But I’m in no condition to go back inside. I can’t face my team. I’m too raw. Too far gone. Already over that precipice and tumbling down the mountain. I know Tomasetti will take care of any evidence that needs to be sent to the lab. The paperwork can wait until in the morning. Climbing into my Explorer, I back blindly onto the street and head for the nearest haven I can find.
CHAPTER 21
I find refuge at McNarie’s Bar. I didn’t know where I was going until I turned into the gravel lot. It’s the last place I ought to be. Not only am I the chief of police and still in uniform, but I’m in no frame of mind to be anywhere near alcohol. Or other living creatures. I suspect Tomasetti might be out looking for me, so I park in the rear lot, out of sight.
I’m not a self-destructive person. I learned that lesson at a relatively young age. But at some point during the drive from the police station to the bar, I stopped thinking. I stopped being reasonable. I stopped being so goddamn responsible. Sometimes none of those things make a damn bit of difference. Just look at the Planks.
It’s seven P.M. when I walk in the front door. Happy hour has given way to the pool players and football-game watchers and the guys that just want to get out of the house for a little peace and quiet. It’s another kind of peace I’m shooting for tonight.
I go directly to the small booth at the rear. The one in the corner where the tulip light is burned out and the only people who pass by are the ones heading into the alley for a snort or into the restroom because they’ve had too much to drink. I suspect McNarie keeps that corner dark on purpose.
An old Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song rattles from the jukebox as I settle in, facing the door. McNarie doesn’t make me wait. He sets a bottle of Absolut, a shot glass and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table in front of me. “You need the glass or are you going to drink straight from the bottle?”
“Better go with the glass,” I say. “Don’t want to start any rumors about the chief of police seeking solace in a bottle.” The fact that my state of mind is so obvious disturbs me.
I reach for my wallet, but McNarie stops me. “This one’s on the house, Chief.” He sets a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Bic next to the bottle.
“You don’t have to—”
“I just heard you got the fucker responsible for killing that family. Nice work.”
If only it were that simple. I thank him anyway, figuring I can make good with the tip.
He stares at me a moment, nods once. That’s all. No questions. No morbid curiosity to sate. No phony concern. No lectures. McNarie is one of the reasons I come here. He lets me be. Tonight, I appreciate that more than he could know.
I break the seal before he even reaches the bar. By the time he picks up his towel and glass and resumes drying, I’ve already poured. The first shot goes down badly, makes me shudder, but then they always do. The second shot is easier. The third slides down my throat like liquid gold.
Brooding over a case is a counterproductive use of time for a cop. I should be feeling celebratory. A mass murderer is dead. A sort of primal justice has been served. I should be whooping it up with the guys. Slapping them on the back for putting in the hours and getting the job done. They should be here with me, toasting the death of a predator. Then I think of the Plank family and it hits me again that none of this can be undone.
Or maybe it’s not the case at all that’s bothering me. Maybe it’s my own past that haunts me tonight. Maybe I’ve finally acknowledged all those jagged parallels between myself and Mary Plank. Parallels I didn’t want to see. Things I thought were buried, but will never really die.
I’m midway through my first cigarette when I see Tomasetti come through the door. He looks out of place here with the words big city cop written all over him. He’s got attitude and style with a little bit of bad-ass thrown in. Most cops dress like slobs. Suiting up is one of many things Tomasetti does well. The charcoal suit looks custom; the color plays nicely off the five-o’clock shadow. Pale blue shirt. Expensive tie. He holds his ground for a moment while his eyes adjust to the dim interior. His expression shifts when he spots me. I stare back, feeling busted, not sure if I’m pleased that he’s here or annoyed because my zen of misery has been interrupted.
He makes his way to the booth and slides in across from me. I smoke, watching him, wishing I hadn’t drank that third shot. An alcohol-fuzzed brain is a huge disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Tomasetti. He can be unpredictable and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m in no shape to deal with either.
“I guess it would be stupid for me to ask how you found me,” I begin in way of greeting.
He catches McNarie’s eye and gestures toward the shot glass. “I went by your house first.”
“Not many places to hide out in this town.”
“I guess the real question is why you’re hiding.”
I’m saved from having to answer when McNarie sets down a fresh shot glass, a second beer, and hustles back to the bar.
Tomasetti fills both shot glasses and downs his in a single gulp.
“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” I say.
“I have, for the most part.” He smiles down at his glass. “Just not tonight. But then this isn’t about me, Kate.”
Since I’m the last person I want to talk about, I say nothing.
Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Your guys are wondering what’s up with you.” He sets down the glass. “I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”
“It was a tough case.”
“It’s over. You did a good job. The whole department did.”
“The Planks are still dead. Those girls were still tortured.”
“Kate.” A thin layer of impatience laces his voice. “You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s out of your control. You gotta let go or it will drive you nuts.”
Even though my brain warns me away from more alcohol, I pick up the shot glass and drink it down. “I’m too hammered to talk about it.”
“Sometimes that’s the best time to talk.”
“Not for me.”
He turns thoughtful. “Is it because they were Amish?”
I take a moment to study my glass, realizing I’m not sure how to answer. How can I put my emotions into words that will make sense to this man who sees the world in stark black and white? I’m not sure I want to open that Pandora’s box because I don’t know what will come flying out.
“You’re probably the most levelheaded woman I’ve ever known,” he says. “Getting caught up like this isn’t like you.”
I look at him over the top of my beer. “More your style, isn’t it?”
He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Why don’t we save my analysis for next time?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t apologize. Honesty is one of the things I like about you.”
“I thought you liked my legs.”
“That, too.”
He gives me a half smile, and we sip our beers. The turmoil inside me eases. The silence becomes slightly more tolerable. Almost comfortable. He shatters it with his next question. “Is this about what happened to you seventeen years ago?”
My flinch is slight, but I know he saw it because his eyes sharpen. I can feel his gaze scratching at my shell, a predator trying to get to the soft meat inside.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“There are some parallels.”
I’m aware of my heart beating in my temples. The familiar clenching of my gut. It shocks me that even after all this time, talking about that day, about what happened—what I did—and the domino effect that followed, can shake me so profoundly. “Probably more than you know.”
“Is that something I should be able to figure out?”
I stare at my beer. At the shot glasses. The tabletop. Anywhere but at him. I know it’s stupid, but I feel if I look at him, he’ll know.
He waits with a patience that mak
es me want to splash my beer in his face. I light a second cigarette, inhaling deeply, punishing my lungs, taking my time. I don’t realize I’m going to say anything until I hear my own voice. “Two months after Daniel Lapp raped me, I found out I was pregnant.”
My own words shock me. It’s the first time I’ve spoken them aloud and they seem inordinately loud. I glance quickly around to make sure no one else heard, but the place is nearly deserted. The jukebox plays on. McNarie stands at the bar, watching the television, drying glasses with his dingy white towel. No one is looking my way. The earth didn’t move.
Tomasetti isn’t easily shocked, but I can tell by his expression this shocks him. He doesn’t know what to say.
“I had an abortion,” I say quickly. “I couldn’t . . . have it. Didn’t want it.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, Kate.”
“I never even considered having it. Not for one second. In the eyes of the Amish, that’s considered murder.”
“Not everyone sees it that way. Especially considering the circumstances.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”
“A lot of weight to carry around all these years.”
I smile at him. “You and I, we have strong shoulders, don’t we?”
“Probably a good thing.”
I look down at my bottle of beer. “When I read Mary Plank’s journal, she became a real person to me. An Amish girl with a heart full of hopes and dreams. I was her once. All that hope. So many dreams. But I was lucky. I got my future. She deserved the chance to live her life. Long killed her twice. First he killed her innocence, then he took her life.”
“This case brought it all back for you.”
“I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy or the abortion in years. I never let myself go there. Not even once.” I’m alarmed when tears threaten. They are a female cop’s worst enemy. One that can zap credibility faster than bad police work or sleeping around or both.
Because I can’t look at Tomasetti, I put my face in my hands and sigh. “I know that in the scope of things, it’s not important. It’s over. Ancient history. The Planks are dead. Mary is dead. Long is dead.”
“It’s important.” He slides his hand across the table.
For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to take my hand. I’m relieved when he only runs his fingertips over my forearm. Too much kindness from him at this moment would crumple me.
“But life goes on,” he says. “It’s an unstoppable force. That was the hardest thing for me to accept when Nancy and the girls were killed. It’s the living who are left to suffer. A hard truth, but that’s the way it is.”
“Tomasetti, you’re not making me feel any better.”
“What are friends for?”
I manage to give him a small smile. “You probably came here to get laid, and I blabbered all over you instead.”
His laugh is deep and throaty. I like the sound of it, realize he doesn’t do it often enough. And a flush spreads over me like warm oil. “Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.”
“Thanks for listening,” I say after a moment.
“I’m glad you told me.”
The bottle of Absolut sits half empty on the table between us. The jukebox has moved on to an old Neil Young rocker. I reach for the bottle and fill both shot glasses. There’s more to say, but we both know enough has been said for tonight.
Tomasetti picks up his glass. “Are we going to get drunk?”
“I think so.”
“You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”
I raise my drink. “Another thing we have in common.”
We slam back the vodka and set our glasses on the table with a little too much force. The alcohol runs like nitro through my blood now. I can feel it loosening my brain. A rusty faucet in my head breaking free, opening up.
“Do you think Long acted alone?” I ask after a moment.
He eyes me over the top of his beer. “Do you think there was someone else involved?”
“I don’t know. There seems to be a lot of loose ends.”
“What are you talking about specifically?”
I think about that for a moment. “How did one man subdue seven people? An entire family?”
“The Planks were Amish, Kate. They were pacifists. Maybe they didn’t fight back.”
“Sometimes the Amish do fight back. Instinct. Self-preservation.” I did.
“There’s no way they could have known what he had in mind. They probably thought he was going to rob them. Once he bound their hands, it was too late.”
“How did he film and kill them at the same time?”
“Tripod. You saw the marks in the floor.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going somewhere with this?”
“I don’t think Long did the murders alone.”
“We have no evidence to support an accomplice.”
“What if Long didn’t commit suicide?”
“How many shots have you had?”
“I’m serious. What if someone staged the scene to make it look like suicide?”
“And you’re basing that premise on what?”
“Gut.”
Tomasetti frowns. “Not very concrete.”
“I think it’s worth consideration.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Do you have someone in particular in mind?”
“James Payne. He’s certainly capable.”
“We don’t have shit on him. No connection to Long.”
“And what about Barbereaux? I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but his name came up twice in the course of the investigation. We were able to connect him to Mary through the shop. And then there’s the wine bottle.”
“Pretty loose connections. And circumstantial, by the way.”
“I think it warrants looking into.”
“Kate, Painters Mill is a small town. People’s lives intersect. Lots of young people hang out at Miller’s Pond and drink.”
“I don’t think Long was smart enough to produce pornographic videos and sell them online.”
“You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to sell pictures of underage girls on the Internet. Any scum with a modem and an IQ over ten can do it. It’s sort of a seller’s market.”
Even through the haze of alcohol, frustration climbs over me like a clingy little beast. “How do you feel about the snuff angle? Do you think it’s viable?”
“I think it’s a theory with nothing to back it up.”
We sit there, thinking for a full minute, then I ask, “Did you get anything on the Web site owners?”
“We got as far as the Philippines. We’re waiting for more info, but I’m not holding my breath. They’re cooperating, but it could take a while.”
I shake my head. “I can’t see Todd Long walking into that farm house and killing seven people. That takes a certain kind cold-bloodedness. Long was a scumbag, a manipulator, a rapist, but he was a follower. I don’t think he had that kind of bold in him.”
I can tell by the hard set of his mouth, the way he’s looking at me that Tomasetti doesn’t buy into my theory. “Let’s say you’re onto something,” he says. “How many people do you think were involved?”
“I think there was an accomplice.” I consider that a moment. “If the semen isn’t a match to Long, then we’ll know there was at least one other person involved. Any word on the results yet?”
“Lab says four to six days. I tried to push them, but they’re working under a backlog right now.”
I don’t want to wait that long, but of course I don’t have a choice. “I don’t believe Long is the man Mary wrote about in her journal.”
Tomasetti pins me with a doubtful look. “What makes you think that?”
I flush, embarrassed because I’m tossing out some pretty radical theories when I’ve had too much to drink. “In the video, even though she’s drugged, I see the revulsion on her face when she’s with Long. But the man she wrote about in the journal . . . she was in love with h
im. There’s a difference.”
He peels at the label on the beer bottle. “I’ll be honest with you, Kate. I think you’re in this too deep. I think you’re looking for things that aren’t there. Do yourself a favor and close the case.”
“The town council probably won’t give me much choice. If the tourists don’t come here, they’ll go to Lancaster County.”
“Ah, small town politics.” He shrugs. “If something changes, you can always reopen it.”
He’s right, but I say nothing. I’ll close the case. Officially, anyway. But I’ll keep looking. If I find out someone else was involved, I’m going to bring them to justice even if I have to mete it out myself.
I see Tomasetti struggling with something he wants to say, and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. “Are you going to let me drive you home?” he asks.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“I’ve missed you.”
For the first time, I’m thinking more about the man across from me than the case or my own woes. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the fact that we haven’t been together for two months, but I want to spend the night with him. I want to forget about everything else for just a little while.
“I’ve missed you, too.” I reach across the table and take his hand. “We’re going to be okay.”
“In that case,” he says, “let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 22
Tomasetti’s gone when I wake. That surprises me because I’m a light sleeper. But having gone without any measurable sleep for the last few days, I was exhausted. Or maybe I just sleep better when he’s beside me. The thought scares me a little bit.
He never says good-bye when he spends the night. The first couple of times it bothered me. Then I came to realize he doesn’t linger because neither of us is very good at the morning-after thing. We’re too cautious about revealing too much, laying too much of ourselves on the line, keeping all those dark secrets safe from a lover’s prying eyes.
He always seems to leave a small piece of himself behind. I still feel his presence in my bed, in the house, on my body, in my mind. The echo of his voice. His rare laugh. The lingering scent of his aftershave. The softness of his mouth. The urgent touch of a lonely man. This imprint of him stays with me for days sometimes. At first it was disconcerting, but I’ve grown to like it. Already, I find myself wondering when I’ll see him again.
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