Pray for Silence (37 page)

It’s not easy getting into the mind of a psychopath; they don’t think the same way the rest of us do. I envision this going down any number of ways. The killer waits until nightfall. He’s armed and wears a mask, does a quick and violent home invasion with plans to kill the boy in his bed. Another scenario is that the killer will use a stealthier plan. Wait until dark. Sneak in. Take the boy from his bed. And either kill him there or make it look like an accident. A fall from the loft in the barn would do the trick.

More than likely the killer will scope out the place first. Tonight, it’s my goal to let him know the Zook family is home, totally unaware. They are vulnerable to attack.
Come get us. . . .

Tomasetti has been on the periphery of my mind since he left. I’m not sure why I’ve put off calling him. Maybe because I know he’s got enough on his plate at the moment. Or maybe a part of me fears he’ll find fault with my plan, and I know that no matter what he says, I won’t scrub it. Still, I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh. The vehemence of those feelings scares me a little. One of many hazards of a relationship.

Pulling out my phone, I dial his number from memory. He answers with his usual growl of his last name.

“It’s Kate.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist calling me much longer.” His words are easy, but something in his voice puts me on alert. Some subtle note I can’t quite identify.

“I wanted to fill you in on something I’ve got going on here,” I begin.

“You catch a break?”

“Not exactly.” I lay out the plan.

A charged pause ensues. “You’ve been busy.”

“Things happened fast.”

“You’re at the Zook farmhouse alone?”

“Skid is in the barn. T.J. is parked out of sight by the bridge.”

“What about your other guys?”

“Glock and Pickles are with the Zook family a few miles from here.”

“Kate, that’s not enough men.”

That’s when I realize he’s been drinking. Tomasetti is good at pretending. Good at faking. Hell, he’s an Academy Award–worthy actor half of the time. But I know him well. I know every nuance of his voice. I know how to read between the lines. I know he can be a prick when he’s hurt or angry.

“Sheriff’s office has stepped up patrols,” I say. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”

“You’re not exactly on active status.”

“That never stopped you before.”

“John, look, you’ve got a lot going on right now. And I’ve thought this thing through. We’re organized. Prepared. I think we can handle it.”

“You
think
?”

“I’m sure we can.” But I fumble the words.

“Or maybe you didn’t call me because you think I’m going to freak out at some inopportune moment and fuck things up for you.”

“That’s not true,” I say evenly.

He cuts me off. “Better to wait until I’m a hundred miles away. A safe distance where I can’t do any harm. Did you discuss my precarious state of mind with your team, Kate? Did they agree with your assessment?”

“I’m not going to justify that with a response.”

“That’s rich.”

“I just wanted to let you know we might be getting a break soon. I wanted you to know what we were doing. How we were handling—”

“You wanted to let me know you can do this all by yourself.”

The words sting. They make me feel like a selfish bitch. Like maybe this is more about me than catching a killer, and I’ve put my officers and myself in harm’s way because I’m trying to prove something I don’t have to prove. I defend my position anyway. “That’s not true.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I’m sure you’re shocked.”

“Look, I just called to let you know what’s going on.”

“Waiting until now to call me was a goddamn bitchy thing to do.”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“I’m always like this. Wake the hell up.”

Fury burns through me with such force my hands shake. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Goddamn you, Kate. How the hell do you expect me to sleep tonight, knowing you’re alone in that house?” he shouts.

“I’m not alone.”

“You don’t have enough backup. T.J.’s a rookie and Skid isn’t exactly top notch. Do you think that’s good police work? That’s insane.”

“They’re good cops, and this is a good plan.”

“Sometimes good doesn’t matter! Don’t you get that?” He’s shouting at the top of his lungs now. “This guy comes calling in the middle of the night and gets by one of your guys, you’re going to find yourself in big trouble.”

“I’m armed. I’m wearing a vest—”

“Going to do you a hell of a lot of good if he takes a head shot!”

“John, you’re overreacting.”

“What the hell are you trying to prove, Kate?”

“I’m trying to catch the son of a bitch who killed seven people!”

“Or maybe you finally see a chance for retribution for what happened to you. Maybe you want to prove the Amish aren’t easy victims. Maybe you’re going to blow this guy’s shit away the moment he walks in the door.”

I almost can’t believe what’s coming from his mouth. “That’s psycho bullshit, Tomasetti.”

“I’m right and you know it! And now I’ve got to sit here and do nothing while you get yourself and maybe one of your guys fucking killed. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself? Did it even cross your mind that I would worry? That maybe I wanted to be involved?”

“You’re not part of this case!” I shout.

“And that’s exactly the way you want it, isn’t it?”

His words leave me reeling. The depth of his anger shocks me. Worse, it fills me with doubt. About the plan. About my motivations. About my abilities as a cop. “I don’t need this.”

“Evidently, you do.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t you fucking hang up on me!”

I snap my phone closed. His words ring in my head. For a full minute, I stand there, looking down at my phone, wondering what the hell just happened.

Turning off the phone, I drop it into my pocket and wander into the living room. Through the window, dusk wanes. Full darkness will be here soon. Several Jersey cows graze in the pasture. The long and narrow lane is empty. I can’t see the road from the house, but I know Skid can see it from the hayloft. He’ll let me know if anyone shows.

Still, the farm is large and there are a dozen places someone could approach and remain unseen. From the back pasture. They could slink along the green-belt that runs along the creek. They could use the cornfield for cover. On the outside chance someone is watching, I decide to use the last of the daylight to make myself visible.

The garden is a cornucopia of autumn vegetables and berries. Standing in the final remnants of daylight, I take in the perfect rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, cucumber and green peppers. The rear perimeter is a briar patch of blackberry bushes drooping with ripe berries. In the spring, I know strawberries abound, and it’s a constant battle to keep the birds from stealing the fruit.

We had a similar garden when I was a girl growing up. I used to sneak into the garden and eat strawberries right off the plants, sometimes before they were even ripe. The season is long past now, but the blackberries are at the height of ripeness. I walk to the bushes. Being careful of the stickers, I pull off a couple of berries and pop them into my mouth.

Even as I enjoy the impromptu snack, I’m aware of the .38 in the pocket of my apron. The .22 mini-magnum strapped to my thigh. The knife in my ankle boot. I’m also keenly aware of my surroundings. It’s so quiet, I would have no problem hearing a vehicle come up the driveway. But if the killer makes an appearance, I don’t think he’ll use the lane. He’ll wait for full darkness, try for stealth. He’ll probably enter the house via the back door, try to find the boy without waking the rest of the family and kill him in the most expeditious manner possible.

Determined to make the farm appear normal, I spend a few minutes picking weeds. I check the laundry left on the clothesline—at my request. Thoughts of Tomasetti try to pry their way into my brain as I stroll the yard, but I don’t let them. I need to stay focused.

At dark, I go back into the house. I light the lantern on the kitchen table, filling the room with yellow light and the smell of lantern oil. I light a second lantern in the living room, then go upstairs and light another in the master bedroom. Just another ordinary night in the Zook home.

Back in the living room, I close the curtains and hit my lapel mike. “Skid, all clear in the barn?”

“Just me and these stinkin’ pigs.”

“T.J.?”

“Not a single car in the last half hour.”

I sigh. “We may be here a while.”

“What if they don’t show, Chief?” T.J. asks.

I’ve been a cop long enough to know stings like this one rarely go as planned. There are so many variables it’s hard to pinpoint where things might go awry. But the killer not showing is certainly high on the list.

“We don’t have the manpower to stake this place out more than a few days,” I say. “If he doesn’t show tonight, I’ll call BCI or the sheriff’s office and request assistance.”

“Good plan.”

I end the call and sigh. In the kitchen, I find another lantern on the counter, light it, turn up the wick. I want it light in here. Crossing to the sink, I open the curtains. Lightning flickers above the trees to the north. A cool breeze wafts in, and I smell rain. The storm would be perfect cover for a home invasion. I go to the living room and pull open the curtains. I want him to see me. An Amish woman staying up late to mend trousers and socks or maybe work on a quilt. Her family is already in bed for the night. The doors are unlocked. They are the perfect victims.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m waiting. Come on in and get me.”

It had been about forty years since Tomasetti had a temper tantrum, but he felt one coming on now. He wanted to break something. Preferably, Kate Burkholder’s pretty neck. Goddamn woman cop. What the hell was she thinking trying to pull off a dangerous sting with nothing more than a couple of cops to back her up?

But Tomasetti already knew the answer. He’d spelled it out for her over the phone. This wasn’t about justice. It was about retribution. He ought to know. Two and a half years ago he’d killed a man in the name of revenge. Then he’d taken it a step further and framed a career criminal—a second man who’d been involved with the murders of John’s family—for the crime. Tomasetti hadn’t felt a goddamn thing but satisfaction.

Yes, John Tomasetti was a master on the subject of payback. He’d destroyed his career. Nearly finished off what was left of his life. All in the name of retribution under the guise of justice. What a goddamn joke.

He’d been pacing the house for an hour now, but it wasn’t helping. The place was a dump. Empty. Like nobody lived there. That’s how he felt inside. No one’s home. No one who cared, anyway. The problem was, Tomasetti was beginning to care, and that was one place he didn’t want to be.

He looked down at the tumbler in front of him and a wave of self-loathing swept through him. Picking up the glass, he hurled it into the sink as hard as he could. Glass shattered. Shards scattered like pieces of ice. He could smell the whiskey from where he stood. He could still taste the sour tang of it in his mouth. Feel the warm buzz of it running through his brain.

He shouldn’t even consider driving down to Painters Mill in his current state. He’d been drinking, enough so that he shouldn’t be driving. He shouldn’t get anywhere near Kate. But it wasn’t the fear of doing physical violence to her that gave him pause. Tomasetti didn’t like where his head was when it came to her. He didn’t want to care for her. He didn’t want to care about anyone. He was just getting to the point where he could get through the day without thinking about Nancy and the girls. He could go the entire night without thinking about putting a bullet in his head. And now his feelings for Kate were jeopardizing all of it.

For the first time in a long time, Tomasetti’s feelings for someone else were overriding his hatred for himself. But he knew the kinds of terrible things that could happen to the people he cared about. There was no way in hell he ever wanted to go through the horror of losing someone he cared for ever again. It was easier not to give a damn.

Kate hadn’t left him a choice.

“Goddamn you, Kate.”

Yanking open the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it and drank it down without stopping. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t exactly sober. He wasn’t impaired, but that wouldn’t keep him from getting a DUI if some trooper pulled him over, decided to give him a breath test. Tomasetti was over the limit in more ways than one.

Cursing, he snagged another bottle of water from the fridge, grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for the door.

It’s three
A.M
., and the house is so quiet I can hear the oil sizzling on the lantern wicks. The wind hisses and sighs through the window above the sink. I sit at the kitchen table with two pair of trousers and an open sewing basket in front of me. I’ve made several passes in front of the windows, making myself visible. From all appearances I’m the only family member awake. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for half my life. Or so says Tomasetti.

I’ve tried hard to maintain my edge. But my focus has shifted to him a dozen times in the last few hours. I don’t like the way we left things. I don’t like the things we said to each other. There was too much emotion. Maybe even a little bit of truth. I’m not sure which is worse.

Rising, I carry a pair of trousers through the living room, passing close to the window, and walk into the bathroom. There, I sit on the side of the tub and hit my radio.

“You guys there?”

“If these sons of bitches don’t show tonight, I swear to Christ I’m wearing a gas mask tomorrow,” Skid says.

With the loneliness of the house pressing down on me, I’m unduly glad for his particular brand of humor. “T.J.?”

“Gonna storm, Chief. I’ve got the radio on and they’ve got warnings out.”