The Pact

by Linda Castillo

  In the distance, sirens wail. The burning house is an ethereal scene with the glow of flames against the night sky, the billowing black smoke, and the sleet slanting down.

  I’ve just pulled out my cell to contact the families when Tomasetti comes up beside me. “I’m usually not a sucker for a happy ending,” he says.

  “I think all of us are going to make an exception this time,” I whisper.

  I glance at the boys, who are seated side by side on a railroad tie. Glock has given them a bottle of water to share. He kneels in front of them, checking the Amish boy’s ankle.

  “What do you say we get these little guys back to the road so they can be checked out and go home?” Tomasetti says after a moment.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  * * *

  I’m in my office at the police station, paging through the latest round of employment applications, when my first-shift dispatcher, Lois, peeks her head in. “Chief? You’ve got some visitors in reception.”

  “Dare I ask?” I say.

  She grins. “It’s the Kuhns and Dennison families.”

  I smile back at her. “By all means, send them in.”

  Two days have passed since Glock, Tomasetti, and I rescued Kevin and Aaron from that burning farmhouse. The boys were transported via ambulance to Pomerene Hospital, where the emergency room physician treated them for minor frostbite, and Aaron for a sprained ankle. Considering the weather conditions and the fire, both boys are very lucky.

  I’m in the process of shutting down my computer when Kevin Dennison shuffles in. He’s wearing a blue puffy coat, a green stocking hat. Aaron Kuhns, dressed in clothes he might wear to worship—black coat, black felt hat, blue shirt, and suspenders—hobbles in on crutches. An abrasion the size of a quarter mars the left side of his face.

  Both sets of parents follow the boys in. Susie and Levi Kuhns are also wearing their good clothes. Jeff and Monica Dennison look as if they just left work.

  “Chief Burkholder.”

  I rise as Levi Kuhns crosses to my desk. “We would like to thank you for bringing home the two boys.”

  I give his hand a firm shake. His wife, Susie, shoves a foil-covered pie at me. “Hinkelbottboi,” she says, using the Deitsch term for chicken pot pie.

  “Danki.” I take the pie, noticing that it’s still warm from the oven.

  “If there’s anything we can ever do to thank you, I hope you will let us know,” Levi tells me.

  I set the pot pie on the credenza behind me. “Actually, there is something, Mr. Kuhns.”

  The Amish man cocks his head. Not expecting me to take him up on his offer so soon. “What is it?”

  I let my gaze slip to his wife and then back to him. “I’d like for you to start using a slow-moving-vehicle sign on your buggy.” I soften the request with a smile. “I can bring one out to you tomorrow.”

  Blinking, he starts to mention something about ornamentation. Then his wife touches his arm and he falls silent. “We would appreciate that, Chief Burkholder,” she tells me. “Danki.”

  The Amish couple step aside as Jeff and Monica Dennison move closer. I notice tears on Monica’s face as she rounds my desk. As her arms go around me, I hear a sob. I’m not much of a hugger, but I return the gesture.

  “Thank you, Chief Burkholder,” she whispers. “Thank you to your whole department for bringing Kevin home to us. When I think of all the things that could have happened…” She shakes her head, leaving the sentence open-ended, as if not wanting to imagine the possibilities.

  Jeff Dennison sticks out his hand. “It’s good to know our town—our children—are in such good hands.”

  “I’ll pass the compliment along to my department,” I tell him.

  Levi Kuhns puts his hands on his son’s shoulders and nudges him forward. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but too intent on doing the right thing to let it show, Aaron steps toward me. In the back of my mind, I recall the way he looked the night he jumped from that second-story window. He’d been terrified, and yet he’d kept his head.

  “How’s the ankle?” I ask.

  “Just a sprain.” Looking down at the floor, the boy runs the toe of his boot over the scuffed wood planks.

  Behind him, his mother clears her throat.

  Aaron raises his gaze to mine. In the depths of his eyes, I see an earnestness that’s a little too rare these days. “I want to … um, apologize for causing such a big ruckus, Chief Burkholder. Me and Kevin shouldn’t have took off the way we did. I mean, without telling our parents.”

  He slants a look at his friend and a smile whispers across their features, as if they’re remembering some secret adventure.

  Blotting her eyes with a tissue, Monica Dennison nods at her son. “Go on, honey,” she says.

  Kevin Dennison is a little guy with a freckled nose and his mom’s serious eyes. He comes up beside Aaron and visibly swallows. “I’m sorry, too, Chief Burkholder. I know everyone was real worried. I would have called, but I dropped my phone.”

  He runs out of breath, getting himself worked up, so I jump in to help keep him on track. “There were some teenaged boys in the woods that night,” I tell him. “They admitted to scaring you. Chasing you on the trail.”

  “Oh.” The two boys exchange a look.

  Aaron speaks up again. “We didn’t mean to set that house on fire, either, Chief Burkholder. We were cold, so I built a fire. I even checked the flue like Datt taught me to do.” The Amish boy shrugs. “I think the chimney must have been clogged, because the smoke wasn’t going up right. We fell asleep and when we woke up, the whole place was lit up.”

  “Apologies accepted.” I look from boy to boy, trying to keep my expression stern. It’s not easy. I’m no sucker for kids, especially when they’ve been as irresponsible as these two, but it’s not often that I see this kind of genuine contriteness.

  “The house was a total loss,” I tell them. “The fire marshal is finalizing his report now.”

  Kevin swallows again, flicks a look at his father. “Are we in trouble?” he squeaks. “I mean, are we going to have to pay for it?”

  I wonder how much these boys have told their parents. “Did you boys run away? Or did you get lost?”

  Aaron’s gaze hits the floor. Kevin picks at the bandage on his hand. After a too-long moment, Aaron raises his gaze to mine. “Both, I guess.”

  I hear a quick intake of breath from Monica Dennison, telling me she didn’t know, but I don’t look away from the boys.

  Ducking his head, Kevin makes eye contact with me. “Our parents said we couldn’t be friends anymore.”

  “Why not?” I pose the question to anyone who is willing to answer, but I set my eyes to rest on Jeff Dennison.

  Kevin is the only one who steps up. “Because Aaron’s Amish,” he mutters.

  An uncomfortable silence ensues. I let the tension ride, give everyone a moment to think about its source.

  Aaron shoves up the sleeve of his coat, revealing a small laceration that’s scabbed over. “That’s why we became blood brothers.”

  Kevin does the same, revealing a similar cut. “We figured they can’t take that away from us,” he says. “Even if we get grounded for life.”

  “I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere,” I say, borrowing Tomasetti’s words. “For all of us.”

  I go to my desk and pull the graphic novel from the bottom drawer. “I heard something about a buck, too.”

  A quiver goes through Aaron’s body. Kevin blinks, opens his mouth, closes it. They didn’t tell anyone, I realize.

  “What buck?” asks Jeff Dennison.

  “Apparently, Dane Henderson was keeping a buck in a pen at his place, which is against the law in the state of Ohio.” I motion toward the boys. “Aaron and Kevin took it upon themselves to sneak over there and free the buck.” I hand the graphic novel to Jeff Dennison, then turn my attention to the boys. “That wasn’t the right way to go about it, but I think yo
ur hearts were in the right place.”

  Dennison looks down at the novel. His brows shoot up at the sight of the flying buck. Emotion sparks in his eyes when he looks at the boys. I think about life lessons, and I get the impression that everything is going to work out.

  “We’re happy to pay for the damage to the fence, Chief Burkholder,” Levi Kuhns puts in.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I tell him. “When I explained the situation to Mr. Henderson, he agreed to waive his complaint.” It didn’t hurt that I also told him I would cite him for the wildlife violation if he pressed it.

  “I think it’s safe to say all of us learned something important, Chief Burkholder,” Monica Dennison tells me.

  At that, the parents and their children shuffle from my office.

  When they’re gone, Lois comes to the doorway. “Nicely done,” she tells me.

  I reach for my coat, shrug into it. “I’m a firm believer in that the things that make us different are also the things that make us stronger.”

  “Amen to that.” She grins. “Don’t forget that scrumptious-looking pie, Chief.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

  Read on for a sneak peak of Outsider

  Publishing in 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Linda Castillo

  PROLOGUE

  She’d always known they would come for her. She knew when they did that it would be violent and fast and happen in the dead of night. Despite all the training, the mental and physical preparation, she’d also known that when the time came, she wouldn’t be ready.

  She wasn’t sure what woke her. Some barely discernible noise outside the front door. The scuff of a boot against a concrete step. The clunk of a car door as it was quietly closed. The crunch of snow beneath a leather sole. Or maybe it was that change in the air, like the energy of a static charge an instant before a lightning strike.

  She rolled from her bed, senses clicking into place. Her feet hit the floor an instant before the front door burst inward. She smacked her hand down on the night table, snatched up the Sig Sauer P320 Nitron, seventeen plus one of lifesaving lead. In the living room, a dozen feet thudded against the hardwood floor.

  A cacophony of shouted voices rang out. “Police Department! Get on the floor! Hands above your head! Do it now!”

  Two strides and she was across the room. She slammed her bedroom door shut, slapped the lock into place. Spinning, she yanked her jacket off a chair back; she jammed one arm into the sleeve, covered her head and shoulders, and sprinted to the window. Without slowing, she bent low and dove. An instant of resistance as she went through. The sound of snapping wood and shattering glass. The pain of a dozen razor cuts.

  The ground rushed up, plowed into her shoulder. Breath knocked from her lungs. Snow on her face, down her collar, in her mouth. Spitting, she barrel-rolled and scrambled to her feet, kept moving. Keeping low, every sense honed on her surroundings. She stuck to the Plan, the one she’d lived a thousand times in the last days, and she sprinted to the hedge that grew along the chain-link fence. Around her, snow floated down from a starless sky. A glance over her shoulder told her there were vehicles parked on the street, no lights. Typical no-knock warrant. Or was it?

  She was midway to the alley at the back of her property when she spotted a silhouette in the side yard, thirty feet away, moving toward her fast, equipment jingling. “Halt! Police Department! Stop!”

  In an instant she noticed a hundred details. The big man dressed in black. POLICE emblazoned on his jacket. The nine-millimeter Beretta leveled at her, center mass.

  “Show me your hands! Get on the ground!” Crouched in a shooter’s stance, he motioned with his left hand. “On the ground! Now! Get down!”

  She swung toward him, raised the Sig. Simultaneously, recognition kicked. He was a rookie. Young. A good kid. She murmured his name, felt the knowledge of the decision she was about to make cut her and go deep. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  His weapon flashed and the round slammed into her shoulder. Impact like a baseball bat, the momentum spinning her. Pain zinged, a red-hot poker shoved through bone marrow from clavicle to biceps. An animalistic sound tore from her throat as she went down on one knee.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him step back, lower his weapon. He went still, looked at her for a too-long beat. “Drop the weapon! Get on the ground! For God’s sake, it’s over.” Then he was shouting into his lapel mike.

  She launched herself to her feet, flew across the remaining stretch of yard, her feet not seeming to touch the ground. A volley of shots thundered as she vaulted the chain-link fence, pain snarling through her body. All the while she imagined a bullet slamming into her back.

  Then she was in the alley. No police lights. No movement as she darted across the narrow span of asphalt. Heart pumping pure adrenaline, she hurdled the fence, entered her neighbor’s backyard, stumbled to the garage door. She twisted the knob, flung the door open, lurched inside, slammed it behind her. Breaths hissing through clenched teeth, she rushed to the truck, yanked open the door, and threw herself onto the seat, trying desperately to ignore the pain screaming in her shoulder, the knowledge that she was badly injured, and the little voice telling her the Plan wasn’t going to work.

  Her hands shook as she fished out the key, stabbed it into the ignition, turned it. She jammed the vehicle into reverse, stomped the gas pedal. The pickup truck shot backward. A tremendous crunch! sounded as the bumper and bed tore the garage door from its track. The metal folded over the tailgate and was pushed into the alley, crushed beneath her rear tires.

  She cut the steering wheel hard. Red lights in her rearview mirror. Twisting in the seat, she raised the Sig and fired six rounds through the rear window. A thousand capillaries spread through the glass. The smell of gunpowder in the air. Ears ringing from the blasts. Ramming the truck into drive, she punched the gas. No headlights. Moving fast. Too fast. She sideswiped a garbage can, sent it tumbling, overcorrected. The truck fishtailed and she nearly lost it, regained control in time to make the turn. On the street, she cranked the speedometer to eighty, blew the stop sign at the corner, kept going.

  For the span of several seconds, she was an animal, mindless and terrified, hunted by a predator that had scented her blood. The only sound was the hiss of her breath. The pound of a heart racing out of control. The hum of panic in her veins. The knowledge that there was no going back. Her entire body shook violently. Her brain misfiring. Fear shrieking because she didn’t know how seriously she was hurt. Because she knew this wasn’t over. That this nightmare she’d been anticipating for weeks now was, in fact, just beginning.

  At James Road she hit a curb, backed the speedometer down to just above the speed limit, forced herself to calm down, kept her eyes on the rearview mirror. No one knew about the truck. All she had to do was stay calm and get the hell out of the city. For God’s sake, it had seemed like a good idea when she’d conceived it.

  As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain augmented. Her shoulder throbbed with every beat of her heart. Looking away from the road, she risked a glance at it. Blood had soaked through her shirt, into her coat—which still wasn’t on properly—red droplets spattering onto the seat at her hip. The sight of so much blood piled another layer of fear atop a hundred others. Nothing broken—she could still move her arm—but it was bad, potentially life-threatening if she didn’t get to a hospital. But she knew emergency room personnel were required by law to report all gunshot wounds to law enforcement. For now, she had no choice but to keep going.

  Eyes on the rearview mirror, she made a right at Broad Street and headed east, praying she didn’t run into a cop. Even if they didn’t have her plate number or a description of the vehicle, she’d have a tough time explaining the bullet holes in her rear windshield, not to mention the blood.

  By the time she hit the outskirts of Columbus, the snow was coming down in earnest. The wind had picked up, dri
ving it sideways, and she could see the whisper of it across the surface of the road in front of her. Soon, it would be sticking. As much as she didn’t relish the thought of slick roads, especially with an injured shoulder, she knew it might work to her advantage. If the state highway patrol was busy with accidents, they’d have less time to look for her. The problem was they weren’t the only ones looking. The state police were the least of her problems. They weren’t the ones who would cuff her, walk her into a cornfield, and put a bullet in her head. She needed help, but who could she trust?

  Twice she’d picked up her cell phone to make the call. Twice she’d dropped it back onto the console. The realization that there was no one, that at the age of thirty-five she’d cultivated so few meaningful relationships during her lifetime that there wasn’t a soul on this earth that she could call upon, made her unbearably sad.

  Against all odds, the Plan had worked; it had gotten her out the door and into her vehicle. How ludicrous was it that she didn’t have a destination in mind? Or maybe she simply hadn’t believed she was going to survive long enough to need one.

  She took Broad Street past Reynoldsburg and the Pataskala area and then turned north onto a lesser county road. The snowfall was heavy enough to obscure visibility by the time she hit the outskirts of Newark. The bleeding showed no sign of abating. As the miles inched past, it formed a sickening pool on the seat at her hip. There was no pulsing or spray, which meant there was no catastrophic vascular damage. Still, the pain and trauma were making her nauseous and light-headed.

  By the time she hit Ohio 16 East, her heart was racing and she was shivering beneath her coat. Her hands were shaking and wet on the steering wheel. To make matters worse, visibility had dwindled to just a few feet and she inched along at an excruciatingly slow pace. Three hours had passed since she’d fled her house. Early on, she’d made good time and managed to put over fifty miles between her and her pursuers. In the last hour, conditions had deteriorated; she’d encountered a total of two motorists and a single snowplow. The pavement was no longer visible and she’d fallen to using mailboxes, the occasional fence line, and the trees and telephone poles on either side just to stay on the road.