Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

I pass a row of blue spruce trees; then the lane curves right and the old farmhouse materializes. It’s a plain house with white siding and a red brick chimney. There are no shutters or landscaping. Rusty tin shingles on a steeply pitched roof. The lawn is a tangle of knee-high grass, patches of thistle not yet in bloom, and a thousand other unidentifiable weeds. I can just make out the rusty frame of a swing set with an attached slide that’s been twisted by summer storms and the weight of winter snow.

I pull around to the back of the house and park adjacent to a tumbling-down chicken coop. The door stands open, giving me a view of the nesting boxes and a roost that’s broken in half. A sapling tree has taken root in the coop yard and pushed through the chicken wire covering the top. And I’m reminded of how quickly Mother Nature reclaims what is rightfully hers.

I get out of the Explorer and make my way to the back door. I find the key where Daniel Beachy told me it would be, beneath the nearest rock of the flowerbed, and I let myself into the mudroom.

Abandoned homes have a distinctive smell. But it’s more than the redolence of mildew and dust and uncirculated air that defines it. It’s an intangible sense of abandonment, of loneliness, a sort of vacuum left behind when the final person walked out the door with the knowledge that he or she would never return. And I’m reminded of ghosts.

The mudroom is oblong and small with an ugly plywood floor. Two small windows to my right, but not much light makes it through the grime. There’s a small workbench to my left, its surface covered with dust and droppings. Something was once clamped to the edge with a metal plate, but the bolts are long gone. The only thing left is an odd-looking steel arm. It’s about a foot long with a foam roller handle that’s been chewed up by rodents. On impulse, I pull out my phone and snap a photo. There’s an old propane refrigerator in the corner. The door stands open, and through the gap I can see where some industrious mouse has built a nest of cardboard and dried grass.

I stand in the mudroom and for an instant I try to imagine the voices of children as they played in the backyard. The squeak of the swing set as little legs pumped with all their might. The echo of laughter. The lingering aromas of cured ham and bean soup for supper. The clang of pots and pans as Naomi King washed and dried the dishes. Joseph standing at the workbench tinkering with some project …

The kitchen is still intact. Plain cupboards painted white, the hinges just beginning to rust. An old-fashioned Formica countertop marred with a brown ring where someone set a too-hot skillet. I look at the window above the sink, where a terra-cotta pot sits on the sill, a long-dead plant crumpled and brown. There’s a chipped porcelain sink and stainless-steel faucet crusted with hard-water minerals. An old propane tank lies on its side on the floor. The place where the stove once was is bare.

The floor creaks beneath my feet as I walk into the living room. There’s no furniture. To my left is a side door with a broken pane. Water stains on the hardwood floor that’s started to warp. A wasps’ nest hangs down from the ceiling in the corner; I can hear the buzzing from where I stand, so I back away and move on.

The stairs are to my right. A narrow, darkened stairwell and steep wooden steps. I know from the police reports that the murder happened in an upstairs bedroom. I take the steps to the top. There’s a small round window to my right. A narrow, tall-ceilinged hall to my left. Four doors stand open, dim light slanting into the hall. I see a half dozen or so nails in the walls, probably where a baby quilt or macramé wall hangings once hung. Farther down, the arm of what was probably a gas light angles down from the ceiling.

I go to the first room, glance inside. It’s a small space with a single window. Typically Amish, with no closet, no frills. Rough-hewn wood plank floors. Homemade wood pegs set into the wall for hats and clothes.

I continue down the hall, pass a bathroom. Grimy window. Old-fashioned claw-foot tub. The sink has been disconnected from the wall, leaving the pipes exposed, and sits at a cockeyed angle on the floor, its white porcelain striped with rust the color of blood.

The next room is also a small bedroom. Same setup as the first. One of the windowpanes is broken. Beneath it the hardwood planks are misshapen and starting to rot.

The master bedroom is at the end of the hall. The door is ajar. I push it open the rest of the way, the squeak of the hinges inordinately loud in the silence. I feel something brush against my head and, thinking of spiders, I swipe at it with my hand. But it’s only the steel arm of the gas ceiling light.

I peer into the bedroom. Two windows are swathed with homemade curtains that are caked with dust and cobwebs. The room is devoid of furniture. Blue paint on the walls, darker where a tall headboard must have been. I wonder about the things this room has witnessed. I wonder about its secrets.

Recalling the police photos, I look at the place where the bed used to be—against the wall to my left—and I realize I’m probably standing in the exact place where the killer stood the night he murdered Naomi King.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

I think of Sadie and the story she relayed about the stranger in the house that night. I step back into the hall and glance at the room she shared with her sister. Two doors down. She said she got up to use the bathroom, which is next door to her parents’ room. Of course, it would have been very dark. But if the bedroom and bathroom doors were open, if the curtains had been parted, there would have been enough light for her to see someone standing here, at least in silhouette.

A sound from downstairs interrupts my thoughts. A door closing. Footsteps against the hardwood floor. They’re not trying to be quiet. Still, it gives me a start. Setting my hand over my .38, I go down the hall and look down the stairwell. No one there, but I can hear someone moving around.

Quietly, I descend the stairs. Midway down, the step creaks. I’m nearly to the ground level when an authoritative male voice calls out.

“Stop right there.”

I reach the base of the stairs to see a Geauga County sheriff’s deputy standing in the living room, his hand on the butt of his Glock, looking at me as if he’s trying to decide if he’s seen me on the FBI’s most wanted list.

“I’m a cop,” I tell him.

He’s an attractive man of around thirty years of age. Not much taller than me, but he’s got the physique of a professional wrestler. I can see the cords in this thick neck above the crisp collar of his uniform shirt. Short sleeves revealing biceps the size of Thanksgiving turkeys. Expensive sport sunglasses at his crown over buzz-cut hair.

Eyeing my uniform, he starts toward me. “You got ID on you?”

“I’m Kate Burkholder.” Slowly, I reach for my shield and hand it to him. “Chief down in Painters Mill.”

“Painters Mill, huh?” He takes my ID and looks at it carefully. “You’re a long way from home.”

I offer my hand and a smile. “Out of my jurisdiction, too.”

“Nick Rowlett.” We shake and he hands my ID back to me, his expression thoughtful. “One of the neighbors called, said she saw a vehicle out here. Figured I’d find teenagers looking for ghosts or smoking dope.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Your name’s familiar.”

“I was involved in the standoff with Joseph King.”