“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.
CHAPTER 27
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.”