Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“There was a security breach involving an inmate last night,” the deputy warden tells me. “You’re on our notify list, Chief Burkholder.”

A notify list contains the names of individuals—law enforcement, officers of the court, witnesses that testified during trial, family members, and victims—that are to be contacted when the status of an inmate changes. For example, when an inmate is paroled. I suspect this call has nothing to do with a formal discharge.

“Who?” I ask.

“Joseph King.”

The name impacts my brain with a solid punch that leaves me breathless. I was eight years old when I met Joseph. He was Amish and lived on the farm next to ours. My older brother, Jacob, and sometimes my sister, Sarah, and I would meet Joseph and his two brothers after our chores were finished. There was a wooded area and a creek between our farms—prime real estate for a group of bored Amish kids.

Joseph was full of mischief, a born explorer, and a master teller of tall tales. He was funny and ornery and always ready for fun and games. Even with our many chores, we somehow always found time to play. Cowboys and Indians in the woods. A swim in the deep part of the creek. When I was nine, Joe set up a baseball diamond in a paddock, and I learned how to play baseball. In winter, we’d meet at nearby Miller’s Pond to skate. When I was ten years old, Joseph taught me how to play hockey. I was competitive for an Amish girl—a trait that was frowned upon by my datt and brother. Not Joe. He liked me all the more because I was a tomboy, a sore loser, and I never shied away from a little rough-and-tumble.

I was twelve when I fell in love with him. It was an innocent Amish-girl crush, but to me it was a mile wide and as deep as the ocean. I never told a soul; not even my best friend. It was my secret, and I held it tightly. But it was the first time I had my breath taken away by a boy. It was my first bittersweet taste of love, and it was as powerful and formative as my first steps.

Joseph’s datt was killed that fall when a drunk driver plowed into his buggy. He stopped coming over, and I didn’t see him much after that. But I heard the stories. The rumors that said he’d lost his way. He’d lost the light in his eyes and opened his heart to some waiting darkness I had no concept of. They said he’d traded his happy-go-lucky persona in for a new model of brooding—and sometimes rage.

Two years ago, I received word that Joseph King had shot and killed his wife in their farmhouse while she slept. I’m not easily shocked, but I had a difficult time believing that the boy I’d once known could partake in such a vicious act. I’d actually been tempted to go see him, but life intervened and I never got around to it. I followed the media blitz of a trial. In the end, he was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison.

“Chief Burkholder? You still there?”

The deputy warden’s voice jerks me from my reverie. “Yeah.” I mumble something about our connection. “What happened with King?” I ask.

“He escaped custody sometime after headcount last night and as of this time, we’ve not been able to locate him.”

I almost can’t believe my ears. It’s rare for an inmate to escape. There are too many layers of security and even more in the way of checks and balances. Without help from the outside, it’s an almost impossible feat.

“I was on the notify list?” I ask.

“That’s correct,” he replies. “He’s got ties to Painters Mill.”

After Joseph’s conviction, I remember hearing that his five children went to live with his wife’s sister here in Painters Mill. “Rebecca and Daniel Beachy adopted them.”

“Since the kids are living near your jurisdiction, we wanted to give you a heads-up in case he tries to make contact. We’ll be notifying Holmes County, too.” He pauses. “I understand you’re part of the Amish community there.”

“I used to be,” I tell him. “I know where the Beachys live. They don’t have a phone, so I’ll drive over and let them know about King.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Has King made any threats against any of them?” I ask, knowing that when kids are involved, emotions can run high.

“Not that I know of,” he tells me. “That doesn’t mean he won’t try to make contact. Or harm them or the family. From what I’ve heard, Joseph King is a cold-blooded son of a bitch.”

The words disturb me more than they should. In some small part of my brain, I still think of him as the footloose boy who couldn’t bring himself to scale a fish without first knocking it unconscious.

“We’ve got a BOLO out with the highway patrol. Richland County Sheriff’s Department is all over this. We got dogs on scene. I suspect BCI will get involved, too.”

Which means that my live-in lover, BCI agent John Tomasetti, will be getting a call, too, if he hasn’t already.

“Can you text or e-mail me a recent photo of King?” I rattle off my e-mail address.

“We’re blasting his mug shot to all law enforcement agencies in the four-county area, including Cuyahoga.”

“I appreciate the heads-up.”

“You bet.”

I disconnect and slide my phone back into my pocket, troubled. I haven’t seen or heard from Joseph King in twenty years, but I heard the stories. Not only from the Amish, but from law enforcement as well. Evidently, King was a troubled man with a marriage on the rocks, a litter of kids he didn’t want, and a loose interpretation of his marital vows.

I vividly recall the day I learned his wife had been found dead—and Joseph was arrested and charged with first-degree murder. I couldn’t believe the kid I’d known—the one with the toothy grin and big laugh—could do something so horrific. But no one knows better than me how profoundly life can change people—and that too often those changes are not for the best.

I’d wanted to talk to him, ask him myself if he’d done it. But I knew it was only that tiny part of my heart that remembered what it was like to be thirteen years old and in the throes of my first crush. The part of me that was loyal to a fault and still believed people were fundamentally good. I never went to see him.