Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Rasmussen addresses Ryan. “Did you talk to the warden at Mansfield?”

Ryan nods. “They know how he got out, but they’re still trying to figure out if he had help.” He turns his attention to me. “Did King mention anything about the escape? Did he have help? Was it was planned? Or did he take advantage of an opportunity?”

“He didn’t mention the escape at all,” I tell them.

“Considering you used to know King, do you think it’s possible he targeted you in some way?” Ryan asks.

“There’s no way he could have known I’d be in those woods,” I say.

“Did he know you’re a cop now and living in Painters Mill?”

“He mentioned he had read about it.”

The beat of silence that follows sends a string of tension through me. I try to quiet the unsettled little voice whispering things I don’t want to hear, but I know how cops think. They’re a suspicious lot, me included, and I know I’m just a step or two away from being accused of sleeping with the enemy.

“Any idea why he released you?” Scanlon asks. “I mean, you’re a cop. Seems like you’d be a high-value hostage.”

In unison, Ryan and Tomasetti lean in.

“I think he released me because he wants me to look into his case.”

“So you agreed to look into it?” Crowder asks.

“I explained to him it’s out of my jurisdiction, but I’d see what I could do.”

“Good answer.” Scanlon looks around the table. “If worse comes to worse, we can use it, dangle that carrot.”

“Let’s take advantage of any leverage we can get.” Ryan turns his attention back to me. “Did he at any point threaten you?”

“He pointed the gun at me. I took that as a threat.”

“Did he threaten the hostages?” Scanlon asks.

“No.”

“Did he physically assault you or anyone else inside the house?” Ryan asks.

“Just when he jumped me in the woods. Even then, I don’t believe his intent was to cause bodily harm. He wasn’t unduly violent. No punching or hitting. It was more like he just wanted to overpower me, gain access to my weapon, and get me inside the house.”

Crowder sneers. “That’s when he got your weapon? When he jumped you in the woods?”

“Correct.”

“You’d called for backup at that point, though, right?” he asks.

I give the sheriff a pointed look. “I was on the phone with my dispatcher when he came at me, tackled me to the ground.”

“You’d been notified there was an escapee in the area, hadn’t you?” Crowder says.

“I’d received a notification call from ODRC, but I didn’t believe King would show up in Painters Mill.”

Crowder shakes his head with flourish. The sentiment behind it isn’t lost on me—or anyone else. “With the Amish being so … family-oriented, I assumed you’d realize there was a high probability he’d return to them.”

Another jab aimed at me. I don’t jab back. No one knows more clearly than me that I screwed up. “He’s from Geauga County,” I point out. “Not Painters Mill. I didn’t expect him to come into a community in which he isn’t a member of the church district. That’s not to mention he’s estranged from his family. The Amish here in Painters Mill want nothing to do with him.”

“Evidently ODRC thought the threat of him turning up here was great enough to put you on the notify list,” the sheriff shoots back. “I mean, the guy’s kids are here. That’s a big deal.”

I stare at him, fingers of anger poking me, irritating me, goading me to poke back. But I know it would be counterproductive. Crowder may be an asshole, but I’m the one who got myself ambushed and my sidearm taken. So I suck it up and keep my mouth shut.

“Maybe you should have taken that call from ODRC a little more seriously.” Crowder skewers me with a nasty look before adding the coup de grace. “I hear that happens a lot with you.”

I stare back at him. My heart is pounding. My hands are beginning to shake. But I give him nothing. “If you have something to say, maybe you ought to just say it.”

He takes me up on it. “You knew there was an escaped felon in the area, and yet you were out in the woods, in the middle of the night, alone, and without backup. As a result of your poor judgment, he disarmed you, took five minor children hostage. He keeps the kids, but you get sent on your merry way. Now, not only do we have to deal with a hostage situation, but a crazy shit who’s armed with your service revolver.”

It’s a cheap shot, but I don’t defend myself. As angry as I am about being raked over the coals in the presence of my peers, the bottom line is he’s right.

“King had actually taken those hostages before ambushing Chief Burkholder,” Tomasetti points out.

Ryan intervenes. “I believe she’s well aware of the situation at hand, Jeff.”

“In case you’re not reading between the lines, Sheriff,” Tomasetti adds, “that means keep your extraneous commentary to yourself.”

I risk a glance at Tomasetti. Outwardly, he appears calm and in control. But I know him too well. He’s one more word away from launching an all-out assault on Crowder.

Crowder isn’t deterred. “Don’t tell me to keep my commentary to myself. I know what this motherfucker is capable of. I saw what he did to his wife.” He glares at me. “I saw Naomi King lying in her bed with her goddamn chest laid open and her intestines all over the sheets. I saw all them poor kids with blood all over their hands.” He looks at Ryan. “Joseph King is a dangerous son of a bitch and every single one of us would be wise not to forget it.”





CHAPTER 9

The words are damning—worse than damning—especially coming from the sheriff of the county in which the murder happened. Not for the first time I wonder if I’m wrong about Joseph. If I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist. That he murdered his wife in cold blood, he coached his little girl to lie for him, and I’m a fool for entertaining any possibility other than the one that’s been established by solid police work, a copious amount of evidence, and an impartial jury.

No one speaks. No one looks at me. Except Crowder. He’s staring at me; his face is red, the capillaries in his nose and cheeks standing out like ink on leather, his lips drawn tight over clenched teeth.

“That’s enough, Crowder.” Tomasetti’s voice is like steel.

The two men stare at each other for the span of several heartbeats. Finally, Crowder rises. “Excuse me,” he says, and strides to the coffeemaker.

I feel my credibility slipping away. These men are losing faith in me, in my competence as a cop. In their eyes I’ve become something I detest. A novelty because I’m female. A figurehead because I’m formerly Amish in a town where that matters. I’m not sure how it happened so quickly, but I know that no matter what I say from this point forward, it will be met with skepticism.

Ryan moves to break the tension. “For now we need to figure out how to best deal with King and get those kids out of there.”