Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

It’s not until I’m behind the wheel of my rental car that I acknowledge the achiness that settled into my muscles overnight. I felt fine after the crash yesterday; this morning it feels as if my car had been sent through a crusher with me inside.

Because of the possibility of an official investigation, Tomasetti had my Explorer towed to an impound garage not far from his Richfield office. Sometime today, a crime-scene technician will go over the damage with a fine-tooth comb in an effort to retrieve paint or marks that might help identify the vehicle that hit me.

I swing by LaDonna’s Diner for a to-go coffee, down half of it before leaving the parking lot, and make the drive to Cortland in an hour. All the while I wonder about Tucker’s change of heart. What made him change his mind about talking to me? And what information does the so-called street file contain that the official, sanitized file does not?

Rain sweeps down from a cast-iron sky when I pull onto Tucker’s asphalt driveway. There’s no car in sight, but then that was the case when I was here two days ago; it doesn’t mean he’s not home. Around me, the treetops bend and twist with frenetic energy in the near-gale-force wind. I hightail it through stinging rain to the front porch and knock.

It’s so chilly this morning I can see my breath puffing out from my short sprint. When the retired detective doesn’t answer the door, I pull open the storm door and use my key fob to tap on the wood.

“Mr. Tucker?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

I wait for a full minute. Leaning left, I glance at the big front window, but the blinds are tightly closed. I knock again, using the heel of my hand. “Sidney Tucker? Are you there?”

Annoyance rises in my chest. Did he change his mind about talking to me? Or did he jump in the shower, thinking I wouldn’t get here so quickly? Step out for a quick errand? Did he run me all the way over here for nothing?

I leave the porch and walk around to the rear of the house. There’s a good-size deck with a grill and a table and chairs. A bird feeder full of millet and sunflower seed mounted on the rail. As I ascend the steps and cross to the door, the whistle of a tundra swan sounds in the distance. It’s a forlorn sound that echoes off the treetops only to be lost in the din of rain, the low roar of the wind.

I’m a few feet from the door when I notice it’s standing open several inches. It occurs to me that if Sidney Tucker had stepped onto the deck earlier and didn’t close the door properly, the wind could have pushed it open. Still, the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.

“Mr. Tucker?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder! Can you come to the door please?”

I look around for neighbors, but there’s no one there. Not only is the weather atrocious this morning, but the house is tucked into the trees and isolated from view.

Turning back to the door, I push it open. The hinges creak. I call out to him again. “Hello? Mr. Tucker? Are you there?”

No response.

“Shit,” I mutter, and step into the kitchen. There’s a round dining table straight ahead. Four chairs with frilly cushions. Cluttered countertops. Two pans left atop the stove. There’s a TV on somewhere in the house. The air smells of popcorn and coffee, all laced with the unpleasant aroma of garbage that should have been taken out a day ago.

“Mr. Tucker?”

I glance down, notice wet footprints on the linoleum. Someone has, indeed, been outside in the rain. Where the hell is he?

Pulling out my phone, I scroll through incoming calls and redial the number of the last caller, which was Tucker. I’m about to turn around and go back outside when I hear a cell-phone ringtone somewhere in the house. I hold up my phone. Two rings. Three rings. Four …

I let it ring half a dozen times and hit END. The ringing stops. “Well, shit.”

I stand there a moment, trying to decide if I should continue on or go back to my vehicle and leave. I venture to the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, peer into the living room. The lighting is dim with the blinds pulled tight. I see a sofa against the wall to my right. A morning news show blares from a small TV on a stand.

Sidney Tucker is laid out on a recliner. At first glance, I think he’s sleeping. Then I realize the pattern on the wall behind him isn’t some bad wallpaper print, but blood. Copious amounts of it.

I fumble for the switch. Terrible light floods the room. Sidney Tucker’s head is thrown back. An ocean of blood on his shirt. His eyes are on me, terrified and blinking. Somehow, he’s still alive. His chest rising and falling, keeping time with the sound of a sucking chest wound.

For the span of several heartbeats I’m so shocked, I can’t move. I’m aware of my heart thrumming hard in my chest. The copper-methane smell of blood offending my olfactory nerves. Then my cop’s mind clicks back into place.

“Who did this?” I rush to him, my every sense honed to my surroundings, reaching for my phone. “Who did this to you?”

His eyes roll back white. He makes a sound that ends with wet gurgle deep in his throat.

“You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. “I’m calling an ambulance now.”

It occurs to me this could be an attempted suicide, but I don’t see a weapon. And most often a suicidal man will put the weapon to his head, not his chest. I’m reminded that Sidney Tucker had been about to tell me something about the Naomi King murder case.

I yank my cell from my pocket.

“Get your hands up! Sheriff’s Department! Get them up! Right fucking now!”

A hard rush of adrenaline. Jamming my hands in the air, I glance over my shoulder to see a deputy sheriff come through the back door, a Glock leveled on my chest.

“I’m a cop!” I tell him. “I got a man down!”

“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” He enters the living room. His eyes flick to Tucker. “Don’t fucking move.”

I raise my hands higher, keep my palms toward him. “I’m a police officer.”

“Shut up.” He’s young and jumpy. Keeping the Glock trained on me, he approaches. “Turn around and place your hands on the wall. Do it now.”

I set my hands against the wall. “He needs an ambulance.” My heart is pounding, but I remain calm. “I’m armed,” I tell him. “I’m a cop.”

“Don’t look at me,” he snaps. “Keep your eyes on the wall. And don’t you fucking move. You got that?”

He sweeps his left hand over me, quickly and impersonally, and finds my .38 immediately. He slides it from its nest. I hear him check the barrel and then he says, “Step back from the wall. Put your hands behind your back.”

I do as I’m told. I hear him remove handcuffs from his belt compartment. He snaps one bracelet over my right hand, cranks it down tight, and then grasps my left wrist and does the same.

“This is for your safety and mine,” he tells me, calmer now that I’m restrained. “You’re not under arrest, but you are being detained until we can figure out what’s going on here. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He motions to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Sit down and do not move.”