Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

A chill scrapes up my back. Turning around, I start back toward my vehicle. “Get T.J. out here. Ten-forty.” Expedite. I set my hand on my revolver, my eyes striving to penetrate the darkness all around, my every sense on high alert. “Get County out here, too. I’m on the two-track off Township—”

The ambush comes out of nowhere. One instant I’m striding down the path toward my vehicle, the next I’m knocked off my feet. No time to react or break the fall. I hit the ground hard. Left shoulder grinding into the earth. The left side of my head strikes something hard and bounces off. My attacker comes down on top of me with so much force that the breath is crushed from my lungs. My left cheekbone sinks into mud, leaves and twigs scratching my cheek. Dirt in my mouth. In my ear.

A hundred thoughts rush my brain. My attacker is male. Heavy build. Strong as hell. Aggressive.

Rough hands shove my right shoulder to the ground. I’m facedown, arms grappling like a crab. Defenseless. Shit. Shit.

“I’m a police officer!” I twist left, try to throw him off balance, get my arms and legs under me. The toes of my boots dig into mud and slide. I can’t get my knee up.

He jams his knee against my back, grinds it into my spine. A hand clamps the back of my neck like a vise, fingers squeezing hard enough to cause pain; he shoves my face into the ground.

“Don’t fight!” he says. “Don’t fight!”

“Get the fuck off me!” I twist right, bend my leg at the knee, reach for my sidearm. “Get off!”

Using his other knee, he crushes my triceps. Pain zings down my arm all the way to my pinkie, and I end up with a handful of mud and grass.

“Hold still,” he grinds out. “Just shut up and listen.”

Recognition kicks in my brain. Something inside me sinks. I know that voice. It’s deeper now, tinged with high-octane stress, underscored with panic. But I’d recognize it anywhere. Closing my eyes, I bite back a curse. If I could’ve managed in that instant, I would have kicked myself. Hard.

You screwed up, Burkholder.

For the span of several heartbeats the only sound comes from the quick in and out of our breaths. Then I say, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He goes still. He’s straddling me. I feel his entire body trembling, the wet heat of his sweat soaking into my shirt.

“Joseph, get the hell off me,” I say.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. I read hesitation and confusion in the lack of response. He recognized my voice, too, but he doesn’t know what to make of it.

A thousand thoughts rush my brain. I’m not sure how to handle this. How to handle him. I’m trying to figure out if I can somehow use our past to convince him to turn himself in when he speaks.

“Katie Burkholder.”

He says my name with a familiarity I don’t appreciate. Especially when I’m facedown in the mud and his knee is grinding into my spine.

“I heard you were a cop.”

“I don’t have to tell you you’re in serious trouble, do I?” I tell him.

“I’m aware.”

My mind races with what to say next. I remind myself I haven’t seen or heard from him in over twenty years. We may have been close as kids, but that was a lifetime ago. It may as well have been a hundred years.

“I figured you’d be on your way to Canada by now,” I tell him.

“Thought about it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Got some business to take care of right here.”

“What business is that?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Your kids?”

No answer.

I’m seriously uncomfortable, wet with mud, his fingers clamped hard around the back of my neck. His knee is grinding into my back with so much force that my legs are tingling. “Get off me.”

He shifts his weight and the pressure subsides. I try to rise, but he stops me. “Not so fast.”

“Let me up. Right now. We need to talk about … what’s going on here. About your situation. Get things figured out.”

He surprises me by laughing. It’s a tense, strange sound in the woods in the dead of night. His hand falls away from the back of my neck. He eases his weight off another degree, but doesn’t get off me. Shifting, he reaches down and yanks my .38 from its holster. “I’ll take this.”

I close my eyes, rest my cheek against the muddy ground. “Joseph, you don’t want to do this.”

“You going to behave yourself if I let you up?”

“I’m going to try to talk you out of this.”

“I reckon I can handle that.” In one smooth motion, he moves off me and rises.

I roll, snatch up my cell, and quickly get to my feet. We’re facing each other, breaths elevated, adrenaline zinging between us. There’s just enough light for me to see his silhouette. He’s standing four feet away, my .38 pointed at me, center mass.

“You got another gun on you?” he asks.

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“I’m not armed.”

“You alone?”

“For the moment.” Cautiously, hoping he doesn’t notice, I drop the cell into my pocket.

It’s too dark for me to read his expression, but I’m pretty sure he’s frowning. “What does that mean?” he asks.

“I was on the phone when you ambushed me.” I’m shaking all over. My legs. My hands. My heart is drumming hard against my ribs. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, trying in vain to calm myself. I’m aware of increased traffic coming over my radio. “In a few minutes this place is going to be crawling with cops.”

He looks around and sighs. “Nothing I can do about that.”

I take a step toward him, hold out my hand for my weapon. “Give me my sidearm. Right now.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Joseph, it’s not too late to end this. Turn yourself in. Please. I’ll help you.”

“As much as I like the idea of your helping me, I don’t think I’ll comply.”

“Whatever you have planned, it’s not going to work.”

“You have no idea what I have planned.”

Considering the circumstances, he seems calm, but then Joseph was always cool under pressure. He’s almost too calm. But I know how quickly a situation can spiral out of control.

“You came back for your children?” I ask.

“Among other things.”

“Other things like what?”

I can’t see his face, just tiny pinpoints of light from his eyes. “I didn’t kill my wife,” he tells me.

Dread curdles in my chest, a sour, sickening sensation. I don’t know the particulars of his conviction. But I’ve read enough to know he’s lying. To avoid setting him off, I engage him. “Let’s talk about it. I’ll listen to you. If I can help you, I will.”

He stares at me, saying nothing. Even from four feet away and in near-total darkness, I feel the intensity pouring off him. A different kind of alarm flutters in my gut. I have no idea how long he’s been here. If he’s already been inside the house. I don’t know what his intentions are. What he might’ve already done …

“I didn’t kill her,” he repeats. “I don’t know how they got all that evidence for the trial, but I didn’t do it. I’m not going back to prison for something I didn’t do.”

“This is not the way for you to help yourself.” I motion toward the revolver in his hand. “The gun is going to make things worse. Or get you killed.”

He shrugs. “There are worse fates.”

“I don’t believe that. Neither do you.”