After the Storm (21 page)

I speak into my mike. “I got it,” I say, letting Jodie know I’ve found the location of the accident.

“Roger that. County’s ten-seventy-nine.”

I’m watching for movement, keeping an eye on the ditches on both sides of the road, doing about forty miles per hour, when a hole the size of my thumb blows through my windshield. At first I think I’ve struck a bird or an owl. But a second hole tears through the glass. A chunk of the dash hits the bridge of my nose, cutting me. Pain in my face. A thousand silver capillaries spread across the glass in every direction. Then the telltale
thwack! thwack!
of gunshots. The passenger window shatters. Glass pelts me. In my hair. Down the front of my uniform shirt.

I yank the wheel right. Stand on the brake. My headlights play over tall grass. The Explorer bumps over the shoulder. I glimpse a tumbling fence. The tree comes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard but not fast enough to avoid it. The impact throws me against my shoulder belt. The airbag explodes, hitting me in the chest like a giant fist.

For a moment I’m too dazed to move. My brain is cross firing. An engine working on one cylinder. I blink, try to get my bearings. The hood is buckled. There are two bullet holes in the glass. I raise my hand, but it’s shaking so violently I can barely get to my shoulder mike. “Shots fired.” I’d intended to shout the warning, but my voice is little more than groan. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-thirty-three.”

The radio snaps and crackles with renewed vigor. I unfasten my seat belt. Free myself of the deflated airbag. I see blood on the white fabric. I’m aware of pain in my face. I don’t know if I’ve been shot.

Using my left hand, I try to open the door, but it’s jammed. I press the window button, but it doesn’t work. I crawl over the console. The passenger door won’t open, so I slither through the window. Broken glass slices my left palm. I’m midway through, when it dawns on me that I have no idea where the shooter is. That I’m vulnerable here and not sure I have cover.

Then I’m through the window. I hit the ground hands-first. My elbows collapse. My shoulder plows into the ground. I roll and then I’m sprawled in grass that’s wet with dew. “Shit.”

Sirens wail in the distance. Crickets all around. The hiss of steam coming from beneath the hood. I get to my knees, draw my revolver. Then I’m crouched in the ditch. The road’s shoulder provides scant cover, so I stay low. The three-quarter moon provides just enough light for me to see that whatever vehicle or buggy I’d seen earlier is gone.

Headlights wash over me. Blue and red emergency lights glint off the canopy of the tree I hit. I glance right to see a Holmes County Sheriff’s cruiser glide to a stop.

“Sheriff’s department! Identify yourself! Sheriff’s department!”

“Painters Mill PD!” I shout. “I got shots fired!”

A Holmes County deputy, crouched low and holding a Maglite, his weapon drawn, approaches me. “Where’s he at?”

“I don’t know.”

He approaches me, his eyes sweeping left and right. “Burkholder?”

“Yup.”

He tries the passenger door, hoping to use it for partial cover, but it won’t open, so he kneels next to me. “You okay?”

“Hell if I know.”

I start to get to my feet, but he sets a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa. You’re bleeding, Chief. There’s an ambulance on the way.” He gives my shoulder an awkward little pat. “You need to get yourself checked out,” he says, and then he speaks into his radio. “Ten-seven-eight.” Need assistance.

A second cruiser arrives. I discern the Painters Mill PD insignia just as T.J. throws open his door and, using it for cover, draws his weapon. “Chief! Where’s the shooter?”

“Unknown!” the deputy next to me calls out and speaks into his radio. “Suspect at large. We need a perimeter. Delisle Road. County Road Fourteen. Township Road Two. And Gaylord.”

Another Holmes County cruiser arrives, engine groaning as it flies past T.J.’s cruiser. The ambulance parks several yards behind T.J.’s cruiser. All the while, the radio burns up the airwaves as law enforcement from miles around converge on an unknown shooter.

“What happened?” the deputy asks.

Quickly, I relay everything I know. “The caller said my brother was in a buggy accident.” I hit my lapel mike. “Any sign of a buggy?” I say. “Casualties?”

“Negative.”

The deputy and I exchange looks.

“Chief?”

I look past him to see T.J. trotting up to us. His stride falters when he spots my Explorer against the tree. “Shit.” Then he’s kneeling next to me. His eyes widen when he gets a better look at my face. “You hit? You’re bleeding pretty good.”

“Piece of the dash caught me, I think.”

The deputy, still speaking into his radio, rises and goes to the front of the Explorer.

“You sure?” T.J. takes my arm as I get to my feet.

“I didn’t get shot in the head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You’ve got two bullet holes in your windshield.” The deputy approaches, his expression grim. “I don’t think he was aiming for the dash.”

T.J. blinks at me. “Any idea who it was?”

I shake my head. “No clue.”

The deputy curses. “We got no sign of the shooter. The son of a bitch booked. We’ll take a look around, see if we can find some brass and tire marks.” He turns his attention to me. “You get eyes on a vehicle? Lights? Anything?”

“I saw something. A vehicle or buggy. Then he started shooting.” I frown at the front of my vehicle. “Don’t know where that tree came from.”

The men’s laughter is interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics. I groan and the paramedic grins. “Don’t look so happy to see us.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I can tell by all the blood streaming down your face,” he says, unfazed by my resistance.

I’ve met him at some point. He’s competent and good-humored, and everyone calls him Fish. “Humor us, Chief. We’re kind of sensitive about rejection, you know.” Clucking his tongue, he frowns at the sight of my Explorer. “Anyone ever tell you you’re tough on vehicles?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Last time I wrecked one.”

He whistles. “Town council’s going to love you.”

“They already do,” I mutter, and I let myself be helped toward the waiting ambulance.

*   *   *

There are certain advantages to being the chief of police in a small town. Coffee on the house at LaDonna’s Diner. Free apple fritters at the Buckhorn Bakery. The occasional dinner or lunch that comes without a check. The generosity of local merchants is a benefit I never take for granted and rarely partake in. Tonight, however, I don’t argue when the doc at Pomerene Hospital gets me in and out of the ER quickly. I assure him I didn’t hit my head or lose consciousness, but like most medical professionals, he’s a stickler about the possibility of a traumatic brain injury, so they send me to radiology for a CAT scan. Then it’s down to the lab for blood work. A young nurse cleans the cut on the bridge of my nose, deeming it superficial and predicting two black eyes before butterflying it and leaving me with instructions for an ice pack and Tylenol.

I’ve reached for my phone a dozen times to call Tomasetti, but I haven’t yet made the call. I tell myself I’m too busy trying to stay abreast of the search for the as-yet-unidentified shooter. Besides, a few bruises don’t warrant getting him out of bed at one o’clock in the morning … do they?

It’s not until I’m alone in the ER, waiting to be released, when the seriousness of the incident hits home. An unknown individual fired at least four shots into my vehicle. I could have been killed. Was it random? Would the shooter have fired at
any
vehicle that happened to be driving down that particular road at that particular time? Were they targeting law enforcement? Or were they hell-bent on shooting me?

I’m sitting on a gurney, wearing a gown that looks as if it’s been washed in a wood chipper, when I hear voices in the corridor outside the ER, and I think:
Shit.
I’d known the sheriff’s department and SHP and about a hundred other agencies would want to talk to me about the incident. I’d only hoped to be out of here and dressed when it happened. There are few things that are quite so unnerving as talking to a bunch of guys when you’re half-naked.

I glance down at my bare legs and feet. “Damn it.” Snatching up the sheet at the foot of the gurney, I quickly snap it open and drape it over my legs.

“Chief? Knock-knock.”

Sheriff Mike Rasmussen’s voice calls out to me from behind the curtain. I roll my eyes and then paste a smile to my face. “I’m right here.”

The curtain is shoved aside. Looking none too happy, the ER nurse offers me a commiserating frown as she walks the curtain around its track, opening my previously private space. “You have visitors,” she says, handing me an ice pack. “I’ll go check on your paperwork.”

The sheriff is flanked by Glock and, of course, Tomasetti. The three men are staring at me, and I resist the urge to pull the blanket up to my chin. Instead, I look directly at Tomasetti and say, “I was just dialing your number.”

“Uh-huh.” Neither the tone of his voice or his expression give away his frame of mind, but I see him studying the bandage on the bridge of my nose. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. No stitches. CAT scan is fine.” I shrug, trying not to wince because my shoulder hurts. “Kind of pissed about the Explorer, though.”

“I put a call in to the mayor.” Glock grins. “I figure I’d save you the headache and break the news.”

I smile back. “You enjoy provoking Auggie.”

“I’ll take the fifth on that.”

Rasmussen clears his throat. “You feel up to answering a few questions, Kate?”

I nod. “Did you get him?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “He beat it out of there quick.”

“Did you find anything at the scene?” I ask. “Brass? Tire tread?”

“A single .22 casing.” Rasmussen nods at Tomasetti. “We brought in BCI. I don’t know if they’ll assign John the case.…” His voice trails as if he’s not exactly sure how to end it. “You know, personal relationships and all.”

The sheriff knows we’re involved; I’m pretty sure he knows we’re living together, too. I don’t, however, know if Tomasetti has communicated either of those things to his superiors at BCI. If he has, he won’t be working this case.

“Even if I’m not officially assigned,” Tomasetti says, “I can help expedite things, cut through some of the red tape.”

“We appreciate that.” Rasmussen turns his attention to me. “Kate, I know you’ve already been through this half a dozen times. Can you do it one more time for us? Take us through everything that happened this evening?”

“I was on my way to my house in town,” I begin, thinking of the fight I’d had with Tomasetti, “and dispatch called, telling me my brother, Jacob, had been in a buggy accident out on County Road Fourteen.” I look from Tomasetti to Glock. “There wasn’t an accident, was there?”

Glock shakes his head. “No accident. And no sign a buggy had been there. Your brother was home and didn’t know anything about it.”

“Do you know who called it in?” Rasmussen says.

“Dispatch said the call came in from the Amish pay phone on Hogpath,” I tell them.

“We’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything,” he tells me.

“One thing we do know,” Tomasetti says, “is that whoever made the call wanted you out there, Kate. This wasn’t random.”

“Or they wanted a
cop
out there,” I say. “Maybe any cop would’ve sufficed.”

“They mentioned your brother specifically,” he points out. “They used that information to lure you out there.”

“CR Fourteen is pretty remote,” Glock puts in. “Not many houses. Lots of trees.”

“Perfect place for an ambush.” Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face.

I spend fifteen minutes taking them through everything that happened, from the moment I arrived on the scene until the Holmes County deputy showed up.

When I’m finished, the sheriff asks, “Do you have any idea what kind of vehicle was parked on the road?”

I shake my head. “I’m not even one hundred percent sure there
was
a vehicle. It was dark. All I really saw was the glint of something up ahead. I think it was my headlights shining off the hood or windshield. But I didn’t get a good look at it.”

Tomasetti glances at Rasmussen. “You’re aware that Kate, the police department, and the township of Painters Mill were recently sued, correct? It’s a contentious case.”

“There’s motive for you,” Glock says. “Sounds like something that fuckin’ Kester would pull.”

Rasmussen nods. “I’ll get someone out there to talk to Kester and his wife. Roll their asses out of bed.”

“You might talk to Paula Kester’s father, too,” I tell him.

“A lot of animosity from all three of them,” Tomasetti says.

Nodding, Rasmussen turns his attention back to me. “Any other disputes or arguments you’ve been involved in? I mean, as chief?” He clears his throat. “Or your personal life? Neighbors? Anything like that?”

It feels strange to be the recipient of such questions. Usually I’m the one asking them. “No.”

“You piss off anyone in the course of your job?” he asks. “Maybe someone doesn’t like the way you handled something? Got pissed off about a ticket?”

“Not recently.” I say the words lightly, but no one laughs. “The only other case I’m working on is the remains that were discovered under that barn,” I tell him.

“Foul play involved?” the sheriff asks.

“It’s possible, but we’re not sure yet. We don’t have a cause or manner of death. But I’ve been asking questions.”

“To whom?”

I list the names and give the spellings. “Vern and Sue Nolt. Rachel Zimmerman. Clarence Underwood. Abigail and Jeramy Kline. The Amish women at the sewing shop in town.” I go on to tell him about the possibility that domestic hogs were involved in the man’s death.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.
“Hogs?”

“Figure that one out,” Glock says.

“We have no way of knowing if it was a freak accident, if he fell into the pen and was killed by the animals or if someone pushed him,” I tell them. “But even if it was an accident, from all indications, it looks like someone made an effort to conceal the remains.”