Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Are Daniel and Rebecca Beachy all right?”

“They’re being interviewed now. They’re unhurt, just upset.”

King jabs the revolver at me. “Tell them I’m armed and they’re not to come in.”

Nodding at him, I relay the information.

“Is he right there, Chief? Listening?”

“Roger that.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Probably.” I hesitate. “But … it’s not imminent.”

“So this is a ten-ninety-three?” she says, using the ten code for hostage situation.

“That’s affirm.”

“I notified County. Is there anything else I should do?”

Before I can respond, King leans close and yanks the phone from my hand. “That’s enough.”

He hits the END button with his thumb and tosses the phone onto the table. “They’d better not try to come in.”

“They won’t,” I assure him, hoping I’m right. Initially, the situation will fall under Sheriff Mike Rasmussen’s jurisdiction. The first thing he’ll do is call BCI for assistance. BCI will bring in a negotiator.

A burst of activity crackles over my radio. I glance at King, wanting to respond, to let my counterparts know I’m fine and that, for now, the situation is calm. But he snatches the lapel mike from where it’s clipped to my shirt and drops it to the floor.

I rise abruptly. “I need that to communicate.”

Leveling the revolver at my chest to keep me at bay, he crushes the mike beneath his shoe, grinding it into the floor. “Sit the hell down,” he snaps.

Annie begins to cry.

I lower myself back into the chair, glance in her direction. “It’s okay,” I tell her, but my voice isn’t very convincing.

King looks at her, and blinks. The flash of emotion on his face is so fleeting I might have missed it if I hadn’t been looking right at him. An instant of softness tinged with regret or maybe pain. And in that instant, I know that while he is a violent man, a drug user, a murderer even, there’s still something human, something reachable inside him. He cares about his children. That’s knowledge I can use to my advantage. To manipulate him. Make him listen to reason.

The realization is cold comfort tonight, because I know that sometimes love—especially a desperate, hopeless, unreciprocated love—can be lethal. If Joseph King can’t handle it, he might decide to end it all—and take everyone in the house with him.

“Everything’s okay, Annie,” he tells the girl.

She hiccups. “We’re not supposed to yell or cuss.”

“I’m just … tired,” he says softly. “Stop crying now.”

“Maybe it’s past your bedtime, Datt,” Sadie says thoughtfully.

A smile whispers across his mouth. “Maybe I’m not the only one, no?”

The little girl looks down at the empty mug in her hands. It’s obvious she’s exhausted, but she shakes her head. “I’m not sleepy, Datt. Not at all. I want to stay up and help you and Katie get things figured out.”

King’s brows arch. It’s an astute remark for a five-year-old child. She’s repeating what she’s heard, and I’m reminded that children see and hear more than we realize.

Reaching out, he musses her hair. “Die zeit fer in bett is nau.” The time to go to bed is now. King addresses the oldest girl. “Becky, take the little ones upstairs and tuck them in, will you?”

“Avvah, Datt, vass veyya shtoahri zeit?” Sadie cries. But Datt, what about story time?

The words are spoken in perfect Pennsylvania Dutch, her voice as high-pitched as a toy doll’s. She’s got a smear of chocolate on her cheek and she’s clutching a raggedy, faceless doll to her chest. Despite the circumstances, I’m completely charmed.

“Okay.” King brings his hands together. “Shtoahri seahsht un no shlohf.” Story first and then sleep.

Looking relieved to be excused from the table, Becky rises and starts for the stairs. In a flurry of scooting chairs and stampeding feet, the four remaining children make a mad rush for the door and clamber up the stairs.

I turn my attention to King. “They’re frightened,” I tell him.

He gives me a sour look. “Can you blame them? They don’t know what to make of all this. Wakened in the middle of the night by a father they haven’t seen in two years.” He shrugs. “I’m practically a stranger to them. And who knows the things people have told them? About what happened with their mother. About me.”

“I talked to Rebecca and Daniel,” I tell him. “They didn’t tell the children anything.”

I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t believe me. “I didn’t kill Naomi,” he says.

I don’t respond. Instead, I hold his gaze, looking in vain for some shred of conscience I can call upon to convince him to release the children, but there’s nothing there. “It’s obvious you still love those kids very much.”

“Of course I do,” he says irritably. “They’re my children.”

“I know you don’t want them hurt.”

“I’m not going to hurt them.”

“You’ve put them in an incredibly dangerous situation.” I motion toward the window with my eyes. “There are a dozen cops with guns outside. All they know is that you’re a convicted killer and you’re holding these kids hostage.”

“Nothing I can do about that.”

“You can end this. Release the children. Give yourself up. Joseph, if you don’t, someone is going to get hurt. You or me or one of those sweet kids.”

“People have already been hurt,” he snaps. “My wife is dead. My children have been taken from me. I’ve been imprisoned for something I didn’t do.”

I look closely at him, wondering if he’s delusional or medicated, but I see no indication of either. Has the stress of the last two years—the trial and incarceration—sent him over the edge of some psychological precipice?

“Joseph, they’ve already lost their mother,” I say quietly. “Don’t take their father away from them—”

“Don’t take their father away?” he says angrily. “Are you kidding me? I’ve not seen my children for two years!”

“You’re alive.”

“Alive?” He laughs. “That’s not a word I would use to describe my existence.”

“This is not the right way to go about changing it.”

He looks down his nose at me. “Look at you. Sitting there all smug. So smart like some do-gooder. Judging me. You know nothing.”

“I know you don’t want those kids to be hurt.”

He slants me an assessing look. “You always were a persuasive one. Strong-willed. Too willful, according to your datt.”

“Joseph, I’ll help you. If you’d just—”

“Maybe too many years have passed. Evidently they’ve taught you how to be a good liar.”

“I’m trying to save your life.”

“Save your breath,” he says nastily.