Down a Dark Road--A Kate Burkholder Novel Read online

  “Then let the children go!” I shout. “Let them go.”

  His eyes hold mine. “The only person I’m going to let walk out of here is you.”

  “For God’s sake.” I throw up my hands in frustration.

  My cell erupts. King gives me a nod. Blowing out a breath, I pick up. “Burkholder.”

  “This is Curtis Scanlon with BCI,” a male voice tells me. “Everyone all right in there?”

  My memory clicks. Curtis Scanlon is a hostage negotiator. I don’t know him personally, but I’m familiar with his reputation. He’s one of the best negotiators in the state of Ohio. Perhaps the entire Midwest. He’s handled dozens of hostage situations statewide and is well known in law enforcement circles. He’s got the voice of a radio personality. His manner of speaking is calm, yet affable. He’s competent. Reasonable. He’s as charismatic as any Hollywood heavyweight. Rumor has it he’s received marriage proposals from fans who’ve seen him on TV.

  “Everyone’s fine,” I tell him.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yes. Mr. King is right here at the kitchen table with me.”

  “Good. Good. Kitchen. Got it. He’s armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Long rifle? Handgun?”

  “Both.”

  “All right. Thank you.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Do you know what he wants?”

  “He wants the police to take another look at his case. The evidence. His conviction. He says he didn’t murder his wife.”

  “I understand. Do you think he’ll talk to me?”

  “I can check.” I offer the cell to King. “Curtis Scanlon is the negotiator. He’s good, Joseph. He can help you.”

  His eyes holding mine, Joseph takes the phone. He’s taken it off speaker. I’m sitting close enough to hear Scanlon speaking, but I can’t make out what’s being said. Joseph listens dispassionately. He probably doesn’t realize it, but Scanlon is already gathering information. He’s getting a feel for King’s personality, his frame of mind. Figuring out what makes him tick. Looking for weaknesses. In the back of my mind I wonder if he’s ever dealt with an Amish person.…

  “That’s not what I want,” King says after a moment. “I didn’t kill my wife. I’ve spent over a year in prison for something I didn’t do. I don’t want to compromise. The children are fine.”

  After a few minutes, he removes the phone from his ear. Scanlon is still speaking. For a moment we listen to the drone of his voice, and then King disconnects.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Ich bin sei geshvetz laydich.” I’m tired of all his talking. “Your smart guy isn’t so interested in the truth. Only in resolving this his way.”

  I’d been hoping that Curtis Scanlon, with all his charisma and experience, would be able to convince him to lay down the gun or at least release the children.

  “Give him a chance,” I say. “Joseph, he can help you. Listen to him.”

  He tosses the phone onto the table between us. “The only one who can help me is you. Katie, you know me. You—”

  “I don’t know you,” I cut in. “Not anymore. The Joseph I once knew would never do anything as stupid and dangerous as this.”

  “Put yourself in my shoes!” he shouts. “What would you do?”

  “I’d go through the proper channels.”

  “Yeah, that’s you all right. Miss Proper Channel.” He leans back in the chair, crosses his arms over his chest. “The Katie Burkholder I used to know was a rebel. She knew right from wrong and she wasn’t afraid to stir the pot.”

  “We’re not kids anymore,” I snap.

  Another silence falls, tense and uncomfortable. I feel the minutes slipping away, the opportunity for a positive outcome fading with every tick of that silent, invisible clock.

  “I always knew you’d grow up pretty.” He follows up with a half smile.

  “How can you say something so flippant when you’re an inch away from getting yourself killed?”

  “That bothers you.”

  “If it’s all the same to you I’d rather no one get killed.”

  “No, I mean when I tell you you’re pretty.”

  I stare hard at him. “You are your own worst enemy. You always were.”

  He doesn’t argue.

  After a moment, he motions toward the door. “I’m going to let you go now.”

  I should be relieved. He’s going to let me walk away from this. No one was hurt. I’m loath to leave the children behind, but I don’t think he’ll harm them. And I’ll have the opportunity to do my job and try to resolve this with the help of my counterparts outside.

  “Do me a favor?” I ask.

  He frowns at me.

  “Keep the kids away from the windows.” I set my hand on the phone and slide it across the table to him. “When Scanlon calls, do not hang up on him. Talk to him. Work with him. He is your lifeline.”

  He starts to protest, but I stop him. “You owe me that, Joseph. I’m going to look into your case. Don’t forget that.”

  He picks up the phone and puts it in his pocket without looking at it. Rising, he motions toward the door. “You can go out through the front.”

  CHAPTER 8

  As Joseph and I pass through the darkened living room, I feel eyes on me. I glance up, toward the stairs, and see Sadie and Rebecca sitting together on the top step of the landing, hands gripping the rails, watching me. I want to wish them good night, but Joseph and I continue on and the chance is lost.

  We reach the door. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles parked at the end of the lane dance and skitter on the opposite wall. King has taken my pistol from his waistband and grips it in his right hand. His finger is outside the trigger guard, but even in the dim light I can see that his knuckles are white, his hand shaking.

  He opens the door. His eyes scan the porch, darting to the shadows cast by the juniper and trees in the yard, going finally to the ocean of vehicles beyond. “Must be a couple dozen vehicles out there,” he says quietly.

  I stop next to him. “There’s still time to end this.”

  “You never were one to give up easily. Even when you were wrong.” He turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. “But then that’s one of the things I always liked about you.”

  “Now that I’m a cop, maybe you’re not quite so fond.”

  “I’m still fond of you.” The shadow of a smile passes over his lips as he raises his finger as if to scold. “You’re the same, whether you want to admit it or not. You haven’t forgotten who we were.”

  I stare at him, feeling watched and exposed, standing in the doorway, his face a scant foot away from mine. I want to think it’s because an army of my counterparts with binoculars and night vision are camped out a hundred yards away. Or maybe it’s the thought of a sniper with Joseph in the crosshairs. But neither of those things are the reason why my heart is pounding. Or why I suddenly can’t seem to get enough oxygen into my lungs.

  “We never talked about the way things were between us,” he tells me.

  I shrug. “We were kids.”

  As I stand here, looking into a face I once knew so well, I’m shocked to realize some small part of me still remembers that knockout punch of my first crush.

  “Joseph, this isn’t the right way to do this,” I tell him, surprised when my voice is breathless. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  He doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at me, his eyes roaming my face. “You never married, Katie?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  A sudden grin and he braces a hand against the jamb behind me. I know an instant before he leans close that he’s going to try to kiss me. A farewell kiss? Or something more final? Whatever the case, it’s inappropriate. I turn my head an instant before his mouth would have made contact with mine. Instead, his lips brush my cheek and linger. I’m aware of the warmth of his face against mine, the scrape of his whiskers, the realization that he’s trembling, his breaths are quicken
ed. It’s not a chaste kiss, but neither is it overtly sexual. Just a tidal wave of something melancholy and bittersweet laced with the knowledge that I’m a fool for caring about any of it.

  Raising my hand, I set my palm against his cheek and ease him away. “Cut it out.”

  “You remember,” he says thickly.

  “I remember you’re full of shit.”

  “That’s my Katie.” He studies me a moment as if debating and then steps away. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.”

  I glance toward the road, then back to him. “Goddamn you for doing this.”

  “Find the truth, Katie Burkholder.”

  I step onto the porch and turn to him, surprised to find that my legs are shaking. My heart pounding a hard tattoo against my ribs. Quickly, the adrenaline ebbs into something else. Something final, uncertain, and unbearably sad. There’s nothing left to say.

  “Joseph…”

  He melts into the shadows of the living room. “Get out of here,” he says. “Go on.”

  I turn and descend the steps to the sidewalk. Even as I walk away, the ties to Joseph King and the children wrap around me and pull taut. I have no idea how long I was inside. For the first time in what feels like hours, I can breathe. The night air is cool and humid against my face. As I walk toward the gravel lane that will take me to the road, it occurs to me that I should have called Scanlon to let him know I was coming out. All it takes is one overzealous trigger finger to take out a cop with friendly fire.

  I reach the lane and go left toward the road. A sea of emergency lights ahead. Dust floating in the glare of a hundred headlights. The rumble of a diesel engine and at least one generator. I’m walking blind. I raise my hands to shield my eyes, and I call out, “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder! I’m coming out!”

  The hairs at the back of my neck prickle uneasily as I draw closer. I envision the crosshairs of the sniper’s scope on my chest, and I call out again.

  A spotlight sweeps toward me. In the glare, I see the bulky silhouette of a man in tactical gear rush toward me, equipment jingling, boots thudding against the ground.

  “Kate Burkholder?” he shouts.

  I raise my hands to shoulder level. “Yes.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I know it’s protocol, but still I’m perturbed by the order.

  He reaches me and takes my arm with a gloved hand. He’s armed with a tactical rifle. A Kevlar vest. Protective helmet and face shield. He’s breathing heavily. SWAT, I think. Through the face screen I see he’s young, probably not yet thirty, and high on a mix of testosterone and adrenaline.

  “He didn’t booby-trap you or anything, right?” he asks.

  “No, he didn’t. I’m unarmed.”

  “Are you injured in any way?” he asks as he walks with me toward a massive RV emblazoned with LICKING COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. “Do you need an ambulance?”

  “I’m fine. I need to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

  We reach the mobile command center vehicle. Behind it, two Holmes County cruisers block the road. An SUV from Geauga County Sheriff’s Department. A swarm of cops from half a dozen jurisdictions rush around, speaking into their cell phones or shoulder mikes. A television news van is parked behind a line of orange cones roped off with yellow tape, several people are setting up lights and equipment, and I realize this situation is big news. Not only are we dealing with a barricaded gunman and hostage situation, but the perpetrator is Amish. That makes for sensational airtime no matter how you cut it.

  The SWAT officer escorts me to the door of the mobile command center and opens it. Yellow light floods out, blinding me.

  “I’ve got Burkholder,” he calls out.

  “Kate!” comes a familiar male voice from behind me.

  I swing around to see John Tomasetti and Holmes County Sheriff Mike Rasmussen jogging toward me. I see the sharp edge of concern on Tomasetti’s face. Rasmussen looks just as grim. They’re running now. Rasmussen is usually pretty laid-back; tonight his face is slicked with sweat, his eyes jumping. But it’s Tomasetti I can’t look away from. As he closes the distance between us, I descend the steps, and the rest of the world falls away.

  “Are you all right?” Urgency burns through the restraint I hear in his voice. For an instant I think he’s going to break our self-imposed rule of conduct and embrace me. Or maybe tear into me for getting myself ambushed in the woods. Instead, he runs his hands over my arms, taking my hands and squeezing them briefly before releasing me.

  “I’m okay.” I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen and back to Tomasetti. “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?” Rasmussen asks. “We got a call from dispatch. Got worried as hell when we found that stolen vehicle and no one could get you on the horn.”

  Sighing, I tell them about being accosted by King. “He took my radio. My phone. He’s got my sidearm.”

  “Shit,” the sheriff mutters.

  “Kids okay?” Tomasetti asks.

  Silently cursing Joseph, I nod. “They’re fine. They have the run of the place. In bed for the night. I don’t think they understand exactly what’s going on.” I pause. “Rebecca and Daniel Beachy are all right?”

  “They walked out about the same time you went in,” Tomasetti replies.

  “SWAT’s on scene,” Rasmussen says. “I’ve got three deputies on perimeter, but we’re stretched thin.”

  “Incident commander is Jason Ryan with BCI.” Tomasetti motions toward the RV. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I’m still trying to get my feet under me, put everything that happened into some kind of perspective that doesn’t have to do with a troubled Amish boy or the misplaced loyalty of the girl I’d once been. This is a hostage and barricaded gunmen situation. The lives of five children are at stake. I can’t let my past relationship with Joseph King affect my judgment or decision making.

  “Chief Burkholder.”

  I turn to see a large, grim-faced man standing in the doorway of the command center. He’s wearing dark, creased slacks with tactical boots. A white shirt and tie peek out from the front of a navy blue windbreaker embellished with the BCI logo.

  I cast a look at Tomasetti. His eyes are already on me. I’d wanted to spend a few minutes with him, but the opportunity is gone. The man is already coming down the steps.

  “Jason Ryan. BCI.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. His grip is too firm. Two quick pumps and release. Dry palm. “Are you all right?” he asks. “Anyone hurt in there?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “Everyone inside is fine.”

  “Good. Good.” But I can tell he’s in a hurry to get down to business; he wants the lowdown on Joseph King. “I’d like to debrief you inside if you have a few minutes.”

  The “if you have a few minutes” was thrown in only as polite-sounding window dressing. I don’t have a choice in the matter. I suspect Ryan is the kind of guy who will be your best friend when he wants something. If you’ve screwed up, he’ll be the first one to cut you loose.

  I know what’s coming next. They need intelligence. They want to know King’s frame of mind. What he’s thinking. What his demands are. What’s going on inside the house. The level of danger for the hostages. How I walked into it. A thousand questions from a dozen sources crammed into a small period of time.

  “Of course,” I tell him.

  He motions toward the stairs. “Watch your step. We’ve got coffee if you want it.”

  Tomasetti follows us inside.

  The trailer is cramped and smells of pressed wood, new carpet, and coffee, all of it laced with an odd blend of aftershave, sweat, and hot electronics. To my right is the control room chock-full of high-tech gadgetry. Left is a good-size table surrounded by six chairs, a tiny kitchen with a sink and coffeemaker. Beyond, I can just make out the lighted dash of the cab.

  I’m aware of Tomasetti touching my arm as I take one of the chairs. Sheriff Rasmussen sits next to me. Tomasetti and Ryan sit across
the table.

  The door swings open. The vehicle rocks slightly as a fourth man enters. Short and trim in stature, hostage negotiator Curtis Scanlon is neatly dressed in blue jeans, button-down shirt, and tie beneath a BCI windbreaker. A headset with a mouthpiece is clamped over his head. Expensive haircut. Precision goatee. No sidearm. I guess him to be in his mid-forties.

  He crosses to the table and sticks out his hand. “Curtis Scanlon.” He says his name as if he likes hearing it. His eyes are on me, so I reach out and we shake. “Glad you’re here and in one piece, Chief. We need to get a read on this guy.”

  Curtis Scanlon is a legend among law enforcement. He’s a talented negotiator with a solid reputation and instincts that seemingly never steer him wrong. He’s got a track record of successfully talking down even the most unstable and violent hostage takers. Two years ago, he worked a case in which laid-off factory worker Raymond Lipscomb took his girlfriend and her newborn twins hostage in a Cleveland apartment building. Lipscomb was suicidal and threatened to “take his family to hell with him.” Scanlon spent forty-two hours on the phone with him with no breaks and no sleep. He engaged Lipscomb, discovered little things that made him tick. They talked about fishing. They talked boats. Outboard motors. They argued lures versus live bait. Scanlon had some fresh fish sent in from a local restaurant—he delivered it himself. In the end, Lipscomb surrendered without further incident.

  Scanlon is undeniably one of the best negotiators in the Midwest, perhaps even the nation. From what I’ve heard, his larger-than-life reputation is dwarfed only by the size of his ego.

  Introductions are made. Too much urgency for niceties. The negotiator pulls up a chair and straddles it, facing us. “You left your phone inside?” he asks.

  I nod. “I told him to talk to you.”

  We’re interrupted when the door swings open. I glance over to see a tall, heavyset man wearing a Geauga County Sheriff’s Department jacket enter. I’ve met Jeff Crowder several times since I’ve been chief. He’s in his late fifties with a thick head of blond hair and the physique of a linebacker.