Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

All eyes turn to Auggie, including mine.

“Kate, I hope you know we’re on your side,” he says. “You have a lot of fans in this room.”

“I can see that.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Janine Fourman roll her eyes.

“But that photo presents a problem for Painters Mill and the image we want to project. As mayor, it’s my responsibility to deal with it and make the hard decisions. We’ve looked at that photo carefully. While you may not have done anything inappropriate, it appears you did. Appearances are important when you’re in the public eye.”

He pauses dramatically. “After much discussion, the town council and I decided to place you on restricted duty.”

I tamp down another rise of anger, keep my voice level. “Restricted duty?”

“That means you can continue with your duties as chief, but you can’t be on patrol,” Auggie explains.

“I know what it means,” I snap.

“With pay,” Stubblefield adds quickly.

I ignore him, focus my attention on the mayor, saying nothing.

He’s one of those people who can’t bear silence. “Come on, Kate. Don’t look at me like that. You’ll be back to full duty in no time. A few days. This is mostly for appearances. You know, until this thing blows over. Think of it as a vacation.”

I barely hear the final sentence. I’m not sure which is worse, the sense of betrayal or the humiliation.

Without a word, I turn and open the door. Auggie calls out to me, but I leave the room and cross through the outer chamber without looking back.

*

Knowing Auggie will come after me if only to make nice, I take the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. He calls my cell twice on the way down, but I don’t answer. I like Auggie; he’s a decent mayor. Before this, I’d begun to think of him as an ally—and a friend. The problem is he doesn’t have the fortitude to stand up for what he believes is right when he’s outnumbered. This isn’t the first time he’s let a self-interested town council or group of merchants browbeat him into throwing me under the bus.

I jog down the hall and smack both hands against the exterior door. It swings wide and crashes into the wall with a satisfying bang! Hitting the fob, I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer, slamming the door a little too hard. It helps.

Anger is such a waste of time and energy. It takes a monumental effort, but I shove my temper aside, put the vehicle in gear, and pull onto the street. I’m not going to let this sidetrack me. I’m not going to let it stop me. And I’m sure as hell not going to let it keep me from getting to the truth.

“Damn it.” I rap my fist against the steering wheel.

By the time I reach the first traffic signal, I’m calm enough to call Jodie, my second-shift dispatcher. “Do you know if Lois left contact info for Sidney Tucker?”

It’s too late for me to drive back to Geauga County this evening. But at least I’ll have the address; I’ll be able to make the trip first thing in the morning.

Papers rattle on the other end. “Got it right here, Chief.” She recites a Cortland, Ohio, address along with a phone number. “How’d it go with the mayor?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Oh boy.”

“Thanks for the address.”

“Hang in there, Chief.”

My anger drops off on the drive to the Beachy farm. I want to check on the family, on the children, and it won’t help if I walk in foaming-at-the-mouth mad. This is about Joseph King’s kids, not me. By the time I turn in to the gravel lane, I’ve composed myself.

There are indelible reminders that just forty-eight hours ago, the farm was the scene of a barricaded-gunman-and-hostage situation. At the height of the standoff, there were a couple of dozen vehicles parked along the road, and on either side of the lane. The traffic left tire ruts on the shoulder and the grass trampled to dirt.

I park at the rear of the house and take the flagstone path that’s overgrown with henbit and clumps of fescue to the front. I ascend the steps, cross the porch, and give the door a firm knock. The door flies open. I glance down to find myself face-to-face with Little Joe, and I’m struck anew by how much he looks like his father.

“Little Joe,” I say. “Wie bischt du?” How are you?

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” He looks over his shoulder. “Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde!” We have another non-English visitor.

I heft a smile. “Been getting a lot of them?”

“Too many, according to Aunt Becca.”

“Chief Burkholder?”

I look past the boy to see Rebecca Beachy come out of the kitchen, her hands busy with a raggedy dish towel. “What brings you here this evening?”

“I just wanted to see how everyone is doing,” I tell her.

Reaching over the boy, she pushes the door open and ushers me inside. “Come in.”

The house smells slightly of bleach, some kind of pine cleaner, and freshly brewed coffee. I brace as Rebecca takes me into the kitchen, half expecting to see some sign of the shooting’s aftermath, but the room is tidy and clean. There’s no sign of the carnage I saw last time I was here.

“I made coffee if you’d like some,” Rebecca says. “Date pudding, too.”

“That would be great.” I don’t want either, but I need something to occupy my hands. “Thanks.”

I’m trying not to look at the place on the floor where I found Joseph when movement in the doorway catches my attention.

Levi and Sadie are standing just inside the living room, hiding behind the wall, peeking out at me. Levi grins and turns away, his little feet pounding up the stairs as he flees. Sadie grins and starts toward me. “Hi, Katie.”

The instant I lay eyes on the little girl, something melts inside me. She looks fragile and sad, her eyes far too old for a five-year-old. I don’t know if she’s been told about her father, but I can tell she knows something.

Cradling her doll against her chest, Sadie stops a couple of feet away and looks at me expectantly. “I was wondering if you’d come back.”

“I had to check on you to see how you’re doing.”

“You mean after what happened to Datt?”

“Yes, baby,” I say quietly. “You doing okay?”

She nods vigorously. “Aunt Becca made date pudding and let me lick the bowl. That helped a bunch.”

“It doesn’t get any better than that.” I turn my attention to the doll she’s holding against her. “How’s Dottie doing?”

Another grin emerges and I catch a glimpse of tiny baby teeth. “She’s doing good, too.” She uses a little fingernail to scrape at a stain on her doll’s dress. “Did you know my datt went to heaven and how he’s with my mamm?”

The question knocks me off-kilter. Such a sad comment from a five-year-old kid. For a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. I look at Rebecca; the Amish woman gives a somber nod.

“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

“I think he’ll like it there.” Her brows go together as she gives the notion serious consideration. “I mean, he gets to be with Mamm and Jesus.”