Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Cascioli, get me out of these cuffs.”

She nods, spits blood on the floor. Moving gingerly, she rises, tucks the Sig into the front of her pants. “Tuck’s got a key,” she mumbles. “Back here.”

She staggers down the hall and returns a minute later, the small key in hand. Turning, I offer my wrists. I can feel her hands shaking as she struggles to unlock the cuffs. She says something I can’t understand.

When the cuffs fall away, she goes to her knees. At first I think she’s going to pass out. Instead, she brings her hands up to her face and bursts into tears.





CHAPTER 26

Human beings are resilient creatures. That’s a good thing, I suppose, when you take into consideration the things we do to ourselves. The things we do to each other.

Cops like to believe they’re immune from all those gnarly emotions that plague the somehow lesser beings. They’ll argue the point until they’re blue in the face. Me included. We’re a tough lot, after all. We’ve seen it all. Nothing can shock us.

It’s all bullshit.

A number of psychological changes occur during and after severe psychological trauma. The shrinks have come up with all sorts of interesting terminology. Tunnel vision. Auditory exclusion. Inattentional blindness. And afterward, things like emotional numbing, post-traumatic stress disorder, and the big daddy no one likes to talk about: depression.

I don’t remember calling for an ambulance. I couldn’t tell you which phone I used or whether it was a cell or land line. I don’t recall dialing 911 or giving the dispatcher an address. I don’t remember relaying the situation or giving an address or explanation. I don’t even remember calling Tomasetti or hearing his voice on the other end of the line, though later I would learn I did, indeed, do all of those things.

When the paramedics arrived, I was inside Sidney Tucker’s house, sitting on the living room floor, holding Vicki Cascioli’s hand. Both of us were trying pretty hard not to look at the two dead cops in there with us. I should have been relieved when the knock on the door finally came, but my perceptions were skewed. Instead of relief, I felt a burst of mind-numbing terror because I was utterly certain that someone else had arrived to finish the job started by Wade Travers and Nick Rowlett.

That was a little over an hour ago. I’m sitting in the backseat of a Trumbull County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, trying to maintain some semblance of my cop persona, my dignity. Failing on both counts because I can’t stop shaking. I’ve talked to two deputies and a detective so far. As you can imagine, everyone has a lot of questions about what happened inside that house. When I asked about Vicki Cascioli, I was informed she’d been transported to the hospital with a gunshot wound. While it’s a serious injury, I’m told, it isn’t life-threatening. Wade Travers had been found outside, cuffed to his vehicle, and was taken into custody. Nick Rowlett and Sidney Tucker were pronounced dead at the scene.

At some point, one of the paramedics gave me a reflective, insulated blanket. I’m sitting in the backseat of the cruiser, watching the scene unfold through the rain-streaked windshield, when I see someone approach. An irrational wave of fear ripples through me. Then the door swings open and John Tomasetti bends and looks in at me.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

His expression is grim and intense, infused with an array of barely controlled emotions I couldn’t begin to identify. Front and center is the slow simmer of fear and relief that he hasn’t arrived to find me in a body bag.

There are too many cops around for me to act on my own emotions. The knowledge that I came very close to never seeing him again.

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

He’s already reaching for my hand, taking it in his. I can feel him shaking, the wash of fresh emotion cascading over his face. “Goddamn it.” He closes his eyes, takes a moment. “What happened?”

I give him the condensed version. “I wasn’t expecting an ambush.”

“No cop ever is, Kate.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “For chrissake.”

“Has Cascioli talked to anyone?”

“She’s got a facial wound, so she hasn’t said much. Detective that talked to her said Cascioli and Tucker were friends. She rode with him when she was a rookie. She knew he was into some unsavory things. She knew some of what was going on and had been trying to talk him into coming clean. From what I’ve gathered Tucker called her this morning, too. He knew they were gunning for him.” He shakes his head. “He was right.”

“She going to be okay?”

“She lost some teeth and she’s probably going to need some reconstructive surgery, but she’s going to make it. She’s damn lucky to be alive. So are you.”

A rush of emotion surges. The last thing I want to do is cry. I fight it, but it’s another battle I’m losing. “Tomasetti, they were cops. I never imagined … fucking cops.”

“Cascioli said it’s been going on the entirety of her career. When she spoke out, they smeared her and got her fired. They threatened her, tried to intimidate her.”

I think of my visit to her apartment. All the locks on her doors. The punching bag. The pistol tucked into her waistband. “She’s not the kind of woman easily intimidated.”

He grimaces. “Look, Kate, BCI is taking over the investigation. This is going to be a big deal. They’re moving now, going to try to figure out how deep the corruption goes.”

“Cascioli told me it goes all the way to the top,” I tell him.

He gives me a sage look and I realize he can’t talk about it or say anything more. His silence has nothing to do with his trust in me, but is because of his strong ethics, his professionalism, and his code of honor. It’s the kind of man he is. It’s one of many reasons I love him.

“This was about Joseph King,” I tell him. “The murder of Naomi King.” I close my eyes against another round of tears. “Tomasetti, he was innocent. They destroyed him.”

He nods. “It’s going to take some time and a lot of unraveling, but I’ll make sure the truth is told. All of it.” He looks behind him as if taking in the scene, and I realize I’m not the only one whose emotions are running high.

“Joseph King’s family,” I say, “the Amish community … they need to know.”

“Scoot over.” Taking a final look around, he gets into the car with me and slams the door.

“Tomasetti…”

“Stop talking.” He pulls me into his arms, holds me tightly against him, and presses his face against mine. His whiskers scraping my cheek, his lips brushing mine. “I couldn’t handle it if something had happened to you. Kate, you came this close…”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I know how—”

He silences me with a kiss. It’s too intimate and goes on too long. But I sink into it. I cling to him, absorbing his strength, taking comfort, putting the moment to memory.

After a minute, he pulls away. “Don’t let this shake your faith. In cops. In law enforcement. I mean that.”