Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Look, I bought pot a couple of times. Small amounts, mostly. But it was a pittance. Less than an ounce. I paid cash.” His mouth tightens. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but the other drugs the cops found in my buggy? The meth? It wasn’t mine.”

I slap my hand down on the tabletop. “Stop lying to me! For God’s sake, Joseph, can you just tell the truth! I’m trying to help you! I don’t care about the drugs at this point. I want to know about the people you dealt with. We both know what kinds of people involve themselves in the drug trade.”

“I did not keep company with drug dealers,” he tells me. “That’s the truth, Katie. Never spent more than thirty or forty bucks and always in cash.”

A tense silence ensues. I find myself watching the red and blue lights dancing on cabinets, a new sense of pressure coming down on top of me. I look at Joseph and my eyes fall upon the butt of my .38 sticking out of his waistband. Two things strike me at once. I’m not afraid of him. And I want the truth. All of it. Even if it’s something I don’t want to hear.

“Do you trust me?” I ask him.

He stares at me a long time before answering. “Yes.”

“Do you want my help?”

“You know I do.”

I hold out my hand. “Give me my sidearm. Right now. Give it to me.”

He doesn’t move.

“Give me my pistol and we can walk out of here together. I’ll make sure you’re treated fairly while I look into your case. You have my word.”

His mouth curves, but any semblance of a smile is obliterated by the agony in his eyes. “Ah, Katie.”

“Don’t say that to me,” I snap. “Don’t look at me that way. Goddamn you.”

“I can’t give you the gun. That would leave me defenseless.”

“Joseph, for God’s sake, I’m offering to help you. Don’t screw this up.”

“I’m not going to leave my children. I’m not going back to prison.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you continue with this … this hopeless farce? They’re going to kill you. One of your kids could get hurt in the cross fire. The cops do not mess around when there are hostages involved. Is that what you want?”

He looks away, shakes his head. “No.”

I point to the window where police lights glint off the curtains. “The cops have probably already brought in SWAT. A negotiator, too. They’ve been trying to call. If you don’t talk to them, if you don’t strike some kind of deal, they’ll storm this place. I’m talking tear gas and flash-bang grenades. If one of your kids gets hurt it’s going to be on you.”

“I have no control over what they do.” He brushes his hand over the pistol’s butt. “I’m not going back to prison. If that’s the only thing you can offer, I might as well put a bullet in my head now and get it over with.”

“Then let the children go!” I shout. “Let them go.”

His eyes hold mine. “The only person I’m going to let walk out of here is you.”

“For God’s sake.” I throw up my hands in frustration.

My cell erupts. King gives me a nod. Blowing out a breath, I pick up. “Burkholder.”

“This is Curtis Scanlon with BCI,” a male voice tells me. “Everyone all right in there?”

My memory clicks. Curtis Scanlon is a hostage negotiator. I don’t know him personally, but I’m familiar with his reputation. He’s one of the best negotiators in the state of Ohio. Perhaps the entire Midwest. He’s handled dozens of hostage situations statewide and is well known in law enforcement circles. He’s got the voice of a radio personality. His manner of speaking is calm, yet affable. He’s competent. Reasonable. He’s as charismatic as any Hollywood heavyweight. Rumor has it he’s received marriage proposals from fans who’ve seen him on TV.

“Everyone’s fine,” I tell him.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes. Mr. King is right here at the kitchen table with me.”

“Good. Good. Kitchen. Got it. He’s armed?”

“Yes.”

“Long rifle? Handgun?”

“Both.”

“All right. Thank you.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Do you know what he wants?”

“He wants the police to take another look at his case. The evidence. His conviction. He says he didn’t murder his wife.”

“I understand. Do you think he’ll talk to me?”

“I can check.” I offer the cell to King. “Curtis Scanlon is the negotiator. He’s good, Joseph. He can help you.”

His eyes holding mine, Joseph takes the phone. He’s taken it off speaker. I’m sitting close enough to hear Scanlon speaking, but I can’t make out what’s being said. Joseph listens dispassionately. He probably doesn’t realize it, but Scanlon is already gathering information. He’s getting a feel for King’s personality, his frame of mind. Figuring out what makes him tick. Looking for weaknesses. In the back of my mind I wonder if he’s ever dealt with an Amish person.…

“That’s not what I want,” King says after a moment. “I didn’t kill my wife. I’ve spent over a year in prison for something I didn’t do. I don’t want to compromise. The children are fine.”

After a few minutes, he removes the phone from his ear. Scanlon is still speaking. For a moment we listen to the drone of his voice, and then King disconnects.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Ich bin sei geshvetz laydich.” I’m tired of all his talking. “Your smart guy isn’t so interested in the truth. Only in resolving this his way.”

I’d been hoping that Curtis Scanlon, with all his charisma and experience, would be able to convince him to lay down the gun or at least release the children.

“Give him a chance,” I say. “Joseph, he can help you. Listen to him.”

He tosses the phone onto the table between us. “The only one who can help me is you. Katie, you know me. You—”

“I don’t know you,” I cut in. “Not anymore. The Joseph I once knew would never do anything as stupid and dangerous as this.”

“Put yourself in my shoes!” he shouts. “What would you do?”

“I’d go through the proper channels.”

“Yeah, that’s you all right. Miss Proper Channel.” He leans back in the chair, crosses his arms over his chest. “The Katie Burkholder I used to know was a rebel. She knew right from wrong and she wasn’t afraid to stir the pot.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” I snap.

Another silence falls, tense and uncomfortable. I feel the minutes slipping away, the opportunity for a positive outcome fading with every tick of that silent, invisible clock.

“I always knew you’d grow up pretty.” He follows up with a half smile.

“How can you say something so flippant when you’re an inch away from getting yourself killed?”

“That bothers you.”

“If it’s all the same to you I’d rather no one get killed.”

“No, I mean when I tell you you’re pretty.”

I stare hard at him. “You are your own worst enemy. You always were.”

He doesn’t argue.

After a moment, he motions toward the door. “I’m going to let you go now.”

I should be relieved. He’s going to let me walk away from this. No one was hurt. I’m loath to leave the children behind, but I don’t think he’ll harm them. And I’ll have the opportunity to do my job and try to resolve this with the help of my counterparts outside.

“Do me a favor?” I ask.