Pray for Silence

Too late. Too late . . .

 

The Tahoe fishtailed on the wet asphalt as he turned into the gravel lane of the Zook farm. The SUV kicked up stones and bounced over ruts. The farmhouse loomed into view. The place was pitch black. No vehicles. No lights on inside.

 

Where the hell was her backup?

 

Tomasetti drove over a sapling tree and through the grass, over the sidewalk. Ten feet from the back door, he hit the brakes hard, and the Tahoe’s tires dug ruts into the soft ground, skidded to a halt.

 

Throwing open the door, he pulled his weapon and hit the ground running. He knew better than to enter the place alone. He knew he could be walking into a trap. He kicked in the door without knocking. “Police!” he shouted. “Police! Put your fucking hands up now!”

 

In the dim light slanting through the window, he saw three bodies. A lake-size puddle of blood. The black silhouette of a gun. His heart slammed hard against his ribs when a flicker of lightning revealed Kate. She was lying on her back, stone still. Her eyes were open and for a horrifying moment, he thought she was dead.

 

Too late. Too late.

 

The little voice taunted him. He stumbled toward her. Choking sobs squeezed from his throat. A scream of denial rang in his head.

 

She’s not fucking dead! God wouldn’t do that to me twice in one lifetime.

 

“Kate!” He dropped to his knees beside her. “Kate!”

 

Her eyes shifted to his. “Jesus Christ, Tomasetti, it took you long enough. A girl could bleed to death.”

 

The relief came with such force that for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop touching her. He could hear his breaths rushing in and out. His heart hammering in his ears. Too many emotions knocking at his door. All he could think was that she was alive. He hadn’t been too late.

 

“I ought to wring your neck,” he growled after a moment.

 

“Now would be a prime opportunity,” she whispered. “I’m in no condition to stop you.”

 

“Ambulance is on the way.” There was too much blood. Too much pain in her face. It worried him that she wasn’t moving. “You shot?”

 

“Twice. Vest protected me, but he got me in the arm.” Wincing, she tried to sit up. “I think they shot Skid. He was in the barn.”

 

Tomasetti eased her back down. She felt weak. Cool to the touch. Where the hell was the ambulance? “We’ll take care of him. Just be still for now, will you?”

 

She closed her eyes, and he felt her body relax. “Are they dead?”

 

He glanced at the other two bodies. The staring eyes and lack of color told him they were DOA. “Nice job, Chief.”

 

“I’m going to ask for a raise,” she whispered. “Hazard pay.”

 

“Kate, you’re bleeding. You need to stop talking. Okay?”

 

“You’re a moody bastard, you know that?”

 

“That’s what everyone says.” But he smiled.

 

She smiled back. “Thanks for coming.”

 

Fighting emotions he didn’t want to feel, John Tomasetti bowed his head and thanked the God he had forsaken for the last two and a half years.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 29

 

 

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Or so I tell myself, anyway. I’m in the Explorer, idling down Main Street the way I have a thousand times before. Light rain patters the windshield, keeping time with a moody Everlast song about saving grace on the radio. To my right, two women in suits and heels stand outside the City Building, huddled against the rain, smoking cigarettes and making small talk. The aromas of warm yeast and cinnamon from the Butterhorn Bakery waft through my open window. I slow down as I pass the Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle. In the display window, a dozen or more colorful Amish quilts hang, and for the hundredth time I find myself thinking of the Plank family.

 

Four days have passed since the night I shot Scott Barbereaux and Jack Warner at the Zook farmhouse. I want to think a sort of final justice was served that night. I want to believe I gave the sons of bitches what they had coming. But as is usually the case, things aren’t always that cut and dried.