Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Linda Castillo



For my husband, Ernest

Always





Acknowledgments

Researching and writing a novel is a monumental undertaking and I owe thanks to many people who generously shared their knowledge, time, and expertise with me. As always, I’d like to thank my publisher, Minotaur Books, and all the wonderful people who bring the books to fruition. Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Jennifer Enderlin. Sarah Melnyk. Kerry Nordling. Paul Hochman. Kelley Ragland. Marta Ficke. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Martin Quinn. Joseph Brosnan. Allison Ziegler. Lisa Davis. You guys are my dream team and I’m so pleased to be part of your publishing family. I also wish to thank my friend and agent, Nancy Yost, who just happens to be the best in the business. Many thanks to the fine professionals at the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation for the fascinating tour and for answering my crazy author questions without so much as a blink. Thank you to Wally Lind, retired Senior Crime Analyst and police officer, and founder of the Crimescenewriter email loop, for answering my questions about hostage negotiations. I also want to mention that I took much literary license in the depiction of several law enforcement agencies. Any procedural errors and creative embellishments are mine.





PROLOGUE

Two years earlier

He waited until the children slept. It was his final kindness. Give them a few more hours of peace before he took from them the thing they loved most. Before he shattered their innocence forever. Took something from himself he would never get back.

He didn’t have a choice. Not now. He’d made the decision months ago, after spending a hundred nights tossing and turning beneath sheets damp with nervous sweat. He’d decided to kill her as he lay next to her, listening to her breathe, her body soft and warm against his. Even as the thought of having her again titillated that dark part of him that had spiraled out of control so long ago he couldn’t recall.

He parked midway down the lane, walked the hundred or so yards to the house. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, wet earth and growing things. Thunder growled in the distance, a beast prowling the countryside, hungry and snuffling the air for blood. He crossed the wet grass of the side yard, traversed the sidewalk. It was the same track he’d taken a thousand times before. Tonight would be the last.

He let himself in through the back door that was never locked. Standing in the mudroom, rain dripping to the floor, mud and gravel sticking to his boots. Darkness all around. Propane refrigerator hissing from its place in the corner. Around him the house slept.

He found the shotgun in its usual spot, leaning against the wall, next to the coatrack. His hands shook as he picked it up. Breaking it open, he checked for shells, found it loaded. He started toward the kitchen. The lingering aromas of coffee and this morning’s cornmeal mush and maple syrup.

Lightning flickered as he crossed through the living room. A snapshot of familiarity. How many times had he sat here with her on that eyesore of a sofa, piled high with homemade pillows etched with the silly stitching she was so fond of? The memories tore at him, and the now-familiar grief moved heavy and bittersweet through his chest.

Boots silent against the hardwood floor. The steps creaked as he started up them. On the landing at the top, dim light slanted in through the window at the end of the hall. The three bedroom doors stood open. His feet whispered against the rug as he went to the first, where the boys slept. He reached for the knob with a gloved hand. The latch clicked when he closed it. He went to the girls’ room next and stood in the doorway, hearing the soft purr of a child’s snore. He lingered, regret echoing inside him despite his resolve because he knew after tonight it would be lost.

No time to dwell. He’d weighed his choices, made his decision. The only one he could. It was him or her. He’d chosen his life, his future. A dark curtain fell over his emotions, snuffing them out, and he pulled the door closed.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Door open a few inches like it always was, so she could hear the children if they woke during the night. Stupid, fretful woman. Using his free hand, he pushed open the door the rest of the way. The silhouette of the bed beneath the window. Too dark to make out details, but he had an image of it in his head. Cheap knotty pine, yellowed with age. Threadbare sheets that smelled of laundry detergent and sunshine and woman. He had an image of her, too. The way she looked up at him when he was inside her. The way she sighed when he came. The sound of her laughter when it was done …

There was just enough light filtering in for him to discern the lump of her body beneath the quilt. The faint scent of kerosene from the lantern hovered in the air, and he knew she’d stayed up late reading, the way she always did.

A flash of lightning lit the room and in that instant he saw himself with her, their bodies arching and entwined, and he had to choke back emotions that threatened to strangle him. His conscience told him it didn’t have to be this way. They could be a family. A real family. But he knew that was only the fear talking. He had too much at stake and far too much to lose.

He swallowed the bile that had crept up the back of his throat. The fear crowding his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’m sorry, baby.” His heart was beating so hard he didn’t know if the words were a thought or if he’d actually spoken them aloud.

He stopped a few feet from the bed and raised the shotgun. His body quaked as he raised the stock to his shoulder. Set his eye to the sight. He’d been handling rifles since he was thirteen years old, and for the first time in his life the muzzle trembled. Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades as he leveled the sights center mass. Finger on the trigger. Deep breath, slowly released.

The explosion rocked his brain, scattered his thoughts, shook his resolve. Her body jolted, did a quarter roll. Right leg stiffening, then relaxing. Then she went still.

Dear God, what had he done?

His heart was running like a freight train. Emotion threatening to put him on the ground. The smell of blood rising, a primal stink filling the room, threatening to drown him. Time to walk away. Never look back. Forget if he could.

Lowering the rifle, he backed away.

“Datt?”

The voice jolted him, a lightning bolt coming through the roof and lighting up every nerve in his body. Adrenaline fired in his gut, spread in a hot rush to his limbs. He spun, raised the rifle.

“What are you doing?” the child asked.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. He stared at the little round face and all he could think was that she was going to ruin everything …

The whites of her eyes flicked and he knew she was looking at the bed where her mother lay dead. “I want Mamm.”