Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

CHAPTER 12

For an instant the sound freezes me in place. A thousand thoughts assail my brain at once. Vaguely, I’m aware that the tempo of the police presence has intensified. Shouting and movement and the bark of radios. I break into a run, pause at the caution tape demarking the police perimeter, look toward the Beachy house. Shock sweeps through me when I spot two SWAT officers moving toward the house through the trees.

And I know.

The rest of the world falls away. I feel as if I’ve been plunged into a sealed bottle from which all the air has been sucked. There’s no sound or light, just the thrum of my heart, the hiss of my breaths tearing from my throat, and the knowledge that someone has been killed.

I don’t remember ducking beneath the tape. Then I’m sprinting toward the house. Weaving through the trees. I’m aware of movement to my right. The flash of lights behind me. Someone ordering me to get the hell back.

I don’t stop.

The high-pitched scream of a child cuts through all of it. I hear terror in the voice. The kind no child should ever experience.

Then I’m in the front yard. Grass wet beneath my feet. I’m out of breath, partly from the physical exertion, partly from adrenaline. I scramble up the hill. I’m thirty feet from the house when the front door bursts open. The children pour out, faces ravaged, eyes crazed. I see blood on bare feet as one of the girls flies down the steps.

I spot Sadie, running across the grass. Arms outstretched. Blood on her dress. Her hands. She looks at me, but doesn’t see. I dart left, drop to my knees in front of her. She flings herself into me so hard the breath is knocked from my lungs.

“Sadie.”

Her arms scrapple at my shirt, tiny hands fisting the fabric, clinging as if some unseen force is trying to rip her away. “Datt! Datt! He’s bleeding!”

I wrap my arms around her, pull her close. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”

She’s tiny and shaking so hard I can barely hold onto her. “I want my datt!” she screams. “I want him!”

“We’ve got her! We’ve got her!”

I glance over my shoulder to see two women rush toward us. Expressions taut and grim. One’s a cop. The other is wearing a blue blazer and skirt. I get to my feet. Sadie clings to me, but I pry her fingers from my shirt, shove her toward the woman who reaches us first.

“I’m with Children Services,” the woman pants.

“Go with her, Sadie. It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

A sheriff’s department deputy jogs toward me. He’s shouting words I can’t discern, gesturing angrily. Sadie screams again as I spin toward the house. I cross the sidewalk, take the steps two at a time to the porch, yank open the door.

“Joseph!” I don’t recognize the voice that rips from my throat. “Joseph!”

I rush through the living room, past the stairs. Dim light from the window slanting into the kitchen. At the doorway, I spot an ocean of blood slicked across the floor, stark and red and surreal. There’s an overturned chair. A spray of blood on the wall. Joseph is lying on his back, arms thrown over his head, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. A hole the size of my fist on the right side of his forehead. His left eye stares right at me. The other is rolled back white, the lid at half mast …

A second bullet tore through his throat. The source of the blood …

I’ve seen death more often than I care to recall in the years I’ve been a cop. Traffic accidents. Shootings. Stabbings. Death from natural causes. It’s always a terrible sight to behold. This is worse. I knew this man. I spent my formative years with him. He impacted my life. The way I see the world. I spoke to him less than twenty-four hours ago. He was anxious and despondent, but he wanted to live his life.

I hear myself utter his name. But I know he’s gone. Killed instantly, more than likely. I know better—damn it, I know better—than to go to him, but I do. Avoiding the blood, I kneel beside him. A cacophony of noise and movement all around. Shouting punctuated by the thud of boots, the jingle of tactical gear.

Joseph is wearing the same clothes as when I sat at this table with him. His shirt has ridden up. I see a white belly, the waistband of his underwear. A thin layer of male hair.

“You! Ma’am! You!”

A hand slams down on my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of a gloved hand, an officer in tactical gear. Helmet and flak jacket. He knocks me off balance and then I’m being hauled backward, dragged away from Joseph, toward the doorway. I scramble and twist, try to get my feet under me, finally succeed.

“Get the hell off me,” I snarl. “I’m a cop.”

“You can’t be here,” he barks. “What the hell are you doing?”

Wrenching my arm from his grasp, I grapple for my ID, yank it out. “SWAT took him out?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes flick to my badge and he relaxes marginally. “Look, you’re not supposed to be here. We’re securing the scene.”

“Who gave the order?”

He blinks at the question. “I’m here to clear the house and secure the scene. You’ll have to take that up with the guy in charge.” He raises his hands, tries to herd me away from the scene as if I’m some dense animal.

“Kate! Kate!”

I glance right, see Tomasetti striding through the living room, his phone against his ear, his face grim.

“Come with me,” he says.

When the SWAT officer doesn’t back off, Tomasetti shoves his ID in his face. “I fucking got this,” he growls.

The officer raises his hands, but holds his ground, watching us.

“He’s dead.” I glance at the river of blood, the spray on the wall, and I see Joseph the way he looked at me that final time. “The kids…”

“They’re fine.” Then Tomasetti’s hand is on my biceps and he’s guiding me through the kitchen doorway, into the living room, toward the door where half a dozen cops are coming through. “Let’s go. They’ve got to secure the scene and we’re in the way.”

It feels wrong leaving Joseph like that. Bloody and sprawled on the floor. He’d hate that, I think. Wouldn’t want anyone to see him that way.

I make a halfhearted attempt to free myself from Tomasetti’s grasp. He doesn’t release me.

“Kate.” He says my name in a low voice as we go through the door. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, damn it.”

He frowns. “Uh-huh.”

I plant my feet, stop and turn to him. “Who gave the order? Why wasn’t I told?”

“Ryan and Crowder worked it out. You weren’t part of it.”

“Did you know?”

“The order came down fast, Kate. Once King fired on law enforcement and they were able to take a clean shot, the decision was made. A sniper was put in place and he waited for the opportunity. Took the shot through the kitchen window.”

“Tomasetti, King wasn’t armed—”

“Yes, he was, goddamn it. He had a rifle. He had your fucking handgun. He fired on deputies.”