Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I know the place,” Pickles says. “Clarice bought a quilt from her a couple years back.”

“You expect King to show up here?” Glock asks.

Looking at the map, I take a moment to consider the logistics of the prison in relation to Painters Mill. “Most of the law enforcement I’ve talked to believe he’s likely on his way to Cleveland or possibly the Canadian border. Still, we have to be prepared in case he tries to make contact with his kids.”

“Any bad blood between him and the Beachys?” Skid asks.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I tell him, “but you never know what’s in someone’s mind. With the kids involved we need to be prepared.”

I look at Mona. “You have those photos of King?”

“Hot off the press,” comes Lois’s voice from her place at the door, where she’s been listening in on the meeting while keeping an eye on the phones in reception.

Mona is already up and out of her seat, mouthing a thank-you to her counterpart and then passing the photos to the rest of the team.

I glance down at my notes and continue. “Joseph King is six feet one inch in height. Two hundred pounds. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Full beard. He was last seen wearing a prison-issue blue jumpsuit. White sneakers. Possibly a gray hoodie. Be aware that he may have changed his appearance by now.”

“Easy enough to shave a beard,” T.J. comments.

“If he keeps the beard and gets his hands on Amish-type clothing,” Pickles drawls, “it might be even more difficult to recognize him.”

“You’re not suggesting that we start profiling the Amish, are you, Pickles?” Skid spouts off.

Chuckles erupt around the table.

Leave it to Skid to go there.

I jump in before they can take it too far. “King is from Geauga County,” I tell them. “His main connection to Painters Mill is the kids.”

“Was he close to them?” Glock asks.

I recap my visit with Daniel and Rebecca Beachy. “It’s my understanding that King did not have a close relationship with his children.”

“Do they know what he did?” T.J. asks.

“Parents did not tell them.” I shrug. “But people talk. Kids may have heard something.”

“You think he might try to harm them?” Glock asks.

“Don’t like the sound of that,” Pickles growls.

“If King, for whatever reason, blames his sister-in-law or her husband for his woes, if he condemns them for taking custody of his kids, if he believes they interfered in some way or helped the police…” I shrug. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“Or he might go to them for help.” Skid spreads his hands. “Money. Clothes. Safe haven.”

“I got the impression he won’t find much in the way of help from the Beachys,” I say. “I think King knows that.”

“So he’d be foolish to risk his neck coming here to Painters Mill,” T.J. says.

“Still, we have to be vigilant and take every precaution.” I scan the faces of my officers. “In the interim, I’m going to talk to the mayor about overtime. Volunteers?”

T.J. raises his hand. “I’m in.”

Skid grins. “Gotta impress the new squeeze with all that cash.”

I smile. The population of Painters Mill is just over 5,300, a third of which is Amish. With the sheriff’s department operating with a skeleton crew owing to budget constraints, we pick up a lot of slack and take county calls as well as those in Painters Mill proper. But my small force has been stretched thin for years. With vacation time and sick days at a premium, I’m unduly grateful T.J. has a penchant for overspending and a new girlfriend to impress. He’s my OT go-to guy.

I turn my attention to Mona. “Will you contact ODRC and see if they have a list of people who visited King while he was in prison?”

“You got it, Chief.”

I scan the faces of my small team. “There are multiple law enforcement agencies actively searching for King. BCI, State Highway Patrol, Richland County. Holmes and Geauga Counties are on alert. Our department is pretty much on the periphery of the operation. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he’s apprehended. Still, we need to keep our eyes open and stay alert.”

I page through the papers in front of me, looking for the most recent schedule for the department. “Who’s on tonight?”

“I’m on now,” Skid tells me.

T.J. pipes up. “I come on at midnight.”

I smile at them. “I’ll buy the doughnuts.”





CHAPTER 4

There are a thousand places a wanted man could take refuge in northeastern Ohio. The countryside is a plethora of vast forests, small towns, and farmland with dozens of abandoned houses, barns, and silos sprinkled throughout. There are roadside motels and campgrounds where a man could hide out for days and no one would be the wiser.

It’s three A.M. and, as of the last update I received from ODRC, Joseph King is still at large. BCI set up a tip line and a steady stream has trickled in; so far none have panned out.

Painters Mill sleeps like the dead as I idle down Main Street. The storefronts are darkened, the lights dimmed. Some of the awnings have been folded down, the shutters or blinds closed up tight. It’s a clear night—I can see the stars and a sliver of moon—but lightning flickers on the horizon to the west, and I know by dawn we’ll have storms. I consider stopping in at the police station to say hello to Mona as I drive past, but I want to get out to the Beachy farm, where T.J. is keeping an eye on things.

I just left the Butterhorn Bakery. The place isn’t open at this ungodly hour, but I happen to know that the owner, Tom Skanks, arrives at 2:30 A.M. to start the doughnuts. I found the front door unlocked and Tom at the rear prep kitchen, pulling his first batch of apple fritters from the oven. I reminded him there’s a convicted murderer on the loose and suggested he keep his front door locked, at least until King is apprehended. He gave me a baker’s dozen on the house for the good advice. T.J. is still young enough to appreciate the sugar and fat.

I pick up my radio. “What’s your twenty, T.J.?”

“I’m parked in front of the Beachy farm, Chief.”

“Any activity?”

“Bull got frisky with one of the cows a little while ago.”

“I guess at this hour, we’re not too picky about our entertainment.”

“You got that right. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to feel like a voyeur.”

I laugh. “Stay put,” I tell him. “I’m ten-seven-six.”

A few minutes later I pull up beside T.J.’s cruiser and lower my window. His windows are already down. I suspect he’s using the cool night air to stay awake. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

He grins. “I’ll take the fifth on that.”