Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Jonas and Logan exchange a look. “That was our reaction, too,” Logan says. “But yeah.”

“And of course, Joe was Joe.” Jonas rolls his eyes. “I mean, here’s Joe, facing jail time for the meth—serious as hell, right? So he’s out on bond, he goes fishing up to Lake Erie and misses his court date. But that’s Joe for you and, believe me, it didn’t help. But, Katie, he always maintained that someone planted that meth. I figured one of his friends had left it in the buggy or something. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“When people get into trouble with the law, they say all sorts of things to try and get out of it,” Glock says.

“I get that,” Jonas says. “I do. And I know how all of this must sound. I mean, Joe isn’t exactly a Boy Scout, right?”

Logan steps in. “At that point Jonas took his concerns to the sheriff’s department.”

“And?” I ask.

“They jerked me around for a couple weeks,” Jonas explains, “wouldn’t return my calls. In the end all I got was a rash of patronizing bullshit and pat answers.”

Jonas stops speaking, slightly breathless, and divides his attention between me and Glock. “No one knows better than me that Joe didn’t help his cause. He’s the only person on this earth I’ve ever come to blows with. But I’m absolutely certain he did not murder Naomi.”

The words echo, their meaning as cold and heavy as steel.

“Someone did,” Glock says.

“If not Joseph, then who?” I ask.

“I’ve racked my brain.” Jonas gives an adamant shake of his head. “I have no idea.”

“Anyone we should talk to?” I ask.

He looks at me, a slow smile touching his mouth. “Salome Fisher might be able to shed some light.”

“Who’s she?”

“The bishop’s wife,” he tells me. “She was Naomi’s best friend. She won’t speak to me, because I’m … well.” He nods toward Logan. “But Naomi and Salome were close, Chief Burkholder. If anyone knows anything about what was going on in her life, it’s Salome.”

I pull out my pad and write down the name. “Where can I find her?”

“She lives south of here, off Wilkes Road. Got a farm out there with her husband.” His mouth curls. “From what I hear they weren’t very helpful when the cops were there after Naomi died.”

I’m still digesting everything that’s been said when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display and see DISPATCH pop up. “I have to take this.” Turning away from the men, I answer with my name.

“Chief, I got shots fired out at the Beachy farmhouse.”

“Shit.” I reach down and turn up the volume of my radio, the hiss and bark of traffic jumping at me. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering why I didn’t get the call from Ryan or even Tomasetti. “Anyone hurt?”

“Details are sketchy. The story I’m hearing is that King fired on a deputy. Deputy returned fire.”

“I’m on my way.”





CHAPTER 11

I use my emergency lights and siren and make the trip back to Painters Mill in an hour. All the while my mind runs the gauntlet of scenarios that could have played out. Did King panic and fire on law enforcement? Were the cops overzealous? Did it somehow involve the children? Was it an accidental discharge? The most troubling question of all: Am I wrong about King?

Using his cell, Glock tries to gather information, but no one seems to know exactly what happened. Just that gunfire was exchanged. Or else no one’s talking.

The scene hasn’t changed much in the hours since I left, but there’s a frenetic energy now that wasn’t there before. The road in front of the farm is jammed with law enforcement vehicles from as far away as Cleveland now. The media presence has tripled to include The Columbus Dispatch, a television station out of Akron, and another out of Cleveland.

Rather than fight my way through the crush of vehicles, I park a distance away and hoof it to the command center. A white van emblazoned with WAYNE COUNTY SPECIAL REACTION TEAM is parked a few yards behind the command center. A young deputy in full riot gear is leaning against the front grille, talking on his cell.

I fly up the steps and go through the door without knocking. Jeff Crowder is standing in the center of the room, looking at me as if I’m some undesirable that’s wandered in off the street. Curtis Scanlon is sitting at the table, the headset looped around his neck like a noose. A deputy clad in SWAT gear sits at the table across from him, watching me with dispassionate eyes.

“Is anyone hurt?” I ask.

“No,” Scanlon replies, but the word doesn’t jibe with the way he’s looking at me.

“King? The kids?”

“Haven’t been able to get him on the phone.”

“Shit.” I take a breath, make an effort to dial it down and look around the room. “What happened?”

“King fired on one of my deputies,” Crowder says. “The deputy returned fire.”

The words jam a knot into my gut. Now that there’s been an exchange of gunfire, it’s only a matter of time before SWAT makes a crisis entry.

The temperature inside the command center is uncomfortably hot despite the blast of the air conditioner. Tension lies heavy in the air. No one’s talking. There’s no place for me to sit, so I move to the hallway that leads to the cab. It’s the only place left that won’t interfere with the flow of the RV or obstruct any of the electronics, and not for the first time I feel as if I’m in the way.

“Is Ryan around?” I ask Crowder.

“Yep.”

He doesn’t elaborate, so I glance toward the front of the RV, thinking he may have gone into the cab. “I need to speak with him.”

Crowder smirks. “If you’re in that big a hurry I reckon you could drag him out of the toilet.”

Chuckles erupt. I smile, but my face heats.

Careful, a little voice warns.

I wait for a span of several heartbeats, but no one speaks. No one makes an effort to bring me up to speed on the situation. No one makes eye contact with me.

What the hell?

The restroom door swings open. Jason Ryan steps out, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

Aware that all eyes are on me, I cross to him. “What happened?”

“Evidently King isn’t in the mood to chat so we’re kind of stuck in a holding pattern for now,” Ryan says, and then, “Excuse me.” Turning away, he tugs his cell from his pocket and just like that, I’m dismissed.

I glance at Crowder. Looking pleased by the exchange, he sneers and turns away. Scanlon is hunched over his iPad, brows knit, suddenly absorbed. Even the other deputy gives me the cold shoulder, which tells me he was present for at least one conversation in which I was the topic.