Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“You girls okay?” he asks.

“We are fine.” Sarah actually sounds a little miffed about what Joseph did.

Not me. “Is your horse okay?” I ask.

“Sonny don’t take things too personal,” Joseph says. “Can’t see someone doing that to him. He’s old and still works hard. I think he deserves a little bit more respect.”

“Me, too.”

I’m aware of Sarah looking at me. Probably thinking I’m being too friendly with Joseph. But I can’t look away.

Joseph motions in the general direction in which the car drove off. “Those two are trouble.”

“We know,” Sarah says.

“I don’t think they’ll be back, though,” he says.

“We’re glad you came by when you did,” I tell him.

His eyes smile, but his mouth doesn’t follow suit. “Datt and me are going to bale hay this afternoon. Tell Jacob I won’t be down to the creek till later.”

Sarah and I exchange glances. We both know he’s not asking about Jacob.

“I’ll tell him,” Sarah says.

“We’re going to find that trunk and pull it out today.” Joseph’s eyes land on me. “You, too, runt.”

I can’t stop the grin that overtakes my face. “I’m not a runt.”

“That’s a likely story.” Turning, he climbs into the buggy and drives away.

*

I haven’t thought of that day on Hogpath Road in years. The event made one hell of an impression on my twelve-year-old psyche. That was the day I fell in love with Joseph King.

We never found the trunk in the creek that summer, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sarah, Jacob, Joseph, and I swam every afternoon we could get away. We dove as deep as we dared. We dug in the gravel and mud. I suspect we knew there was no trunk; it was just another one of Joseph’s tall tales. But what an adventure it was to search.

Joseph became my hero that summer. I never told anyone. I knew nothing about the ways of the world, but even at that tender age, I sensed that if the subject had been broached, something I wasn’t quite ready to understand would have tarnished our relationship. And so we swam. We played tag and hide-and-seek and baseball. That winter was a cold one and we spent hours out on the ice playing hockey.

Joseph’s datt was killed in the buggy accident that next year, along with the old gelding Joseph was so fond of. Joseph was never the same after that. Nothing was the same for any of us.





CHAPTER 14

I’m generally pretty adept at keeping a healthy emotional distance from cases that affect me personally. I’ve learned to compartmentalize, cram all those gnarly, self-defeating emotions in a box and deal with them at an appropriate time and in a manner that doesn’t include three glasses of wine or, God forbid, that bottle of vodka we keep in the cabinet above the fridge. According to Tomasetti, it’s all about perspective and moderation—and not necessarily in that order.

My feelings about the death of Joseph King are complex. The sense of loss is surprisingly keen. Some small part of my heart is broken because my childhood friend is dead, five children have been left without a father, and a piece of my past is gone forever. By all indications Joseph’s life was fraught with bad decisions heaped atop poor judgment, and both of those things ultimately played a role in bringing it to a violent and early close.

It’s the lingering sense of injustice that grates on my cop’s sensibilities. The knowledge that the whole truth hasn’t been told, will probably never be known, and the accused isn’t around to set the record straight.

It’s been twenty-four hours since the SWAT sniper took the shot. The children are expected to be reunited with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy sometime today. Once the crime-scene unit was finished at the Beachy house and Joseph’s body was removed by the coroner’s office, half a dozen Amish women descended and cleaned up the mess. That’s the thing about the Amish. When one of their own—or anyone for that matter—gets sick or is hurt and in need, they drop everything and rush in to help.

Joseph’s death hit me harder than I expected. The truth of the matter is I went for years without thinking of him. When I did, it was just in passing or when I was feeling nostalgic or maybe when I drove past that old roadside stand on Hogpath Road. Until yesterday, that was the extent of my recollection. I’d only known him for five years after all. In the scope of a lifetime, a drop in the bucket.

But they were formative years. A period in which every experience is a first and you feel every little thing all the way to your soul. If an Amish girl could have a superhero, a playmate, and a big brother all rolled into one, Joseph King was mine. He was my friend. My coconspirator. My partner in crime. And, later, my first big crush. He was larger than life, and for a short span of time, I worshiped the ground he walked on.

Now, when I think of him, I won’t wonder what he’s done with his life or if he’s happy with the way things turned out. I’ll think of the way he died and the role I played.

In the last twenty-four hours, everything that was said and done inside that house has replayed in my head a hundred times. I see the expression on Joseph’s face when he told me he didn’t kill his wife. I hear the truth in Sadie’s voice when she relayed the story about the stranger in the house the night her mamm was killed. Was someone there that night?

It’s nine A.M. and the Painters Mill police station is swarming with media when I arrive. A white SUV bearing the Channel 16 logo has taken up residence in my reserved parking spot. I park next to it and watch a cameraman unpack equipment from a van while a petite blond in a fuchsia-colored jacket and skirt sprays a cloud of something on her hair.

Apparently, several media outlets have caught wind of the photo of Joseph King and me, and they’ve come here in the hope of obtaining some juicy morsel. I get out of the Explorer, take the time to write a parking citation for the owner of the white SUV, and tuck it beneath the windshield wiper.

I cross the street at a fast clip. By the time I go through the door, my cop’s suit of armor is securely in place. The usually quiet reception area is occupied by several young reporters and a photographer who has a striking resemblance to a wildebeest.

Eyes turn my way. Once I’m recognized, they rush me.

“Chief Burkholder!” A journalist in stilettos makes a beeline toward me, moving with awe-inspiring speed despite the pencil skirt and heels, and thrusts a microphone in my face. “Chief, can you tell me what transpired inside the house between you and Joseph King?”

“No comment,” I say without looking at her.

“We’d like to hear your side of the story,” she presses.

Ignoring her, I make tracks to the reception desk, barely managing to avoid another reporter in a neon green dress with the tattoo of a dragon on her right ankle.

“Chief Burkholder!” she screeches. “Tell us about your relationship with Joseph King.”