I grab the phone. “Yeah,” I croak.
“Chief, sorry to wake you, but I got a ten-seventy out at the Hartzler place.”
That’s the code for a fire. I sit up. “Anyone hurt?”
“Ed Hartzler is missing.”
“Shit.” I fumble for my robe, shrug into it. “Fire department en route?”
“I called them straight away.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.”
Dropping the phone into its cradle, I rush to the closet, fling open the door, yank the light cord.
“What is it?”
I turn and see Tomasetti’s silhouette. In the dim light slanting into the room from the closet, I see him walking toward me. A small thrill races down my spine when I realize he’s still naked. We’ve been together like this a dozen times now, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing him without his clothes.
Stupidly, I avert my gaze, turn back to the closet. “Fire,” I say.
He comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Bending, he kisses me on the neck. “Does the chief of police show up for every fire?”
I turn toward him, still intent on getting to the scene. But before I realize what I’m going to do, I lean into him, press my mouth to his. As if of their own accord, my arms go around his neck. He kisses me back, and my head begins to spin. God, I think, and pull away. “It’s an Amish farm.” Still stunned from the kiss, I blink at him. “We’ve got one missing.”
In an instant, he transforms from aroused male to cop. “Goddamn it.” He’s already rushing to the chair next to the bed where he draped his clothes.
We dress at a frantic pace, yanking on slacks and buttoning shirts, watching each other, wishing we’d had more time.
“You thinking the same thing I am?” I ask as I throw on my parka and head for the door.
“Yup.” Tomasetti grabs his trench coat on the way out. “Let’s hope we’re wrong.”
* * *
Ed Hartzler’s farm is located on Painters Creek Road. It’s one of the larger Amish farms in the area, spanning nearly a hundred acres of rolling hills, impenetrable forest, and a good part of the creek.
To keep any potential gossip to a manageable level, Tomasetti and I take separate vehicles. He follows me in his Tahoe. I drive well over the speed limit, but he doesn’t have a problem keeping up.
I see the orange glow of the fire from a mile away, and I know it’s bad. By the time I turn into the long gravel lane of the Hartzler place, I can see the flames shooting fifty feet into the air. The stink of smoke is thick, like wet ash in my mouth. Midway down the lane, three wild-eyed horses gallop past my vehicle.
Two fire trucks are in position and three firefighters hose the blaze. A buggy and two ambulances are parked haphazardly in the driveway a bit farther back from the barn. Several members of the Hartzler family, some of the children not much older than five or six years, have formed a chain and are passing buckets of water from the well to a smaller outbuilding to keep it from catching fire, as well.
I park out of the way, about thirty yards from the barn, but even from that distance I can feel the heat. The steady roar of the flames mingles with the rumble of the diesel engines of the fire trucks, forming a deafening chorus. I’m aware of Tomasetti parking behind me, but I don’t wait for him. I approach the nearest firefighter, who’s manning the water pump.
“Anyone hurt?” I ask.
“We still haven’t located Ed Hartzler. Family’s pretty upset.”
The fire crashes like a giant beast on a rampage. Timbers sizzle and crack. The flames are both hideous and beautiful as they consume the one hundred-year-old structure. “Do you guys need anything?”
“We’re good, Chief,” he says. “Coshocton County’s on the way.”
I leave him to his work. I stop next to Tomasetti, who’s standing a few feet back, and tell him about Hartzler.”
“Hope he’s not in there.”
“The barn is going to be a total loss.”
We turn to look at the human chain. The Hartzler family, still clad in pajamas and nightshirts, try desperately to save what looks like a chicken house. But with a fire this size, their efforts may be futile; nothing can save the structure if the fire chooses to devour it. I only hope Ed Hartzler isn’t inside the barn, because there’s no way anyone could survive.
I start toward the family. I see a dozen faces, all of them red with tears and sweat and the cold. There are children and teenagers, a skinny old man, and a pregnant woman. I’ve met Ed and his wife, Sarah, several times over the years. Twenty years ago, I went to school with Sarah. They have a big, extended family, including at least one set of grandparents. As I take in their frightened faces, all I can think is that this isn’t going to end well.
For a moment, I consider jumping in and helping them carry water, but the effort is so futile, I decide against it. Instead, I approach Sarah Hartzler. She’s in the middle of the chain. Her face is shiny and wet. She wears a white nightgown that’s smudged with dirt and soaked with water at the hem. Judging from the size of her abdomen, she’s at least six months pregnant.
“Sarah.” I say her name twice before she looks at me. I can tell she doesn’t want to stop lugging water. But the skinny old man, the grandparent, I realize, walks over to her. “Sarah, we will haul the water. Go with Katie. Try to get some rest.”
“No, Papa.…”
Momentarily breaking the chain, he takes her hand and guides her toward the back porch of the house. Tomasetti and I trail behind them, not speaking. The old man stops at the concrete porch steps and orders her to sit. “You rest now. We’ll see to the fire.”
Sarah collapses onto the step.
The old man turns to me, his expression grave. Knowing he wants to talk to me out of earshot of his daughter, I walk several feet away and he follows.
“Ed was in the barn,” he tells me, watching the flames. “Our mare was about to foal, so he took a blanket and slept out there. He thought it would be tonight.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes the sweat and soot from his forehead. “Ed got the horses out. He went back in for the milk cows, but I didn’t see him come back out. No one can find him.”
I hit my lapel mike and order all available men to the scene for a search of the area surrounding the barn. When I look at the old man, I realize we both fear it’s too late for his son-in-law. “Any idea how the fire started?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Ed is very careful with the lanterns.”
“Did you see anything?”
He gives me a look that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up. “I keep my bedroom window open. Something woke me. When I looked out the window, I saw the flames. Katie, I saw two people running from the barn.”
False hope skitters wildly through me. “Edward?”
He grimaces. “At first, I thought so. I called out.” His hand trembles when he raises the kerchief to his face. “One of them turned and looked at me, but they kept on running. They were Englischers.”
He says the word with a hefty note of distaste. “Did you recognize them?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did you see their faces? Their clothes? Can you give me a description?” The questions tumble out of me too quickly.
The old man takes it in stride, shakes his head again. “It was too dark. They were running too fast. All I could think about was Ed.…” He lowers his head.
Behind me, I’m aware of Sarah crying openly now. “Where’s Edward?” she sobs. “Someone find him.”
She knows, I think, and suddenly I’m furious. Another family shattered on my watch: eight children left fatherless, a young Amish widow forced to raise them alone. I can’t prove it yet, but after hearing what the old man had to say, I’m convinced this was no accident. The hate crimes have officially crossed over into murder.
I look at him and something twists inside me. He looks broken and old. Too hollowed out inside to even shed a tear. I watch him walk away to join t
he others in the water chain. Deeply troubled, I drift back to Tomasetti and Sarah. The woman holds her swollen abdomen with one hand, wipes the tears from her face with the other. I don’t know for a fact yet that this is arson. I don’t even know for certain that Ed Hartzler is dead. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that’s probably the way this is going to play out.
I get on the radio and tell Glock and Skid about the two men the elder Hartzler saw leaving the scene. “Keep an eye out for tracks. If you find anything, preserve it.”
“Roger that.”
I spend ten minutes on the phone with the sheriff’s office and the fire marshal. When I run out of productive things to do, I look at Tomasetti.
He crosses to me, his expression unreadable. “There’s a CSU on the way.”
“I’ll have the area cordoned off.” I grind out the words, only a fraction of my attention on Tomasetti. I’m furious and in no condition to speak to a man I just slept with. The emotions inside me are too ugly, and I don’t want to mix them up with the intimacies we shared just hours before. “If they find Ed Hartzler dead…” Too angry to finish, I let the words trail.
“Working yourself into a lather isn’t going to help.”
“Telling me how not to feel isn’t going to help, either.”
“I just want you to keep your head.”
“I’m not like you, Tomasetti. I can’t just turn off my emotions when they’re inconvenient.”
“Is that what I do?”
Knowing I’m being unreasonable, and needing some space, I walk away. I make it only a few feet before he stops me. I spin to face him. “I’m too pissed to talk about this right now,” I tell him.
His hand drops away from my shoulder, reminding me that less than an hour ago I was sleeping naked beside him. “We don’t even know if we’re dealing with arson yet, Kate.”
“Bullshit. I know what this is, and so do you.”
Sighing, he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks toward the barn. I watch the fire, willing my temper to cool. Yellow flames lick at the night sky, sending out a strange orange glow. The fire has died down some, but the roof has caved in. The structure is a total loss. From where I stand, I can hear the hiss of steam from the water. I smell the stink of burning wood and manure and something darker I don’t want to think about.
“I’m not going to let them get away with this,” I say.
Tomasetti nods. “Was the old man able to give you a description?”
“No.” I want to hit something. There’s nothing handy, so I kick the ground with the toe of my boot. “Damn it.”
The sky chooses that moment to open up and a cold black rain pours down. Tomasetti and I look up, cursing not because of the water pouring down our collars, but because we know the rain will destroy much of whatever evidence the arsonists left behind.
* * *
It’s just after noon, and I’m sitting in my office sucking down coffee, wishing I had a clean change of clothes because the ones I’m wearing reek of smoke. I’m wishing even more fervently that I’d gotten a decent night’s sleep. Tomasetti, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spent seven wet and cold hours at the Hartzler farm. The CSU and fire marshal were on-site when I left. The firefighters had begun the task of combing through the rubble. I’m praying Ed Hartzler shows up, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they find his body—what’s left of it anyway.
Earlier, I put a call in to the Connersville, Indiana, Police Department to check out Mose’s story about his parents’ accident. The officer I spoke with hadn’t lived there very long, but he said he’d check the records and call me back. Next, I contacted the Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office to see what I could find out about Abel Slabaugh. I spoke to a young deputy sheriff by the name of Howard, who basically didn’t know shit about Abel Slabaugh or any of the Amish. He was, however, familiar with the bishop, a man he knew only as Smucker. He didn’t know if Smucker had a phone, but offered to drive out to the bishop’s farm to put me in touch. I’m not holding my breath.
I’d barely hung up the phone when I received a call from Ricky Coulter’s attorney, threatening to sue the township if his client wasn’t released within the hour. I assured him we would either charge Coulter or cut him loose, but neither of those things would be happening within the hour.
And so I’m sitting here, smelling of smoke, exhausted, waiting for official word on Edward Hartzler. Outside my window, the rain has transformed to snow. The wind has picked up and the flakes stick to the glass like glitter to glue, obscuring my view. Through the open door of my office, I hear Lois at the switchboard, arguing with some journalist wanting information on the Slabaugh case. My money’s on Lois.
The Slabaugh family has been dead for over forty-eight hours now. The case is growing cold, and I’m no closer to knowing who did it now than I was when I walked into that barn and found them dead in the manure pit.
My phone jangles, startling me. Expecting some pushy young reporter—or the fire marshal’s office—I glance down at the display. I see Tomasetti’s name and snatch it up, hoping for good news. “Yeah.”
“You sound like how I feel.”
“It’s comforting to know someone else is as miserable as I am.”
“Glad I could help.” He pauses. “Ed Hartzler is dead, Kate. One of the firefighters found his body twenty minutes ago.”
I close my eyes, surprised by the hard twist of dread in my gut. “Damn it.”
“Looks like one of the big timbers fell on him. Probably knocked him unconscious.”
Or pinned him, I think. Images fly at me. A man trapped, screaming, as the flames cook him alive … Rising abruptly, I grab my parka off the back of my chair. “I’m going to go talk to the family.”
“I already did.”
The words stun me. Notifying next of kin is one responsibility I have never delegated, never shirked in any way. That Tomasetti would do that for me brings forth an unwanted rush of emotion so strong that for a moment I can’t speak.
“Kate? You okay?”
I clench my jaws, stave off the tears waiting at the gate. “How’s his wife?”
“You know. Pretty broken up. But her father’s with her. He was going to try to get the bishop out there.”
“Damn it, Tomasetti, I want this son of a bitch. I think I could kill him with my bare hands.”
“You might just get your chance,” he says. “I think we might have our first break.”
“Solid?” I’m almost afraid to get my hopes up.
“CSU found a can of Skoal at the scene. Hasn’t been there long.”
“Amish kids have been known to sneak dipping tobacco.”
“We questioned them separately and away from their parents. None of them claims the can. If we can lift some latents and we get a hit, we might have a name.”
Mentally, I shift gears, grasp hold of the last shred of optimism. “How long will that take?”
“We couriered it to the lab. Maybe late this afternoon if I call in some favors.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
“You know I will.”
“Any prints on the rifle?” I ask.
“Not even a smudge.”
“Someone was being careful.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Glock get anything on the dark pickups?”
“He’s still working on it. Nothing yet.” The phone jingles again. I look down and see all four lines blinking. “I’ve got to go.”
“You want to grab some lunch later?” he asks.
“I’d like that.” I end the call and hit the first blinking light. “Burkholder.”
“Katie.” It’s Bishop Troyer, and his usually unflappable voice is harried. “Mose has been injured.”
Concern steamrolls over me. “What happened?”
“One of the Slabaugh boys rode the horse over to my place. He was very upset. He says Mose has been beaten.”
“Beaten?” The news jolts me. “How badly is he hurt?”
“I
do not know.”
“Who did it?”
“I do not know. I’m on my way there. I thought you should know.”
My mind spins through what I’ve just heard. “What was he doing at the Slabaugh place, Bishop?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.
“I do not know.” I can tell by the guilt in his voice that the bishop knows exactly why Mose was there. “He must have left when I was in town earlier.”
A hundred questions pound at my brain, but there’s no time to ask them now. “I’m on my way.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
CHAPTER 14
My tires send snow flying when I turn into the lane of the Slabaugh farm. The Explorer fishtails when I hit the gas, but I cut the wheel hard, and I don’t slow down until the house is in sight. As I ran out the door of the station, I asked Lois to call for an ambulance. To my dismay, it’s not here yet. Bishop Troyer’s buggy is nowhere in sight; evidently, he hasn’t arrived yet, either.
Jamming the Explorer into park, I fling open the door and hit the ground running. I sprint to the house and burst inside without knocking. Ike and Samuel meet me in the mudroom.
“Chief Katie!” Samuel cries. “Mose is hurt!”
“He’s all bloody.” Ike clings to his older brother’s shirt, crying. “He’s gonna die just like Mamm and Datt.”
“No one’s going to die,” I tell him.
“But what if he does?” Ike whines.
“Where is he?” Even as I bark out the question, I move past them into the kitchen.
Mose sits slumped in a chair, his elbows on the table. His shirt hangs like a war-torn flag on the back of his chair. I see blood, stark and red against white skin. I wince upon spotting the pink-purple stripes on his back and shoulders. He looks at me, and I steel myself against a recoil. His lip looks like a fat, purple worm that’s been nearly chopped in half by some mean kid. His left eye is swollen. There’s more blood on his chest. Someone worked him over good.
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