The Dead Will Tell

by Linda Castillo

  “I know. And I’m sorry, but—”

  “All of us are sorry. But you know what, Kate? Sorry doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t help. Being sorry doesn’t erase the fact that my kids suffered. I can’t get that out of my head. You know what makes all of this even worse? They died because of me. Because of what I do. Because of who I am. The same laws I devoted my life to enforcing failed me, Kate. Failed them. How the fuck am I supposed to live with that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, stepping toward him. “I don’t have the answers. But you can’t let Ferguson destroy you, too.”

  “He already has.”

  “No!” I shout. “I don’t accept that.”

  For the span of a full minute, we stand silent, listening to the water pouring off the roof and the wind whistling around the eaves outside the window above the sink. I can feel my nerves zinging just beneath my skin. My breaths coming short and fast. My thoughts ricocheting inside my head so that I can’t focus on a single one.

  After a moment, he says, “Living in a fantasy world won’t keep your nightmares from coming true.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  I stare at him, my heart pounding. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything I can do about that.”

  A little voice of reason tells me to go upstairs, take a shower, and go to bed. Let it go. But I’m angry with him. Worse, I’m scared. I’m terrified he’s going to do something that will jeopardize this precious thing we’ve built.

  “I can’t compete with them.” In the periphery of my consciousness, I hear myself say the words, hating them the instant they’re out because they sound jealous and shallow and petty, three things I’ve never been.

  The air around me feels fragile, like if I move, something will shatter and I’ll never be able to pick up the pieces. For an instant, I’m frozen in place, undecided, unable to breathe.

  But I can’t stay. Not like this. Rising, I snag my coat and keys and then head for the door.

  “Kate.”

  I open the door. His voice follows me into the night, but he doesn’t come after me.

  CHAPTER 12

  She dreamed of that night. Even after all this time, and so many years spent trying to forget, it was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The absolute dark of an Amish farm. A drug-fueled plot that had gone horribly wrong. The spill of innocent blood. It was a night in which a series of bad decisions had led to more bad decisions and culminated in a nightmare. People she thought she’d known turned into strangers she wished she’d never met.

  Six people had died because of them. An Amish mother and father. Four innocent children. A teenaged boy had been left alone, to fend for himself. But those weren’t the only tragedies that night. Four other lives had been irrevocably changed. Promising young lives wrecked by unfathomable guilt and secrets they would have to live with forever.

  Those secrets had destroyed her life, stolen her innocence, and any semblance of happiness or hope for the future. In the weeks that followed, she’d even found herself questioning whether she wanted to remain on this earth. But somehow she’d gotten through those dark days. She’d graduated from high school. Gone to college. Gotten married and had children. After the divorce and with the kids grown, she’d thrown herself into her art and opened the gallery. Through it all, Jules had never found happiness. She knew something about herself she couldn’t live with. It was like living with a person you hated—someone you could never trust nor leave.

  Murderer.

  Jules woke with a start, the word a whisper in her ear, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. Sitting up, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and put her face in her hands. “Damn you,” she muttered, not exactly sure whom she was cursing. Herself. Or maybe the others.

  She grabbed her robe off the foot of the bed and worked it over her shoulders as she padded to the kitchen. Like so many nights before, she went to the refrigerator for the bottle of chardonnay she kept in the door for such occasions. Mild annoyance rippled through her when the fridge light didn’t come on, but she knew by heart where to find the bottle. The wine didn’t kill the pain; nothing could do that. But it would get her through the night.

  In the murky light coming through the window above the sink, she uncorked the wine, snagged a stemmed glass from the cupboard, and poured. She stood at the counter and drank it down without stopping. She poured a second glass and recorked the bottle. A glance at the wall clock told her the electricity had gone out at 3 A.M. Vaguely, she wondered if any of the others were awake. If they were as frightened and tortured as she was. If they ever considered doing anything about it.

  Goddamn them.

  Back at the refrigerator, she tugged open the door and replaced the bottle. Quickly, she drained her glass, then turned to take it to the sink. Ice slinked through her body when she noticed that the window was open. She stood there, frozen in place, trying to make sense of it even as she realized the screen had been removed. It was the only window she ever opened. It faced the pretty backyard and sometimes in the morning, she’d stand at the sink drinking coffee and watch the squirrels and the birds and think about all the things that might have been.

  A faint sound—a shoe against tile—spun her around. Adrenaline burst in her midsection when she saw the woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She discerned the silhouette of an Amish dress. A winter head covering shadowed her face. Still, Jules thought she recognized her. That image of her had been burned into her memory for thirty-five years.

  “But … how can it be you?” she whispered in a voice that was bizarrely calm, considering the circumstances. “I saw you die.”

  Even in the meager light she could see that the woman’s expression was devoid of emotion. Eyes as dead and blank as a mannequin’s. Dead like me, she thought vaguely.

  Her eyes never left Jules as she entered the kitchen. “You remember me.”

  “Every day of my life.” Jules knew it was crazy, but she wanted to throw herself at the woman and beg her for forgiveness. “If I could change what happened, I would.”

  The woman stared at her.

  Jules told herself this couldn’t be happening. Prolonged stress could do strange things to one’s mental health, after all. But as impossible as it was, she knew this was no hallucination.

  “I’m sorry for what they did,” she said.

  “For what they did?” There was something cruel in the twist of her mouth. “Or for what you didn’t do?”

  “I’m so sorry.” Jules didn’t realize she was crying until her voice revealed it. She’d never believed in ghosts, but knew she was seeing one now. Deep inside, she knew she wouldn’t survive the encounter. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “You know why I’m here. Dale Michaels knew.”

  A landslide of fear tumbled through Jules at the mention of Dale. Then she spotted the knife the Amish woman held at her side—the butcher knife from Jules’s own kitchen—and her heart went wild in her chest. She thought of her ex-husband’s pistol on the night table beside her bed, but she knew she wouldn’t reach it before that blade found its mark in her back.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried. “All of us are sorry. Please don’t hurt me!”

  “Too late for sorry.”

  Jules dashed to the counter, where her cell phone was charging. The woman blocked her way, raised the knife. Screaming, Jules darted left, leaving the kitchen. Through the dining room. Toppling a chair. If she could reach her bedroom and the gun—

  “Help me!” Her bare feet pounded through the living room, down the hall. Her hand brushed a framed photo, sent it crashing to the floor. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth. Heart exploding with terror. The knowledge that she was going to die. That she deserved this. That hell was waiting for her with open arms.

  She heard the woman scant feet behind her. Shoes hard against the floor. “You killed them! Die ki
nner!” The children. “Die kinner!”

  At the end of the hall, Jules started to go right toward the bedroom. The blade slashed down. The searing heat of a cut flashed on her right forearm. She felt the warm spurt of blood. Panic leaping in her chest. Crying out for help, she ran toward the bathroom.

  A dozen feet away. The door standing half open. Jules hit the door with both hands. It slammed wide, hit the wall like a gunshot. Then she was inside. Spinning to close the door. Lock it. Lock out the past. Lock out death.

  The door burst open, striking her in the face. She reeled backward, dazed. The knife arced to her left. The blade glinted, pierced her shoulder. She danced back. Slapped at the knife with both hands. “No!”

  Pain streaked across her left palm. Blood warm on her arm. She turned, looked around wildly. The bathroom window. If she could break it, get through before she was mortally wounded …

  She was midway there when the blade slammed into her back with the force of a baseball bat. She felt the blade hit bone. Another scream ripped from her lungs. Electric pain streaking down her spine. And then she was falling.

  On the floor. Cold tile against her bare legs. She twisted, sat up. The woman hovered over her. Dead calm expression. Knife raised. Murder in her eyes.

  “Murderer,” she said.

  Jules scrambled away, made it to her hands and knees. She floundered, bare feet sliding on tile slick with blood. She grabbed the shower curtain, pulled herself to her feet, partially ripping it from the rod. She faced her attacker, raised her hands to protect herself. “Don’t.” The word came out in a pant of panic. “Please.”

  Mouth contorted in rage, the woman slashed. Violently, putting her body weight into it. Fire flashed across Jules’s throat. The knowledge that it was a death blow. Terror ripping through every nerve ending.

  Jules tried to scream, gargled blood. She saw blood on the blade. On the tile. Red against her bare arms. Her right calf hit the side of the tub. The knife came down again, a hammer blow to her sternum. No air in her lungs. No way to breathe. She fell backwards into the tub. Darkness closing in. The familiar face looking down at her, now as impassive and cold as a predator on prey.

  I didn’t mean for you to die, she thought.

  And then the knife came down again.

  * * *

  Tomasetti calls my cell twice during the drive from the farm to my house in Painters Mill. As much as I want to speak to him and work this out, I don’t answer. There’s no simple fix for the issues we’re dealing with. And I’ve got too many emotions pinging around inside me to partake in a meaningful conversation. An uncomfortable mix of fear and anger and, as much as I don’t want to admit it—even to myself—jealousy. Probably better for both of us to cool off before we talk.

  I park in the driveway and sprint through the pouring rain to the front door and let myself inside. The house is dark, and even though I’ve gone to great lengths to maintain it as I try to decide whether to sell or rent, it has the feel of a place that’s been closed up without fresh air for a long time.

  A pang of melancholy moves through me. This was my first house, and I’ve loved it since the first time I saw it four years ago. I painted every room myself and chose the colors with such care. I spent a week’s salary on the Amish rug in the living room. This place is so much more than a house. It symbolized a fresh start for me, a new phase of my life when I moved back to Painters Mill and became chief.

  Tonight, standing in the living room, looking down at the layer of dust on the coffee table that had once been polished to a high sheen, it no longer feels like home.

  I don’t let myself think about Tomasetti or the harsh words between us as I pull linens from the hall closet and put them on the bed. A quick shower, and I climb between the sheets. Despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come easily and I end up tossing and turning for an hour before I can turn off my mind. When slumber finally descends, it’s restless and fraught with dreams.

  I’m wakened by the chirp of my cell phone. For several seconds I’m disoriented and unsure where I’m at. I reach for Tomasetti, only to remember the argument we had earlier. I curse him as I grapple for the phone. “Burkholder.”

  “Chief, sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know about a call I just took.”

  “Hey, Mona.” I push myself to a sitting position. A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s just past 5 A.M. “What is it?”

  “Kid tossing newspapers says Julia Rutledge’s front door is standing open. He got a little freaked out and called his dad. Dad called us a few minutes ago. T.J.’s working an injury accident out on Delisle Road and said you were just out there tonight and I should let you know.”

  Wide awake now, recalling my recent meeting with Rutledge, I set my feet on the floor and snatch my uniform trousers off the back of a chair. “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Ten minutes later, I pull into Rutledge’s driveway to find the house dark and quiet. No movement inside. No cars in the driveway or on the street. I hit my lapel mike. “Ten twenty-three.”

  “Ten four.”

  I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out. Sure enough, from where I’m standing, I can see that the front door is open a couple of feet. A newspaper still in its clear plastic sleeve lies on the threshold. “Shit.” I walk toward the house and take the steps to the porch. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I peer inside. “Hello? Ms. Rutledge? It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Is everything all right?”

  Before I’m even fully through the door, I sweep the beam around the living room. Nothing appears out of place. I flip the switch on the wall, but it doesn’t produce any light. I stand there a moment, listening, but the house is so quiet, I can hear the heat rushing through the vents.

  “Ms. Rutledge?” I call out her name and identify myself a second time. The last thing any cop wants to happen when entering a premises is to be mistaken for a robber and get shot.

  I go to the lamp on the end table and turn the switch. Again, no light. I’m midway across the living room when my beam illuminates a muddy shoe print on the hardwood floor. I can’t tell if it’s male or female, but someone has recently come in from outside.

  I reach the far end of the living room. “Ms. Rutledge? Are you there?”

  The lack of a response makes the nerves at the back of my neck crawl. I know it’s possible she’s sleeping and didn’t hear me. Some people are sound sleepers; they take sleeping pills or wear earplugs. But ever present in my mind is that she was one of the last people to speak with Dale Michaels before his death and the situation has a high probability of going downhill quick.

  I point my beam down the hallway, where I presume the bedrooms are located. I get the impression of a narrow space with hardwood floors and three doors, all of which stand partially open. Framed photographs on the walls. Ahead, a picture frame lies on the floor, the glass broken. I shine the beam on the wall and see a smear of something dark against the light paint. I can’t be sure, but it looks like blood.

  “Shit,” I whisper. I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my service revolver. “Mrs. Rutledge?”

  The first door I come to is on my right. The hinges squeak as I push it open. Quickly, I sweep the beam around the room. It’s a small, tidy bedroom with a queen-size bed covered with an Amish quilt. Curtains drawn. A small desk and chair. Guest room, I think. The closet door stands open. I see summer clothes hung on plastic hangers—shirts and jeans and an Ohio State hoodie lying on the floor next to a pair of sneakers. There’s no one in the closet, so I continue down the hall.

  A narrow door to my left opens to a good-size bathroom. At the end of the hall is the master bedroom. I see the outline of a window. Sheer curtains. A bed with a frilly skirt and a comforter that’s turned down. Night table with a lamp and e-reader. It looks as if someone had been sleeping in the bed, but threw the covers aside and rose. I step into the room and try the light switch, but it doesn’t work. The closet doo
r is closed, so I stride to it and pull it open. The beam of my flashlight reveals blouses and jeans and a couple of dresses, all neatly hung. Boots and low-heeled pumps lined up on the floor. But there’s no one there.

  I back out of the room, shift my light to the bathroom. The sink and medicine cabinet are to my right. Tub to the left. Window ahead. “Julia Rutledge,” I call out. “Police.”

  The bathroom is small. No closet. No place for anyone to hide. I step inside. My beam reveals blood. On the floor. On the sink. The wall ahead. I’m reaching for my mike when a sound spins me around. The burn of adrenaline in my gut. Then I notice movement in the bathtub. Stumbling back, I thrust my light toward it. The shower curtain has been torn from the rod. I see the shocking red of blood. Blond hair against porcelain. Staring eyes within the pale oval of a face.

  “Ms. Rutledge!” I hit my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight!” I hear fear in my voice, make an effort to crank it down. “Ten thirty-one C.”

  “You want me to send County?”

  “I need an ambulance!” I rush to the tub and drop to my knees.

  “Stand by.” A quick scratch of static and then. “What’s your twenty?”

  I relay the address from memory. Quickly, I set my flashlight on the floor with the beam pointing toward the tub. Jules Rutledge is lying on her back with one hand pressed against her chest, blood flowing between her fingers. The other hand is slung over the side of the tub, fingers twitching. She’s wearing a white nightgown, the front of which is blood soaked. Her eyes are open and on me, blinking. In their depths I see terror and I hate it that she’s afraid, because I don’t think she’s going to survive this.