Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I have to get back to work.” I backed toward the stall, bumping my leg on the wheelbarrow full of muck.

He started toward me. “I didn’t make it up.”

I sidestep the wheelbarrow and stop. “You mean about the buried trunk?”

“It’s there. In that deep pool. You’re going to have to find it on your own this summer.”

He stopped a scant foot away from me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware of a hissing sound. I almost couldn’t believe it when I realized it was my own quickened breaths.

He looked down at me and smiled.

A thrill like I’d never experienced before in my life rushed through me, from the top of my head all the way to my toes. It was like an electrical shock that short-circuited my brain so that I couldn’t formulate a single, rational thought.

Then his hands were on my shoulders. I looked at him, a small part of my brain disbelieving he could be so tall. My heart breaking because we wouldn’t be spending the summer together and I cared a lot more about Joseph King than I did that stupid buried trunk.

He looked at me in a way I’d never been looked at before. In a way that thrilled and alarmed in equal measure. Raising his hand, he cupped the side of my face. “I’m going to miss you, runt.”

The words brought another round of tears. I couldn’t imagine not seeing him again. I stood there, humiliated, fighting the deluge, but failing.

“Shush.”

He leaned close, angled my chin up with his palm. The next thing I knew his mouth was on mine. Tentatively at first and then his lips were pressed hard against mine. I tasted the salt of tears. I squeezed my eyes shut, torn between running and trying to absorb the moment, because I knew it was somehow momentous.

His arms went around me. “I’ll write—”

“Katie!”

Jacob.

I shoved hard against Joseph’s chest, reeling backward with so much force I stumbled over my own feet and nearly fell.

My brother stood just inside the door, fists clenched at his sides, staring at Joseph. “What are you doing?”

Joseph stepped back, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Saying good-bye to Katie.”

Jacob’s eyes flicked from Joseph to me, but the energy was all for Joseph. “Go inside, Katie.”

I barely heard him over the wild rush of blood through my veins. My heart pounded so hard I was dizzy. I could still feel the warmth of Joseph’s lips against mine. The guilt of what I’d let happen pressing down with such force I could barely breathe.

I didn’t respond; I couldn’t move. I stood my ground, trying not to cry, not succeeding.

Jacob tightened his mouth and strode over to me. “Go on.” Setting his hand on my shoulder, he nudged me toward the door.

Joseph moved so quickly I barely noticed him coming. One moment I was thinking about arguing with my brother, the next Joseph grasped his arm, spun him around, and punched him hard in the face.

“Joseph!” I screamed.

Jacob’s head snapped back. He went down hard on his back, his arms flying over his head. For an instant he didn’t move. I heard myself cry out his name. Then he sat up, shook his head. Blood streamed from his nose, dribbled over his mouth, and pattered against the front of his shirt.

It was the first time I’d ever witnessed a fight; the first time I’d been exposed to any kind of violence. The ugliness, the utter wrongness of it, frightened me on a level so deep I felt sick.

Using his sleeve, Jacob wiped blood from his nose. He got to his feet, his eyes on Joseph. “I think you should leave.”

I couldn’t stop staring at them. In some small corner of my mind, I kept expecting them to crack up with laughter, turn to me and laugh even harder because the joke was on me. But these two people I thought I knew so well, people I trusted and loved, suddenly seemed like strangers.

My legs were shaking so hard, I wasn’t sure I could stand on my own power, so I went to the stall door and leaned. I watched as Joseph crossed to my brother and stuck out his hand for a shake. Jacob held his gaze, but did not accept it.

The parody of a smile spread across Joseph’s face.

Stepping back, he turned his attention to me.

There were a thousand things I wanted to say to him. But Jacob was watching and the words tangled on my tongue. The only sound that emerged was the cry of a puppy spending its first night alone.

“See you around,” Joseph said, and stalked from the barn.

*

Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.

It’s an old Amish saying that translates to: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’m a firm believer in the axiom, which is why I was up early despite a late night, and am now on my way to talk to twenty-one-year-old Kelly Dennison, whose last known residence was in the township of Novelty, Ohio.

It’s not yet noon when I make the turn off of Sperry Road and head north on Ohio 105. The narrow stretch of beat-up asphalt is rural and crowded with trees, the branches thick enough to turn the otherwise bright morning to dusk.

Glock ran Dennison through LEADS last night. She has no warrants, but did thirty days in the Geauga County jail on a first-degree misdemeanor of making false allegations against a peace officer. She works second shift at a nearby retirement home. I’m hoping to catch her this morning before she leaves for work.

Normally, I’d be in uniform and have another officer with me. The problem is this is not an official investigation; I’m basically working on a hunch and I’m outside my jurisdiction. That’s not to mention my restricted-duty status. However you cut it, I’m treading on thin ice.

Dennison’s residence is a rusty tin box of a trailer set atop a hill with a dead pine tree in the front, a yard that’s gone to weeds, all of it surrounded by a chain-link fence that’s slowly being pulled down by honeysuckle. An old Honda Civic with bald tires squats in a narrow driveway that’s more mud than gravel. I park behind the Honda, my tires sinking in too deep, and step out. I check the fenced area for a dog, then let myself in through the gate, keeping one eye on the window as I take the trampled path to the raised from porch.

Opening the screen door, I knock. “Kelly Dennison?”

No answer. Stepping back, I glance at the window, but the curtains are drawn tight; I can’t see inside. Using my key fob, I knock again, louder this time. “Hello? Kelly?”

I’m thinking about going around to the back when I hear the snick of a lock. The door squeaks open and I find myself looking at a pretty young woman with wavy blond hair and last night’s mascara smeared beneath large, crystalline eyes. She’s wearing a Detroit Red Wings T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts.

Looking as if she was forcibly dragged from her bed, she gives me a not-so-friendly once-over. “Who are you?”

“I’m Kate Burkholder, chief of police down in Painters Mill, and I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes,” I tell her.

She looks past me to see if there’s anyone else around. “About what?”