Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

He’s right about the girl. I discerned her keen intellect within a few minutes of meeting her. For a five-year-old, she’s extraordinarily self-assured, poised, and well-spoken. That said, the murder of her mother was two years ago; Sadie was only three years old at the time. Mature or not, she is an unreliable witness.

King doesn’t seem to notice my skepticism. “Naomi and I knew Sadie was different when she was still practically a baby. We used to call her our little aldi hutzel.” Old woman. “She does not make up stories or tell tall tales,” he says. “I swear to you, Katie, I believe she saw the man who shot and killed Naomi.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I didn’t until I was already in prison. No one bothered telling me,” he says darkly. “Sadie confided in Becky, my oldest. But Rebecca and Daniel wouldn’t let the children visit me. So Becky wrote me a letter. I’m sure you know the people at the prison read all the incoming mail. This one got through.”

“Did you tell your attorney?” I ask.

“Of course I did,” he says crossly. “I was certain her testimony would exonerate me. Maybe help the police find the man responsible. It gave me hope.” He shakes his head. “My attorney petitioned for Sadie to be interviewed.”

“And?”

He sags against the chair back, deflated. “They said she was too young to be reliable. The psychologist and social worker agreed. And they were afraid another interview would cause her further emotional trauma.”

I nod, saying nothing. Any cop who’s investigated a case involving child abuse or exploitation by a parent or guardian knows children will say or do anything to protect them. A traumatized child who’s lost a parent will likely turn to the other parent, even if the surviving parent has been cruel. In addition, kids who’ve experienced emotional trauma sometimes create fantasies to help them deal with it. It’s a protective mechanism, and I’ve seen it more often than I care to recall.

“Do you have the letter?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “They took it. The correction officers. They came in one night and searched my cell for contraband. I’d hidden it in my Bible. When I came back, it was gone.”

My phone erupts again. I glance down at it, see HOLMES COUNTY SHERIFF on the display.

“They need to know everyone’s okay,” I say.

“Answer it. Make it so I can hear.”

I hit SPEAKER and answer with, “Burkholder. You’re on speaker.”

“Kate, this is Mike Rasmussen. Mona tells me you’re in there with King and there’s a hostage situation. Is that correct?”

Rasmussen and I have worked together on a handful of cases over the last few years. He’s a good cop with a level head and nearly twenty years of experience under his belt. He doesn’t rattle easily. I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s rattled now.

“That’s correct,” I tell him. “Joseph and his children are here. Everyone’s okay.”

“He’s armed?”

I look at Joseph and he nods. “That’s affirm.” In the back of my mind I wonder if the Beachys keep a rifle in the house.

“Kate, are you in imminent danger?”

“No.”

“Is Mr. King listening?”

“He’s right here, sitting across the table from me.”

“All five kids there?”

“Yes.”

He pauses, stymied because he knows King will hear whatever he has to say. “Mr. King?”

“I’m right here.”

“Any chance I can talk you into coming out here to talk to me?”

“No.”

“What about the kids? Will you send them out? I’m sure both of us want to keep them safe, make sure they don’t get hurt.”

“They stay with me.”

“Mr. King, I don’t have to tell you this is a very serious situation, do I?”

“I know how serious it is,” the Amish man replies.

“It would be prudent for you to put down any weapons you have and come out to talk to me. I promise to listen.”

“Not going to happen.”

“What is it you want?” Rasmussen asks.

Looking annoyed, King nods at me to answer. I interject, “Mike, he wants us to look into the murder of his wife. He says he didn’t kill her.”

“All right.” The pause that follows tells me he’s ruminating the statement, trying to think of a way to use it. “Is there anything I can do to help bring this to an end?”

“I’ll let you know.” King snatches the phone off the tabletop and ends the call.

“Joseph, this is so not the right thing to do,” I tell him.

“What else is there?” he growls.

“There are a dozen cops out there with guns. More on the way. SWAT, too, probably. A negotiator. This is not helping your cause.”

Shooting me a dark look, he rises and stalks to the window and parts the curtains to peer outside. The butt of my .38 is sticking out of his waistband. In the back of my mind I wonder if I could get to it before he stopped me. Red and blue lights flash on his face from the law enforcement vehicles parked at the end of the lane. He stares at them a moment, then drops the curtains and returns to the table.

“How many?” I ask.

“Too many to count.” He drops into the chair.

“They’re not going to go away.”

“I don’t expect they will.”

“Joseph, they’ll kill you. I don’t want that to happen.”

Sending me a withering look, he rises abruptly and strides to the living room. At the base of the stairs, he looks up at the landing and shouts, “Becky, bring Sadie down here!”

The girl shouts something unintelligible.

He reclaims his place at the table.

“Please don’t bring her into this,” I say.

“You still don’t believe me.”

“Joseph, what do you expect? What do you—”

“I expect someone besides me to care about the fucking truth!” he roars.

Movement at the door draws my attention. My heart sinks when the little girl steps into the kitchen. She’s wearing her nightgown and hugging that tattered, faceless doll to her side. No one bothered to wash her dirty feet before she went to bed, and the mud has caked. I can tell by the crease on her cheek that she’d been sleeping. Still, she’s happy to be back down here with us.

Behind her, the older girl—Becky—sets her hands on her younger sister’s shoulders. “Why are all those police cars parked on the road, Datt?” she asks.

“That’s for me to worry about, not you,” King tells her.

“Levi is upstairs at the window. He’s scared.”

King sighs. “Tell him to get away from the window and go back to bed. Close the curtains, too.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Katie and I need to speak with Sadie for a few minutes. I’ll bring her up when we’re finished.”

Bowing her head slightly, her eyes flicking to me and then back to her father, the older girl backs from the room and pounds back up the steps.

Sadie goes to her father, climbs onto his lap. “Can I have hot chocolate?”

King takes her into his arms—a natural, practiced move despite his having been away from her for two years. “You already had hot chocolate.”

“It was good. Maybe I could have another one.”

There’s a smile in his eyes when he looks at me. “She’s a good negotiator, no?”

For the child’s sake, I smile. “I can see that.”

“You remember Katie from earlier?” King asks.