Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Yes, but I’m off-duty.”

Evidently, Roy’s the talker of the group. “Me and Emery done some work for Joe a few times.”

“What kind of work?”

“Mucking horse shit, mostly.” He smirks at his audacity, trying to be cool, testing the waters. “Cleaned out that old manure pit once. Paid us ten bucks an hour.”

“Not bad,” I say.

“Mr. King didn’t have the money to pay us once, so he took us pheasant hunting,” Emery adds. “We helped him reload a bunch of shells and shit.”

“You got any cigarettes?” Roy asks me.

I barely hear the question; something the other boy said caught my attention. “What did you say?” I ask with a little too much intensity.

Emery’s eyes widen. “Uh … nothing.”

“About reloading,” I clarify.

The Amish boy’s eyes flick from me to his friend and back to me. “Just that Mr. King was a reloader.”

“He reloaded ammo?” I ask. “For his shotgun?”

“Yeah.”

Reloading basically means the gun owner assembles his own cartridges or shells as opposed to buying factory-loaded ammo at the store. I don’t know much about the process, but I’ve been around enough cops and shooting enthusiasts to know that if it’s not done with meticulous care, misfires can and do happen. I think of the workbench in the mudroom of the King home, the steel arm I hadn’t been able to identify. That was where he’d done his reloading. And for the first time the misfire that occurred the night Naomi King was killed makes sense. More than likely Joseph King improperly seated the primer.

The boys are looking bored again. They’re about to blow me off, so I launch back into my original line of questioning. “You were about to tell me something about the Kings.”

Emery drops his gaze to the ground. “We don’t really know anything.”

Roy looks at him. “What about that one time?”

Judging by the look on Emery’s face, the statement requires no clarification. Emery looks embarrassed, can’t meet my gaze. “I dunno…”

Both boys look uncomfortable. As if they want to tell me something, but aren’t sure they should share.

“What happened?” I press.

Emery casts a covert look at Roy and shakes his head. The silent message is clear: Don’t tell.

“I’m trying to get to the truth about some things that have happened,” I tell them. “That’s all. Please, if you know something … tell me.”

“We don’t know anything.” Emery looks at his friend. “I gotta go.”

The boys start to walk away. I watch them go. Frustration is like a fist in my chest, twisting. I’m standing there, shaking my head, when I notice Roy lagging behind, looking at me over his shoulder.

I call out to him. “If you know something, even if you think it might not be important, you should tell me. You won’t get into any trouble.”

The boy stops walking. I cross the twenty feet between us. “I want to make sure the truth comes out,” I tell him.

Though we’re on a back road that doesn’t get much in the way of traffic, the boy’s eyes dart left and right. He cocks his head as if listening for the hiss of tires on pavement. Then he looks down at the ground. “I think I know why he killed her,” he whispers.

“You know why who killed her?”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “Mr. King.”

“Why?” I ask.

He glances over his shoulder to see how far his friend has gone. Emery has slowed down, but isn’t close enough to hear. Roy leans toward me anyway. “I saw … her. I’d been to a singing over to the Miller place.” He motions east. “It was dark. Real late. I was on foot. There she was. And she wadn’t alone.”

“Mrs. King?”

“Ja.”

“Who was she with?”

He looks away, wipes his hands on his trousers as if his palms have suddenly gone wet. “A policeman. They were … you know. Doing it. Right on his car.”

“Having sex?” I ask once I find my voice.

Color climbs into his face, but he nods. “I was just walking along, not paying much attention. And I heard this sound. I thought it was … an animal. You know, a dog that had been hit by a car or something. I went to check and … there they were.”

“Are you sure it was Mrs. King?”

“I looked right at her.”

“Did she see you?”

He shakes his head. “They were … too busy.”

“Did you recognize the policeman?”

“Couldn’t really see his face, just … you know.”

“Where did this happen?”

He points. “There’s a two-track pulls into a hayfield, half a mile or so down the road. There’re lots of trees.” He shrugs. “It’s private. Not much traffic.”

“What did you do?”

He lets out an are-you-kidding-me sound. “I kept walking.”

“How long ago?”

“Couple months before she … died.”

I think about that a moment, my mind grinding out a dozen different scenarios. “Did you tell anyone?”

He looks sheepish. “Naw. What would I say?” He looks past me at his friend. “I didn’t even tell Emery until after she was killed. Emery’s real smart. He thought it would be best if I just kept my mouth shut, so I did.”





CHAPTER 24

I leave Roy to catch up with his friend. Reluctantly, he gave me his last name and address, both of which I write down in case I need to contact him later. I don’t know if he would be a willing witness if, indeed, this pseudo case I’m building comes to fruition. And of course there’s the issue of his being a minor; I’d need permission from his parents.

Dusk has fallen, but it’s still light enough for me to try and find the two-track. Turning the Explorer around, I head east, keeping my eye out for the place where Roy claims to have seen Naomi King and a cop having sex. Sure enough, a mile down the road, a dirt track cuts through the trees on the north side and opens to a large hayfield. Roy was right; it’s well hidden. The perfect spot for a covert rendezvous, especially under cover of night. The question is, who was Naomi King with?

Two adults engaging in consensual sex isn’t a crime. But in light of Naomi King’s murder—and the possibility that she was having an extramarital affair that was never revealed in the course of the trial—it’s worth a thorough look. Enter the dark rumblings about Wade Travers into the equation, and a disturbing picture begins to emerge.

I believe Kelly Dennison’s story about the rape. I believe Vicki Cascioli’s assertion of shady goings-on inside the sheriff’s department. And I believe Roy saw Naomi King having sex with a cop. None of those potential witnesses are as credible as Wade Travers. Dennison has a record; she’s done time in jail. Cascioli has been painted as a disgruntled ex-cop. Roy is a minor—and Amish. Joseph and Naomi King are dead. How do I go about investigating Wade Travers without raising suspicion?

“Good question,” I mutter as I pull the Explorer into the two-track, turn around, and head west.

I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Tavern Road. “Who says good old-fashioned police work is outdated?” I recap my conversation with the two Amish boys. “They saw Naomi having sex with a cop.”

“A deputy?”

“Don’t know.”