Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Through the open kitchen window, a renewed chorus of sirens reaches us. Emergency lights dance on the wall. Joseph goes to the window and looks out. I can’t see anything from where I’m sitting, but I imagine there are dozens of law enforcement vehicles parked on the road in front of the house. The sheriff’s department has probably set up roadblocks and a perimeter around the farm, blocking anyone from entering or exiting. In the back of my mind I wonder if Tomasetti knows where I am. I wonder how worried, how upset, he is.

“Joseph, those cops out there will kill you.” I send a pointed look toward the flashing lights. “Please. I don’t want this to end that way.”

He turns away from the window and looks at me for the span of a full minute before speaking. “I loved my wife, Katie. I love my children. I didn’t do the things I’ve been accused of.”

“Then do the right thing,” I say quietly. “Release the kids. I’ll stay with you. I’ll help you. We’ll work through this together.”

He starts toward me, eyes intent on mine. For an instant I think he’s going to drag me to my feet and punch me. I brace, but he only pulls out a chair and sinks into it. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, close enough for me to smell the fear sweat and stale breath, but I don’t shrink away. His eyes are bloodshot and filled with intensity as they search mine.

“I didn’t kill my wife,” he says urgently.

I stare back, wondering if he has any idea how often law enforcement and prosecutors and judges hear those words, and that they’re almost always a lie.

He scrubs both hands over his face, then looks at me over the tips of his fingers. “You don’t believe me.”

“What do you expect? You break out of prison. Jump me in the dark. Take your children hostage—”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Joseph, this is not the right way to go about convincing anyone you’re innocent.”

“Then how?” he roars. “Go back to prison where I’ll be silenced and forgotten until I die? I didn’t murder my wife, Katie. With God as my witness, I didn’t do it!”

“So appeal your case.”

“I did. It was denied.”

“What do you want from me?” I snap, adding a hefty dose of attitude to my voice.

“A little faith! Your trust. Your help, damn it!”

I stare at him, realizing he unquestionably believes what he’s saying. If I can somehow capitalize on that, work it to my advantage, lead him to believe I’m an ally, I might be able to talk him into releasing the children.

“All right,” I say after a moment. “I’ll look into your case. But if we’re going to do this, it’s got to be a two-way street. You have to work with me.”

He scowls. “Work with you how?”

“Release the children.”

“No!” He slams his open hand against the tabletop. “They are my children! I want them here with me!”

“Joseph, listen to me. I’m a cop. I can help you. I can look at your case. The evidence. Transcripts from your trial. If there’s something there, I’ll find it. I’ll find it and I’ll make sure it gets to the right people.” It’s not true; I have no intention of looking at anything related to his case. But I’ve no compunction about lying to him if it will end this and keep those children safe.

He looks at me like he wants to put his hands around my throat and squeeze. “You think this is some kind of joke? You think you can sit there and lie to me as if I’m some kind of fucking half-wit?”

“That’s not what I think.”

He stares at me for so long and with such intensity that sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. He looks desperate and dangerous, like a man at the end of a very short rope. “What happened to you, Katie?” he says with a quiet belied by the dark rage in his eyes.

“I grew up,” I say firmly. “Something you didn’t quite manage.”

He sinks against the back of the chair, looking strung-out and exhausted. For the span of a few minutes neither of us speaks. I study the tabletop between us and listen to the rumble of an engine outside, the occasional bark and hiss of a police radio, the rise and fall of an approaching siren.

“I’ll be the first to tell you I wasn’t a good husband to her,” Joseph says after a moment. “God knows she deserved better. I was a shitty father. An unreliable friend. I was a cheat, a liar, and a thief. I have a temper and I have a weakness for booze. I’m not proud of any of it.” He raises his eyes to mine, his gaze burning. “I’m a loser. But I did not fucking kill her.”

I stare back, assuring myself I’m not swayed. But for an instant, looking into his eyes, I catch a glimpse of the Amish boy I once knew. A thousand memories rush at me, a hail of spears sinking into places that are startlingly tender. The time he swam into a rain-swollen creek to save a stray dog from drowning. The day he got his ass beat by two bullies who’d pulled the underpants off a special-needs Amish girl. The time my brother started a fire in a shed and Joseph took the rap because he knew Jacob was in for a whipping.

“Joseph, do you have any idea how often cops hear that? Come on. I wasn’t born yesterday and neither were you. You have to give me something. Some kind of evidence or proof or at least a theory.”

To my shock, he offers a statistic instead. “According to the National Registry of Exonerations, since 1989 two thousand convicted people have been exonerated.”

“You’ve been reading up.”

“Desperate times … and a decent library.”

“All right,” I say. “You have my attention.”

He gives me a lackadaisical smile. “You’re quite the tough customer, Katie Burkholder.”

I ignore the comment. “Let’s start with this: If you didn’t kill your wife, who did?”

“I don’t know. The one thing I do know is that he’s still out there.” He sighs. “I always believed someone would figure it out. Find the truth. I never imagined it going this far.”

“What was the motive?” I ask. “Why would someone kill an Amish woman? A mother of five?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t know. Naomi was always … the good one. Everyone loved her, including me.” He gives a wan smile. “I’m the one everybody wanted to kill. Yet here I am.”

The words reverberate in the silence of the kitchen, punctuated by the sounds of the police presence outside. The chirp of a police radio. The occasional blast of a siren. A voice coming over a loudspeaker.

“I know how all of this sounds,” he says.

I give him a hard look. “Crazy? Delusional?”

“Desperate. Far-fetched.” His mouth curves, but the smile does nothing to mask the sheen of bitterness in his eyes. “The cops said I had drugs and it was true. They said I was drunk; they were right.” Something lights up in his eyes, some dark emotion that’s both hot and cold at once. “But I have never struck my wife. Never. And I did not take her life.”

I’ve heard a hundred variations of those words and not once have I believed any of them. I don’t want to believe them now. But there’s something in the depths of his eyes that beckons me to listen, to look deeper. Am I biased because I grew up with him? Because he influenced my life in such a significant way? Or is it possible there’s some shred of truth to his words?

“You can’t fight the charges like this,” I tell him. “Not by holding me and your kids hostage. You can’t do that. It will not help your cause.”