Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Kate!” comes a familiar male voice from behind me.

I swing around to see John Tomasetti and Holmes County Sheriff Mike Rasmussen jogging toward me. I see the sharp edge of concern on Tomasetti’s face. Rasmussen looks just as grim. They’re running now. Rasmussen is usually pretty laid-back; tonight his face is slicked with sweat, his eyes jumping. But it’s Tomasetti I can’t look away from. As he closes the distance between us, I descend the steps, and the rest of the world falls away.

“Are you all right?” Urgency burns through the restraint I hear in his voice. For an instant I think he’s going to break our self-imposed rule of conduct and embrace me. Or maybe tear into me for getting myself ambushed in the woods. Instead, he runs his hands over my arms, taking my hands and squeezing them briefly before releasing me.

“I’m okay.” I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen and back to Tomasetti. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Rasmussen asks. “We got a call from dispatch. Got worried as hell when we found that stolen vehicle and no one could get you on the horn.”

Sighing, I tell them about being accosted by King. “He took my radio. My phone. He’s got my sidearm.”

“Shit,” the sheriff mutters.

“Kids okay?” Tomasetti asks.

Silently cursing Joseph, I nod. “They’re fine. They have the run of the place. In bed for the night. I don’t think they understand exactly what’s going on.” I pause. “Rebecca and Daniel Beachy are all right?”

“They walked out about the same time you went in,” Tomasetti replies.

“SWAT’s on scene,” Rasmussen says. “I’ve got three deputies on perimeter, but we’re stretched thin.”

“Incident commander is Jason Ryan with BCI.” Tomasetti motions toward the RV. “He wants to talk to you.”

I’m still trying to get my feet under me, put everything that happened into some kind of perspective that doesn’t have to do with a troubled Amish boy or the misplaced loyalty of the girl I’d once been. This is a hostage and barricaded gunmen situation. The lives of five children are at stake. I can’t let my past relationship with Joseph King affect my judgment or decision making.

“Chief Burkholder.”

I turn to see a large, grim-faced man standing in the doorway of the command center. He’s wearing dark, creased slacks with tactical boots. A white shirt and tie peek out from the front of a navy blue windbreaker embellished with the BCI logo.

I cast a look at Tomasetti. His eyes are already on me. I’d wanted to spend a few minutes with him, but the opportunity is gone. The man is already coming down the steps.

“Jason Ryan. BCI.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. His grip is too firm. Two quick pumps and release. Dry palm. “Are you all right?” he asks. “Anyone hurt in there?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Everyone inside is fine.”

“Good. Good.” But I can tell he’s in a hurry to get down to business; he wants the lowdown on Joseph King. “I’d like to debrief you inside if you have a few minutes.”

The “if you have a few minutes” was thrown in only as polite-sounding window dressing. I don’t have a choice in the matter. I suspect Ryan is the kind of guy who will be your best friend when he wants something. If you’ve screwed up, he’ll be the first one to cut you loose.

I know what’s coming next. They need intelligence. They want to know King’s frame of mind. What he’s thinking. What his demands are. What’s going on inside the house. The level of danger for the hostages. How I walked into it. A thousand questions from a dozen sources crammed into a small period of time.

“Of course,” I tell him.

He motions toward the stairs. “Watch your step. We’ve got coffee if you want it.”

Tomasetti follows us inside.

The trailer is cramped and smells of pressed wood, new carpet, and coffee, all of it laced with an odd blend of aftershave, sweat, and hot electronics. To my right is the control room chock-full of high-tech gadgetry. Left is a good-size table surrounded by six chairs, a tiny kitchen with a sink and coffeemaker. Beyond, I can just make out the lighted dash of the cab.

I’m aware of Tomasetti touching my arm as I take one of the chairs. Sheriff Rasmussen sits next to me. Tomasetti and Ryan sit across the table.

The door swings open. The vehicle rocks slightly as a fourth man enters. Short and trim in stature, hostage negotiator Curtis Scanlon is neatly dressed in blue jeans, button-down shirt, and tie beneath a BCI windbreaker. A headset with a mouthpiece is clamped over his head. Expensive haircut. Precision goatee. No sidearm. I guess him to be in his mid-forties.

He crosses to the table and sticks out his hand. “Curtis Scanlon.” He says his name as if he likes hearing it. His eyes are on me, so I reach out and we shake. “Glad you’re here and in one piece, Chief. We need to get a read on this guy.”

Curtis Scanlon is a legend among law enforcement. He’s a talented negotiator with a solid reputation and instincts that seemingly never steer him wrong. He’s got a track record of successfully talking down even the most unstable and violent hostage takers. Two years ago, he worked a case in which laid-off factory worker Raymond Lipscomb took his girlfriend and her newborn twins hostage in a Cleveland apartment building. Lipscomb was suicidal and threatened to “take his family to hell with him.” Scanlon spent forty-two hours on the phone with him with no breaks and no sleep. He engaged Lipscomb, discovered little things that made him tick. They talked about fishing. They talked boats. Outboard motors. They argued lures versus live bait. Scanlon had some fresh fish sent in from a local restaurant—he delivered it himself. In the end, Lipscomb surrendered without further incident.

Scanlon is undeniably one of the best negotiators in the Midwest, perhaps even the nation. From what I’ve heard, his larger-than-life reputation is dwarfed only by the size of his ego.

Introductions are made. Too much urgency for niceties. The negotiator pulls up a chair and straddles it, facing us. “You left your phone inside?” he asks.

I nod. “I told him to talk to you.”

We’re interrupted when the door swings open. I glance over to see a tall, heavyset man wearing a Geauga County Sheriff’s Department jacket enter. I’ve met Jeff Crowder several times since I’ve been chief. He’s in his late fifties with a thick head of blond hair and the physique of a linebacker.

His bloodshot eyes sweep the room. He doesn’t bother with introductions. “What’s the situation?”

“We just started the debriefing.” Ryan pulls out a chair. “Have a seat. We’re going to want your take on this guy.”

Crowder crosses the room, pulls out a chair, and lowers himself into it with an exhale.

Ryan turns his attention back to me. “King’s armed?”