I start toward her, my brain scrambling for words of comfort, but nothing seems adequate. Several things strike me at once as I cross to her. She’s a thin woman with a pale complexion. The brown roots showing at her scalp tell me the blond came from a bottle. The cast on her leg looks huge and out of place. I can tell by the way she’s shifting around that she’s not used to the crutches. That she’s probably in pain. And she’s been crying.
“Mrs. Kester?” I say as I approach her.
I know immediately this is no thank-you-for-saving-my-life visit. Mentally, I brace because I know it’s not going to be pleasant. The woman totters over to me and stops a scant two feet away. A little too close. Invading my personal space. I heed my instincts and step back because I know grieving people can be unpredictable. She looks at me as if I’m something she’s scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
“You Burkholder?” she asks.
I nod. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kester. What can I do for you?”
Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti approaching from behind me. A few feet away, the man who’d driven her here leans against the fender of the car, arms crossed, staring down at the ground.
“You can’t do anything for me.” Kester’s voice is monotone, her eyes flat. “I just wanted you to know … my baby died. Because of you.” Propping herself on the crutches, she raises a finger and jabs it at me. “She had an injured neck and you moved her.”
I’m usually pretty adroit at deflecting malicious comments. But I feel her words like the sharp edge of a knife against my skin. The death of the child has been a weight on my conscience. I spent most of the night reliving those moments in the trailer home, envisioning what I could have done differently. I spent the rest of the night dreaming of her.
“Why did you have to move her?” Her eyes fill, but there’s more anger than grief. “Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?”
The need to defend myself is strong, but I don’t. Grief is a powerful state of mind, and I know that no matter what I say at this point, it won’t help. It won’t ease her pain or make her feel better. It sure as hell won’t bring back her baby. So I stand there and I take it.
“Mrs. Kester, I’m very sorry—”
Her hand snakes out, connects solidly with the left side of my face. The force of it sends me sideways. I stumble, catch myself. My training kicks in and I reach for her wrists.
“You killed her!” she screams. “Murderer!”
I hear shoes against the ground behind me. Tomasetti moves in, wedges himself between us, grasps her biceps. The crutches fall away as he hauls her back. “Murderer!” she screams. “Baby killer!”
“Calm down,” Tomasetti tells her.
She trips and starts to go down. He breaks her fall, then gently lowers her to the ground to keep her from getting hurt. “Let go of me!”
“Stay down.” His eyes land on me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
Rasmussen trots up beside me. “Didn’t see that one coming. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yup.” But my throat is so tight I can barely speak. I’m embarrassed because I let my guard down and got myself sucker punched. On an emotional level, I’m still reeling from the woman’s accusation.
Baby killer!
The deputy jogs over to them, his handcuffs out, and kneels next to the woman. She’s screaming and crying as they roll her onto her stomach.
“Watch her leg,” I remind them.
“Shut up!” she screams. “This is your fault! Yours!”
“I’m aware,” Tomasetti growls at me as the two men pull her arms behind her back and handcuff her.
It’s an ugly scene, painful to watch. Despite her behavior, this is the last thing I wanted to happen to Paula Kester. She’s distraught and out of control. Helpless because of her broken leg. But with so many cops present, it’s out of my hands. They’re bound by law to make the arrest. I figure if I can go to bat for her later, I will.
“Hey!”
At the sound of the male voice, I look up to see the man who’d driven the woman here approach us. He’s heavy set, jogging toward us, his face a mask of concern. “What are you doing to her?”
I step toward him, put out my hand to stop him. “Halt right there, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Okay. Okay!” The man freezes and raises his hands. “I’m cool.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Carl Shellenberger.”
“Show me some ID.”
While he digs for his wallet, I jab a thumb at the woman on the ground. “Why did you bring her here?”
“She wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
“I figure that’s between you and her, ma’am.”
“What’s your relationship with her?”
For the first time he looks contrite. “I’m her dad.”
I can still feel the sting of her palm against my face. The adrenaline beginning to ebb. A gnarly ball of guilt churning in my gut. “Is she on any kind of medication?”
He sighs. “I think the doc gave her something for the pain.”
“Did it cross your mind that bringing her here wasn’t a very smart thing to do?”
Another heavy sigh. “She was pretty adamant about it.”
“Well, now she’s under arrest for assaulting a public servant,” Tomasetti interjects.