thought or if he’d actually spoken them aloud.

  He stopped a few feet from the bed and raised the shotgun. His body quaked as he raised the stock to his shoulder. Set his eye to the sight. He’d been handling rifles since he was thirteen years old, and for the first time in his life the muzzle trembled. Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades as he leveled the sights center mass. Finger on the trigger. Deep breath, slowly released.

  The explosion rocked his brain, scattered his thoughts, shook his resolve. Her body jolted, did a quarter roll. Right leg stiffening, then relaxing. Then she went still.

  Dear God, what had he done?

  His heart was running like a freight train. Emotion threatening to put him on the ground. The smell of blood rising, a primal stink filling the room, threatening to drown him. Time to walk away. Never look back. Forget if he could.

  Lowering the rifle, he backed away.

  “Datt?”

  The voice jolted him, a lightning bolt coming through the roof and lighting up every nerve in his body. Adrenaline fired in his gut, spread in a hot rush to his limbs. He spun, raised the rifle.

  “What are you doing?” the child asked.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came. He stared at the little round face and all he could think was that she was going to ruin everything …

  The whites of her eyes flicked and he knew she was looking at the bed where her mother lay dead. “I want Mamm.”

  He lowered the rifle. “She’s sick. Go to bed.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s just a storm.” He motioned toward the door, his hand shaki
ng violently. “Go on now.”

  Turning on her heel, she padded barefoot toward her room. A tiny figure clad in white. An angel with fat little hands and baby hair.

  He raised the shotgun. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he leveled it at her back. Finger snug against the trigger. No choice. Dear God, help him …

  He pulled the trigger.

  The firing pin snicked against the primer, the sound barely discernible over the pound of rain against the roof. Disbelief punched him. He lowered the shotgun, stared at it, incredulous that it had betrayed him.

  Vaguely, he was aware of the girl letting herself into her bedroom. The click of the latch as the door closed behind her.

  Panic wrapped gnarly fingers around his throat and squeezed. He stood there, a maniacal laugh trapped and choking him. He weighed his options, tried to decide what to do next. But it was too late to act. Time to go.

  Taking a final look at the bed, he backed from the room, bumped into the door. Then he was in the hall. Shotgun at his side. The knowledge that he’d screwed up hammering at the base of his brain.

  Go back, the voice inside his head chanted. Finish it. Kill her.

  By the time he reached the steps, his entire body shook uncontrollably. Breaths labored as if he’d run a mile. The voice at the back of his brain urging him to go back into the bedroom and finish it.

  Coward, whispered an accusatory little voice. Coward!

  He took the steps two at a time to the living room. Boots heavy against the floor as he crossed through the kitchen. A sound of anguish tore from his throat as he reached the mudroom. Lightning flickered outside the window as he set the shotgun in the corner where he’d found it.

  Thunder cracked, like the final shot that hadn’t come.

  And the ground shook with the knowledge of what he’d done—and what he hadn’t.

  PART I

  That’s all we may expect of man, this side

  The grave: his good is—knowing he is bad.

  —Robert Browning, The Ring and the Book

  CHAPTER 1

  The Tuscarawas covered bridge is a Painters Mill icon. In spring and summer, tourists flock to the little-used back road for photos, for lunch with the grandkids, or just to spend a few minutes strolling the ancient wooden structure to ponder who might’ve walked the very same spot a hundred and fifty years earlier. Couples have been married here. Children have been conceived. High school yearbook photographs have been snapped. The Amish regularly set up their wagons on the gravel pullover to sell baked goods and fresh vegetables to Englischers anxious to fork over their cash for a sampling of the plain life.

  I’ve passed through the old bridge a thousand times over the years, and I’m ever cognizant of its beauty, its historic significance, and its importance to the tourism segment of the town’s economy. The magnitude of the latter echoed loud and clear in Mayor Auggie Brock’s voice when he called me earlier this morning. In addition to the bridge being a favorite of locals and tourists alike, the place has recently become the target of graffiti artists and home base for a multitude of other illicit activities. I know that by the end of the day I’ll have the town council breathing down my neck.

  I park in the gravel pullover, take a final swig of coffee, and shut down the engine. As I get out of my city-issue Explorer, the whooit-whooit-whooit of a lone cardinal echoes among the treetops of the hardwoods that flourish in the greenbelt of the Painters Creek floodplain. Through misty shafts of sunlight, I see the footpath that leads down to the water’s edge.

  My boots crunch through gravel as I approach the bridge. Shadows envelop me as I start across it. The smells of ancient wood, the muddy dankness of the creek below, and new spring foliage greet me as I traverse the structure. Pigeons coo from the rafters above, their droppings marring the sills of the half dozen windows that run the length of it.

  I’m midway across when I spot the graffiti. A tinge of indignation rises in my chest at the utter mindlessness of it. It’s the usual fare. Fuck you. Eat me. Panthers suck. (Panthers being the name of the high school football team.) There’s even a swastika. All of it haphazardly spray-painted in colors ranging from royal blue to safety orange. To my relief, there are no gang symbols. That’s one segment of the criminal element that hasn’t reached Painters Mill despite the recent emergence of a booming meth trade.

  I cross to the nearest window and look down at the creek fifteen feet below. The moss-green water swirls as it meanders south. I see the silver flash of a sunfish. Large stones a few feet beneath the surface. The olive-green hues of the deeper pools in the center of the creek. I know the depth there because eighteen years ago, I jumped from this very window on a dare. I walked home in a soaking-wet dress and stinking of creek water. Mamm didn’t understand why I did it, but she allowed me to change clothes before my datt came in from the field. She knew that sometimes his punishments were too harsh for the crime.

  A pigeon takes flight as I reach the opposite end of the bridge, the high-pitched whistle of wings harmonizing with the birdsong in the forest. I turn and look down the length of the bridge. Beyond, my Explorer bakes in the sun, the engine ticking as it cools, heat tendrils rising off the hood like steam from a cup.

  I should be baffled by the advent of graffiti in such a revered, bucolic place, but I’m not. I might’ve grown up Amish, but I was not as separate from the rest of the world as my parents wanted to believe. I was certainly not immune to bad behavior. For a short period of time, I was one of those mindless, angry teens, bent on making my mark—any mark—however self-defeating or destructive.

  I stroll to the center of the bridge, look up at the rafters where a huge red swastika grins down at me. I shake my head in disgust, imagining some drunken idiot standing in the bed of a pickup truck, a can of spray paint in hand and a head full of rocks. Whoever did this wasn’t in any hurry; they took their time and reached places that required some effort.

  I continue on to the other side of the bridge and I can’t help but wonder about all the things this place has witnessed over the years. When I was a kid, my grossmuder told me some places have memories. At the time I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about and I didn’t necessarily care. Only now, as an adult, do I appreciate her wisdom.

  As I pass by one of the windows, my eyes are drawn to the dozens of initials carved into the ancient oak beams and planks. Most of them have been painted over multiple times. A few of the initials are familiar to me. My own, along with those of my one-time best friend, Mattie, are there somewhere, though for the life of me I can’t remember where.

  I’m standing at the window with my elbows on the sill when the sound of an approaching vehicle draws me from my reverie. Straightening, I glance over to see the mayor’s Cadillac coupe pull up behind my Explorer. The driver’s-side door opens and the mayor struggles out and slams it behind him.

  Leaving thoughts of the past behind, I start toward him. “Morning, Auggie.”

  “Hey, Chief.” Mayor Auggie Brock is a corpulent man with hound-dog jowls and eyebrows invariably neglected by his barber. He’s wearing a JCPenney suit with a lavender shirt that’s already wrinkled and a tie I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Holding a tall coffee cup from LaDonna’s Diner, he enters the bridge. “Got caught up in a council meeting already. Would have ended an hour ago if Janine Fourman hadn’t gone on about this graffiti problem. The woman can talk a blue streak.”

  Thinking of Councilwoman Turner, I frown. She and I have gone a few rounds over the years and not a single one of them was pleasant. “You have my sympathy.”

  He stops next to me. I can smell the coffee in his cup and the Polo aftershave he slapped on after his morning shower. He’s a scant inch shorter than me and looks as harried as a fox surrounded by hounds.

  “The director of the historical society was there, too, Kate. Needless to say, she was not a happy camper.” Looking past me, he gestures so abruptly some of the coffee squirts from the opening of h
is cup. “Did you see all of it?”

  “Kind of hard to miss.”

  He slants me a look as if trying to decide if I’m messing with him. Which I am. Usually, even when we’re dealing with some unpleasant topic or problem, I can drag a smile out of him. This morning he doesn’t bite.

  “For God’s sake, swastikas?” he says. “Who the hell does stuff like that?”

  “Young people with too much time on their hands.” I shrug. “Too little responsibility or guidance or both.”

  “Don’t kids have jobs anymore?” He strides to the window and gestures at a particularly vulgar carving. “Kate, we just spent eight thousand dollars painting this bridge for the second time in three years. We don’t have the budget to do it again. The folks over at the historical society are shitting bricks.”

  “I understand,” I say diplomatically.

  “We’ve got to put a stop to the graffiti. I mean, for chrissake, the elementary schools bring little kids here for field trips. Can you imagine a kindergartner seeing some of those four-letter words? I didn’t know what that word meant until I was in the army. Good God, some six-year-old starts talking like that and we’ll probably get sued and then where will we be?”

  “Auggie, we might be able to get some volunteers out here to paint over the damage,” I offer. “I know some of my guys would show. We can get this covered up.”

  “It’s those little shits out at the Maple Crest subdivision,” he grumbles. “Those high school kids have no respect. I think we need to make some kind of stand here, Kate. Some kind of concerted effort to catch them.”

  “I could sic Pickles on them,” I say. My most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, has a reputation for taking a hard line with anyone under thirty. It was a running joke up until a year ago when he handcuffed a twelve-year-old boy for tossing a pop bottle out the window of a moving vehicle. The boy just happened to be the grandson of Councilwoman Fourman, who failed to see the humor.