“Yeah, but you’re worried or you wouldn’t be here.”
I sigh because he’s right. “Did anyone you talked to mention his favorite watering hole?”
“He’s been known to stop in for a beer at McNarie’s. I thought I’d swing by on my way home.”
I nod, but I don’t think he’ll find McCullough at the bar. “Apparently, we’re the only people who seem to be worried about him.”
“That’s pretty sad.” Glock grimaces. “You think he flew the coop? Maybe he had something to do with the murders.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think he’s our guy.” I consider that a moment. “For one thing, he’s an amputee. He doesn’t use a prosthesis.”
“That we know of.”
“Look, I’m going to put out a BOLO.”
Around us the rain increases, fat drops slapping against the trees and the saturated ground. Despite the fact that we’re both getting wet, neither of us seems to notice.
“I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight,” I say after a moment.
He nods. “I’m going to swing by McNarie’s.”
“We’ll pick up Blue tomorrow,” I tell him. “Put some pressure on him.”
Glock gives me a mock salute and then turns and starts for his vehicle, leaving me in the pouring rain with the sound of rushing water in my ears and my own thoughts echoing in my head.
* * *
I’m on my way home when I pass by Old Germantown Road. On impulse, I hit the brakes, back up, and make the turn. It’s fully dark now, and my headlights reveal fog hovering above asphalt that’s pitted and cracked. The vegetation is slowly devouring the road so that it isn’t much wider than a single lane. Not many people use this road since the new highway went through. The county no longer maintains it, and I imagine in a few years the land will reclaim it completely.
The Hochstetler farm—what’s left of it—sits on a hill a half mile down. The house burned to the ground and was never rebuilt, but some of the trees survived and now look as if they’re standing sentinel—or waiting for the family to return. The old German-style round barn that Willis Hochstetler transformed into a furniture showroom still stands. I remember my mamm and datt talking about how the farm had once been a showplace with its white four-rail fence and wraparound porch adorned with hanging Boston ferns. Camera-wielding Englischers traveled for miles to park at the end of the lane and shoot photos.
The place fell to ruin after the family was killed. The tourists stopped coming. The Amish spoke of the things that happened that night only in whispers. But I heard the stories. When I was a teenager, rumors abounded. Ghost stories mostly. And a few sightings of Wanetta Hochstetler walking the hilltop, calling out for her children. Some said if you came out at midnight and listened, you could hear the screams of the children as they were burned alive.
Those stories scared me when I was a kid. But as I entered my teenage years, I became intrigued and even partook in several illicit visits myself. Tonight, as I approach the beat-up mailbox and turn into the muddy lane, I feel all those old stories creeping up on me.
I park in knee-high weeds with my headlights illuminating the place where the house had once stood. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, I grab my Maglite and get out. I pull on my slicker as I start toward what had once been the side yard. I didn’t know the Hochstetlers; though they lived in the same church district as my own family, I was too young when they died to remember any of them. But I feel the loneliness of this place. The lingering sadness. A sense of injustice.
All that remains of the house is the brick chimney and the eight-foot-deep crater where the basement had once been. The walls have eroded and crumbled over the years. Saplings and weeds grow up from the basement floor, which is now filled with what looks like several feet of water. At some point, someone used plywood and sawhorses to cover the pit—probably for liability reasons—but the wood has long since collapsed. The only thing left is the remnants of a single caution flag, as faded and shredded as the memory of the people who once lived here.
I think of Hoch Yoder, and I wonder if he ever comes back here. I wonder if he’s stood where I’m standing now and grieved for the family he lost. I wonder if he’s been able to embrace the age-old Amish tenet of forgiveness.
I jump when a sudden gust of wind sends droplets of rain from the branches of a pine into the water below. The sound seems inordinately loud in the silence, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Turning slowly, I fan my light in a 360-degree circle, but there’s no one there. No vehicle. No lights.
Thrusting my flashlight out ahead of me, I start toward the silo and barn. My pants are damp from the hip down from walking the McCullough property earlier and, now, from wading through weeds. I reach the rusty silo first. Once upon a time, it had been painted silver, but rust has eaten through the paint. The hatch stands open. I hear it squeaking as the breeze rocks it back and forth. Bending, I shine my light inside. There’s a hole in the roof where the wind has peeled away the shingles. I see yellow cornstalks rotting on the ground and a rat the size of a groundhog looking at me from the ledge of the concrete footer.
“Shit,” I mutter, and continue to the barn. It’s a German-style building, most of which were constructed in the early 1900s and used for dairy operations. Today, the odd-looking structures are akin to covered bridges and much loved by tourists and aficionados of unusual architecture. There are several in the area, but none are used in the manner in which they were intended.
Upon reaching the barn, I walk the exterior perimeter, keeping beneath the overhanging roof until I reach the front door. Trespassers have broken most of the windows. Pushing open the door, I shine the beam inside. The elements have destroyed much of the floor; the wood planks are buckled and rotting in places. Some have splintered and collapsed, and I can see into the crawl space beneath.
I’m not exactly sure what I expected to find here tonight. Nothing, really. But as a cop, there’s something intangibly useful about visiting a crime scene, even if the scene is ages old and any evidence has long since faded.
As I walk back to the dry warmth of my vehicle, the wind passing through the trees sounds very much like the cries of dying children.
CHAPTER 18
The first thing I notice when I pull into the gravel lane of the farmhouse is that Tomasetti left the porch light on for me. As I drive around to the rear, I see his Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Butterflies flutter in my stomach when I think of how we left things. I’m not sure what I’ll find when I go inside. I have no idea if he’s angry or sorry or somewhere in between. I don’t know if he’s seen Ferguson. Or if he listened to what I had to say.
I unlock the back door to see that the light above the stove is on. The kitchen smells of coffee and vanilla potpourri, and for an instant, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of homecoming. I’m standing just inside the door, taking off my jacket, when the light flicks on.
On the other side of the kitchen, Tomasetti stands at the doorway, looking at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His feet are bare. Hair damp from a recent shower. I take a breath, and even from several feet away, I discern the scent of his aftershave.
“I could be,” I reply.
Amusement flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t smile. “I brought home sandwiches from Leo’s Deli.”
Leo’s is a mom-and-pop eatery in Wooster, and in the last months has become our favorite “quick” dinner. “What kind?”
“Paninis. They’re in the fridge.”
I’m staring at him, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m not hungry and I couldn’t care less about the sandwiches, from Leo’s or elsewhere. What I do care about more than anything else in the world is this man standing before me. Instead of responding, I ask the one question I swore I never would. The one question that strips me bare. The one that requires the truth from him. A truth I fear because I know he’ll give it, no-hold
s-barred, and I have no idea what it will be.
“Do you love me, Tomasetti?”
He’s not an easy man to read, but I perceive surprise in the way his eyes dart away, in the way he shifts his weight away from me, as if there’s a part of him that would like nothing more than to slink back into the darkness and not deal with this. With me. But it’s too late to take back the words.
“You know I do,” he tells me.
“Actually, I don’t know or I wouldn’t have asked. Sometimes you say things, and I’m not sure you mean them.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Kate.”
“You haven’t lied. But you haven’t been completely honest, either.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means we’ve been dancing around some issues we need to deal with.”
When he says nothing, I feel the blood leave my head. A physical reaction that takes me a moment to identify. I’m scared, I realize. I’m afraid I’m not handling this the right way. That I’m going to say something wrong. That we’re going to somehow blow what we have and he’s going to walk away.
“Tomasetti, there’s a part of you that you refuse to share with me. A part you keep tucked away, unavailable. That’s not honest.”
“I told you about my past. I told you what I did. I told you I wasn’t going to be easy.”
“I don’t care about easy.”
He shrugs. “That’s the best I can do right now.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want all of you. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“I’m not sure what we’re talking about here.”
“I don’t want to share you with them anymore.” Taking a step closer, I press my hand to my chest. “I’ll never rate and I’m not sure I’ll ever garner the kind of love you had for them.”
“That’s not true,” he says with some heat.
“I’m sorry you lost them. I’m sorry they were hurt and your life was devastated. But they’re gone now, and I’m here. I’m alive and I want to build a life with you. You have to choose.”
At first I think he’s going to turn around and walk away. Instead, he rounds the table and starts toward me. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t give me a clue as to what he’s thinking or feeling. His eyes are level on mine, but I don’t know if he’s going to rail against the words I’ve just thrown at him—or admit they’re true. My heart is like a drum against my ribs. My head feels light, a head rush from standing too fast. Sweat slicks the back of my neck and palms. For a crazy instant, I consider turning around and running out the door and into the night. But the intellectual side of my brain reminds me of what’s at stake. However it turns out, I need to finish it.
He touches my arms first, his fingers wrapping around my biceps. Then he’s pushing me backwards, one step, two. My back hits the doorframe, the knob bumping my hip with so much force that the picture on the wall rattles.
His eyes lock with mine. In the depth of his gaze, I see a jumble of emotions, none of which I can read. The kiss that follows isn’t gentle. Yet I sense the fragility of the moment, something intangible slipping from my grasp even as something else settles more securely inside me.
“You’re wrong,” he tells me.
“Prove it.”
As he lowers his mouth to mine, I experience a fleeting sense of defeat followed by the realization that I’m no longer in control of the situation—or my life. That maybe I haven’t been for a long time and I was a fool to believe I could maintain that grasp. It stuns me to realize I’m willing to accept that. For the first time in my life, I’ve relinquished my heart and given someone else the power to hurt me. The thought terrifies me because I know there’s a part of him I don’t trust not to do just that.
CHAPTER 19
Sleep is a precious commodity in the course of any homicide investigation, mainly because the first forty-eight hours are so crucial in terms of solving the case. I know better than to allow the things going on in my personal life to interfere with my job. But I have a feeling I’m not the first cop to let it happen anyway. Luckily, I’m pretty good at operating on little sleep and staying focused when I have other issues zinging around inside my head.
Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night, not in terms of talking, anyway. We didn’t broach any of the topics I brought up. I didn’t ask for some magic solution and he offered none. We didn’t even talk about the case—and I would have very much appreciated his insights. Despite all of that, this morning I’m feeling optimistic that the kinks we’ve encountered will smooth out. I’m going to have to trust him and I’m going to have to be patient. Neither of those things comes naturally to me, so I’m going to have to work on them.
It’s 7 A.M., and I’m already buzzed on coffee and in that mental zone I find myself in when I’m embroiled in a case. In addition to the two homicides, I’ve been unable to account for Jerrold McCullough for nearly twenty-four hours. It’s possible he became frightened and left town. But I have a bad feeling in my gut.
Questions and scenarios pummel my brain as I climb into the Explorer. Ten minutes later, I’m on the gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek, heading toward McCullough’s place. I slow for the bridge, and I’m dismayed to see that the water is just a foot from the center span. There aren’t many homes in this area, but if any more rain falls, the road will be under water.
I park next to McCullough’s Riviera and cut the engine. I can see his house from where I’m sitting. The porch light is on, but there are no lights on inside. I hail Mona on the radio.
“I’m ten twenty-three Jerrold McCullough’s place.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Will you do me a favor and call the mayor. Tell him I think we’re going to have some flooding out here and we should probably put out some kind of bulletin to let folks know.”
“Will do.” She pauses. “Glock just brought in doughnuts. Do you want me to save you one?”
“That’s affirm.” Smiling, I get out.
The first thing I’m aware of is the roar of the water from behind the house. Painters Creek is usually a meandering stream with deep fishing holes and shallow crossings where the water trickles over rocks. This morning it’s latte brown and swollen to three times its normal size. The rain has stopped, but the sky to the west is black and ominous looking, telling me there’s more on the way. What I wouldn’t do for just one day of sunshine …
I pause to look through the driver’s-side window of the Riviera. I see a pile of magazines in the backseat. A Coke can on the floor. A Netflix movie that probably needs to be dropped at the post office. I take the same path Glock and I took last night, hopping between pieces of plywood and chunks of concrete to avoid the mud. I reach the porch and knock hard on the storm door. “Jerrold McCullough! It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Come to the door, please. I need to speak with you!”
I shout the words not only to be heard above the roar of water, but because it’s still early and I know there’s a possibility McCullough is asleep. That would be a best-case scenario. I don’t believe he came home last night. I don’t believe he’s here now. I knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Upon his arrival yesterday, Glock found the door open. But for security reasons, we locked it when we left.
When there’s no answer, I brave the mud and go around to the rear of the house. I pause at the living room window, cup my hands and try to see inside. But the curtains are pulled tight, so I continue around.
The sight of the creek gives me pause. The water has encroached thirty feet into the yard, swirling amid mammoth tree trunks, carrying debris—logs and branches and trash—as it rushes toward its end journey to Sugar Creek and the Tuscarawas River. And I know in my heart there’s no way McCullough would have left when flooding is a threat to his home. He’s an I’m-going-down-with-the-ship type, even if we’d called for a mandatory evacuation.
&nb
sp; “Jerrold McCullough! Police Department!”
I look out across the water. Fifty feet away, a good-size log is jammed against a stand of trees that, so far, have withstood the force of the current. The branches have captured a sizeable amount of debris: leaves and brush and what looks like an old tire. Nearer, the wooden deck is inches from being completely submerged now. When the creek is at normal levels, the deck is twenty feet from the bank and the perfect place to lounge in a chair with a book or maybe barbecue brats and burgers. I know it won’t be long before the torrent gobbles it up and sends it downstream. I’m about to head back to the Explorer, when I notice something pale bobbing just beneath the surface a foot or two off the deck, and I get a bad feeling in my gut.
I edge closer to the water for a better look. The ground is muddy and slick and I know that even shallow rushing water can knock someone off their feet. I stop inches from the water’s edge and crane my head forward. The bad feeling augments to a hard rush of adrenaline when I see a pale face and silver flowing hair inches beneath the surface.
“Shit!” I stumble back at the grisly sight, slip in the mud, and end up on my ass.
Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grapple for my lapel mike. “Ten fifty-two.”
“Go ahead.”
“Adult male. In the water. Submerged.”
“You still at the McCullough place?”
“That’s affirm.”
“Fire and rescue’s on the way, Chief.”
The preservation of life is always the first priority in any emergency situation. But I know it’s too late for the paramedics to help. The victim is completely submerged, and I know that soon I’ll be dealing with a dead body. Worse, I’m pretty sure the victim is Jerrold McCullough.
CHAPTER 20
Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at 10 A.M. and headed directly to northbound I-77. Without the hindrance of rush hour traffic, he arrived at the Cuyahoga County Corrections Center in less than thirty minutes. Inmate visitation is designated by sex and last name, but Tomasetti had obtained special permission for today’s visit. It didn’t hurt that he’d gone to the police academy with the associate warden, who’d cleared it through director of corrections. He wasn’t above using his connections to get what he wanted.
The Dead Will Tell Page 15