Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Fury sizzles beneath my skin, but I don’t give it voice. “Sure thing,” I tell him.

Eyes burn into my back as I make my way to the door. Then I’m through it, too much pride to slam it, and I take the steps to the scene outside.

I’m standing at the base of the stairs, trying to convince myself that my ego isn’t bruised and smarting, when I spot Tomasetti striding toward me.

“You calling it a night?” he asks.

All I can think is that he doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen the headline. “We need to talk,” I say.

He reaches me and stops, tilting his head to catch my eye. “You okay?”

“No.” I pass him the newspaper.

He unfolds it, his eyes scanning. His expression reveals nothing as he takes in the photo and skims the accompanying article. When his eyes meet mine they’re as hard and sharp as a scythe. He hands it back to me without speaking.

“Did Ryan see this?” he asks.

“They all did. Just now.”

“What did he say?”

“He wants me gone.”

“Diplomatic of him.”

“I thought so.” I close my eyes. “Goddamn it.”

I take the newspaper from him, lower it to my side. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. I don’t want to see condemnation or disappointment. “I did not behave inappropriately with King,” I say after a moment.

“I believe you.”

The words stop me cold. It’s the one thing I didn’t expect him to say, and I have to close my eyes against an unwelcome wave of emotion. I’d had my defense laid out and I was prepared to shout it out if I had to. As usual, Tomasetti was one step ahead of me.

When the silence becomes awkward, I manage, “You have no idea how much I needed to hear you say that.”

“Just for clarification purposes, I’m not some insecure high school boy. I know you too well to believe you’d engage in that kind of behavior.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Kate, that’s not to say it doesn’t look bad. It does, especially if King forces our hand and we have to do something we don’t want to do. You’re a cop. To all of those unfortunate individuals who don’t know you as well as I do, it might appear as if you were conducting yourself in a manner unbecoming a chief of police.”

I have a sudden mental image of the photo hitting the front page of every newspaper in northeastern Ohio or trending on social media, and I groan inwardly. “It’s going to damage my reputation. Take a chunk out of my credibility.”

“People will think what they will. Probably doesn’t help that you’re female. Formerly Amish. In a position of authority. Any of the above could make you a convenient target.”

“So what do I do?”

“Fuck ’em.”

None of this is even remotely funny, but I laugh. It does nothing to dislodge the stone of dread that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

“Kate, where this could get serious is this current situation with King. If worse comes to worse and there’s a fatal outcome, for King or any of the hostages, it could get ugly.”

The words actually make me nauseous. Not because of any potential fallout due to the photo, but because the thought of someone getting killed—Joseph or one of the kids or a cop—offends me on both a personal and professional level.

“Tomasetti, there’s got to be another way.”

“That’s up to King.”

“There’s got to be something I can do. Look, I knew him. I could talk to him. On the phone. I might be able to get him to listen to reason. If I could just talk to him—”

“You already did. You did your best and he didn’t listen.”

Quickly, I tell him about my visits with Edward and Jonas King. “Joseph’s younger brother doesn’t believe Joseph killed Naomi.” I tell him about Jonas’s exchange with Sadie. “Tomasetti, there’s no way that little girl made up that story.”

“Kate, are you saying you believe King is innocent?”

“I think it warrants a second look.”

He sighs unhappily. “Kate…”

I relay what Jonas told me about his conversation with Naomi. “After Joseph was arrested, Naomi admitted that he didn’t assault her.”

“Look, I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but how many times has a cop walked away from a suspected domestic-violence situation without making an arrest only to learn later it was a mistake because someone ended up dead? Cops make the best calls they can. The situation isn’t always cut-and-dried. And they don’t always get it right.”

“Jonas doesn’t believe King was ever violent with his wife.”

“Sometimes loved ones are the last to accept the truth.”

“Tomasetti, I don’t know if I’m right. But none of this is adding up.”

“Kate.” Tomasetti lowers his voice. “Guilty or not or somewhere in between, the bottom line is we have a barricaded gunman with five minor hostages and he’s refusing to cooperate or give himself up. He’s fired on officers.”

I start to turn away, but he sets his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me. The situation is a powder keg and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. He’s not left us with much in the way of options.”

I look away, fight off a wave of emotion I don’t want to feel. “What are they going to do?”

“If he hadn’t fired on that deputy, we’d simply wait him out.”

“And now?”

He grimaces. “Ryan is waiting to hear back from the AG. With the kids inside they can’t do a tactical assault. If they’re forced to move, I suspect they’ll take him out with a sniper. I know you don’t want to hear that, but unless something changes, it’s probably going to happen.”

“I hate this.”

“I know you do. I’m sorry.” His hands fall away from my shoulders. “Look, I have to go.” He tilts his head, catches my gaze. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

I nod, heft my best phony smile. “See you at home later.”

“I’ll do my best.”

*

Tomasetti disappears inside the command center without looking back. I stand there, trying to pull myself together. I know he’s right. I did my best. It’s all anyone can do. The knowledge doesn’t help, because if someone gets hurt tonight, it won’t have been enough to make a difference.

It’s past time for me to leave. All I’m accomplishing by hanging around is torturing myself with the weight of my own mistakes and the knowledge that this is probably not going to end well. It’s out of your hands, Burkholder. Go home. Get some sleep. I start toward my vehicle.

It’s midafternoon. Around me the day is overcast and cool with a hint of rain in the air. I find myself thinking about Joseph King and his children. Is he having second thoughts about what he’s done? Are the kids frightened? Did they have breakfast? Do they have any idea how horribly this could turn out?

God, I hope not.

I don’t speak to anyone as I walk along the road’s shoulder. I concentrate on shutting down my thoughts, trying not to think of anything more complicated than the prospect of a hot shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I’m midway to the Explorer when the thwack! thwack! thwack! of gunshots slices through the air.