Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Like I said,” Daniel replies, “we haven’t seen him since the end of the trial.”

Realizing that sometimes people know things and don’t even realize it, I try another approach. “Do you have any idea where he might go?”

Daniel tightens his lips. “To hell, maybe.”

“Do you think he might come here?” When they don’t respond, I get more specific. “To see the children?”

When Daniel speaks, his voice is reverent and low. “You were raised Amish, Kate Burkholder. You know that forgiveness is our way.” He ducks his head slightly, not proud of what he’s about to say next, but deeming it too important to remain unsaid. “None of the Amish here would raise a finger to help Joseph. Not after what he did. To his wife. His children. To all of us. He has no friends among the Amish.”

“What about English friends?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” he tells me.

The sound of children’s laughter from outside fills the silence. It’s an innocent, carefree sound that only serves to remind us of all the things that have been taken away from them, of what’s at stake.

“I’ll be stepping up patrols in the area,” I tell them, “especially here around the farm. The sheriff’s department, too. Just in case Joseph shows up. I want to make sure you and your family stay safe.”

“We don’t need the English police,” Rebecca replies. “God will take care of us.”

Daniel’s gaze slides to mine and he gives me a minute nod. “Ich hab nix dagege.” I don’t object.

I know what the answer to my next question will be, but I ask it anyway. At the very least, I have to plant the seed.

“Do you own a firearm, Mr. Beachy?”

“I have an old muzzle-loader,” Daniel replies. “An antique that belonged to my grossdaddi.”

Our gazes lock. An unspoken understanding passes between us. Nothing else needs to be said. I’m well aware that the Amish are pacifists. They believe it is a sin to take a human life regardless of the circumstances. But the Amish are human, too; I know from experience that the will to survive—the need to protect yourself and those you love—trumps religion.

“Will you do me a favor and keep it loaded?” I ask.

Another barely discernible nod.

“Do either of you have a cell phone?” I ask.

“We have no need for such things,” Rebecca tells me.

“The payphone on Hogpath Road is more than a mile away,” I tell her. “If Joseph shows up, you’ll have no way to call for help.” When they say nothing, I add, “You’ve got the children to think of.” I reach into my pocket and hold out a cheap cell phone I picked up at the Walmart in Millersburg. “In case there’s an emergency.” I give a casual shrug. “No one’s using it. I’ve got my cell number, nine-one-one, and the sheriff’s department number programmed in already.”

“We do not need a phone,” the Amish man maintains.

“If you were to look away for a second, I could accidentally leave it on the counter or maybe drop it into the drawer. You could just forget about it.”

My words are met with a smile from both of them, but they shake their heads. “We have God to watch over us,” Rebecca repeats. “He will take care of us and the children.”

Rising, I cross to the counter and set down the phone. I then extend my hand first to Rebecca and then Daniel. “Thanks for your time.”

As I walk back to my vehicle, worry follows me, like a rash at the back of my neck that’s starting to itch.





CHAPTER 3

I’ve just settled behind the wheel when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display and smile. “I take it you got the call?” I begin without preamble.

“I’m on my way to Mansfield now,” John Tomasetti tells me, referring to the prison from which Joseph King escaped. “We’re going to be assisting Richland County.”

Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and works out of the field office in Richfield, Ohio, which is half an hour north of our farm in Wooster. We met in the course of my first big case five years ago—the Slaughterhouse murder investigation—right here in Painters Mill. We became involved in the course of that horrific case. Early on, things were pretty rocky between us. That’s what you get when you throw two damaged individuals—cops no less—into the midst of a high-stress case. Tomasetti had recently lost his wife and two children. My frame of mind wasn’t much better; I had personal ties to the case—ties that came within a hair of destroying me and nearly cost me my life. Somehow, we overcame all of it.

Of course, life is never without complications. Fraternization is frowned upon by most law enforcement agencies, including the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and my own small department. That’s especially true when our jurisdictions intersect. Even though we’re not working together directly, we’ll need to be cautious.

“What’s the latest on King?” I ask as I turn onto Hogpath Road.

Tomasetti reiterates what I’d already learned from Sheriff Rasmussen earlier. “I talked to the warden about an hour ago. King was in his cell for the nine P.M. headcount. He got out sometime after that. No one knows how he circumvented the fence alarm. Perimeter patrols were on duty, but no one saw shit. Next headcount wasn’t done until three A.M. so it’s possible King got a six-hour head start.”

“Any indication where he might be headed?” I ask.

“According to the warden, it rained up there last night. The ground was soft and muddy. First guys on scene found tracks that headed northeast from the prison. There’s a wooded area there, so King may have been looking for cover. Richland County Sheriff’s Department brought in dogs, but they lost the scent at the highway.”

“You think someone picked him up?”

“Or he jacked a vehicle.”

“Who the hell picks up a guy wearing prison clothes?”

“An idiot,” he mutters. “Or someone who knew he’d be there and was waiting.”

“If he had help in the form of tools, he could’ve gotten his hands on street clothes, too. Or maybe he had someone stash them someplace for him.”

“A lot of possibilities,” he says on a sigh.

“Which highway is that, by the way?” I ask.

“State Route 545 is just east of the facility. Meanders northeast.”

“Toward Cleveland,” I add.

“Good place to get lost if you want to. From there, it’s a short skip to the Canadian border.”

“Tomasetti, if he has a vehicle he could be anywhere.”

“If it was me, I’d get as far away from the prison as possible, then I’d concentrate on getting to my destination.”

“Any word on whether he might’ve had help from someone on the inside?” I ask.

“That’s what we’re looking at now. Going to interview all the officers who had contact with him. We’re going to look at visitor logs. If he had any visitors, we’ll be talking to them.” He sighs. “From what I hear, King’s a handy guy.”

“Most Amish men are. That would explain how he cut through that steel plate.”