Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

I stare at her, mentally picking at her body language, her facial expression, the words she spoke with such earnestness. The only thing that comes back at me is the guileless expression of an innocent child.

“Sadie,” I say, “you’re not in any trouble. But I’m going to ask you a very important question and I need for you to tell me the truth. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Did anyone ask you to tell me this? To say you saw a man in the house the night your mamm went to heaven? Or did you really see him?”

“It’s what I really saw.”

“Did you tell anyone else about it?”

She looks at her datt. Not for direction, I realize. But for permission to tell me the truth. He gives her a nod.

“The social lady and her friend.”

I glance at Joseph, raise my brows.

“Children Services,” he clarifies.

I nod, turn my attention back to the girl. “Anyone else?”

“I told Becky. At first she said it was just a marenight.”

King interjects. “Nightmare.”

The little girl grins. She knows “marenight” isn’t a real word, but she enjoys saying it and the attention it garners from her datt. “Becky got sad and worried. She cried and she never cries. She wanted to tell Datt, but no one would let her because he was sent away. We didn’t know what to do. Aunt Becca told us little kids aren’t allowed to go to the place where Datt was staying.” She lowers her voice. “That’s when Becky wrote the letter.”

King addresses me. “I was to have no contact with the children. So Becky signed her aunt’s name instead of her own and the letter got through to me. I recognized her handwriting so I knew it was from her.”

“Sadie, you’re a brave little girl.” Reaching out, I touch Sadie’s cheek with my fingertips. “Thank you for answering all my questions.”

“Are you going to help us so my datt can come home for good?” she asks.

“I’ll see what I can do.”





CHAPTER 7

Ten minutes later I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Sadie’s troubling account of the night her mother was murdered replays in my head like the trailer of some low-budget horror flick. Joseph King sits across from me. The red and blue lights flashing against the curtains and adjacent cabinets serve as a constant reminder of the situation. He made coffee, but neither of us has touched our cups.

“Sadie is a smart little girl,” I tell him.

“Took after her mamm.” He offers a self-deprecating smile and once again I’m reminded of the boy I once looked up to and knew so well. “She’s no liar.”

The notion that some mysterious Englischer came into the house that night and shot Naomi King while she slept goes beyond far-fetched. There was a shitload of circumstantial and physical evidence against King. It was common knowledge among law enforcement—and the Amish community—that the marriage was rocky. King had been convicted of domestic violence on two previous occasions. He was a known drug user and a man with a temper. It was the kind of pressure-cooker situation that all too often ends badly.

But I can’t discount what I heard from that little girl. The fervor—the utter certainty—with which she spoke made an impression. Is it the truth? How can a five-year-old tell a huge, frightening, detailed lie with such natural, unrehearsed conviction? Either she’s a natural-born liar or she was telling the truth.

… he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us.

God knows I’m no expert on kids. I do know they are capable of deception. Especially an intelligent child who is loyal to a parent, smart enough to see the big picture—and shrewd enough to know how to get what she wants.

Is it possible the man in the hall was, indeed, King and Sadie somehow blocked it out? Did she make up some fantasy to exonerate him, if only in her own mind? Or maybe it’s not as complicated as that. Maybe she was disoriented after being wakened abruptly from a deep sleep. Maybe King had been wearing English clothes. Maybe the girl was so accustomed to seeing him in his Amish garb, she mistook him for a stranger.

That doesn’t explain her assertion that the intruder was clean-shaven. At the time of his arrest King wore the full beard customary of a married Amish man. How did she come up with that detail? Was she simply mistaken? Was it her child’s imagination? Or had she been coached?

According to police reports, the children discovered their mother’s body the next morning around eight A.M. Death due to a shotgun blast would have been gruesome. Is it possible Sadie’s skewed recollection of events is the result of psychological trauma? Was she so traumatized her mind invented the stranger because she simply couldn’t accept the truth?

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I want to condemn Joseph for dragging his five-year-old little girl into this mess. Put him back in a cage with the rest of the animals that maim and murder and steal. The problem is there’s a part of me that doesn’t believe the girl was lying. That puts me in an untenable position.

“You’re a son of a bitch for bringing her into this,” I say.

He doesn’t look up. “I know.”

We fall silent again, thinking, thinking. My phone rings. We don’t look at it this time. I don’t answer.

“I don’t know what to make of her story,” I tell him.

He finally makes eye contact with me. “I wasn’t there that night, so I do, obviously. She’s telling the truth and no one listened to her.”

“If you’re lying to me, I swear to Christ I’ll bury you.”

“I’m not lying.”

I pick up the mug and sip cold coffee. “Did Naomi have any enemies?”

Joseph stares at me, a kaleidoscope of emotions churning in his eyes. “No.”

“Any disputes? Had she recently argued with anyone? Neighbors? Friends? Family members?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone loved her. She was … good, Katie. Better than me. Too good for me. She was … everything I wasn’t.”

“Were you faithful to her?”

His eyes flick away. “No.”

“Who was she?”

“Just … a woman in a bar.”

“Her name,” I snap.

“I don’t remember.” He shakes his head. “Not even sure I asked.”

“Did you hear from her again? I mean, afterward?”

“No.”

I think about all the gnarly repercussions of infidelity. An angry husband. A scorned lover. The list is seemingly endless. “Is it possible you were the target?”

I can tell by his expression the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Answer the damn question,” I say firmly. “Did you have any enemies? Jealous husbands? Pissed-off lovers? Any ongoing disputes? About money? With neighbors? Anything?”

“I rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I don’t think I pissed off anyone to the extent that they’d want to shoot me or my wife.”

“What about drugs? You got busted with pot, didn’t you? Meth? A lot of unsavory individuals involved in that crap. Did you owe drug money to anyone? Did you double-cross anyone?”