A Hidden Secret (9 page)

I set down the phone and look around. “It’s right on top of us.”

“Behind us. Close, though.”

I swivel, look through the back window, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. Rain slams down from a black sky, close but not yet upon us.
It’s chasing us,
I think. Beyond, I can just make out the outline of a darker cloud on the ground, impossibly wide, and a quiver of fear moves through me. I look at Tomasetti. “Our place okay?” I ask.

“I think so.”

“Tomasetti, this thing’s going to get that mobile home park.”

“Probably.” Looking tense, he frowns at me. “No time, Kate.”

I want to argue. Tell him that if we hurry, we can make it. I can use the bullhorn. It’ll only take a few minutes. But I know he’s right. We’re out of time.

Instead, I rap my fist against the dash. “
Damn
it!”

We enter the corporation limits of Painters Mill doing sixty. Outside the vehicle, the emergency sirens blare, a sound that invariably raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The town has a hushed feel, as if it’s holding its breath in anticipation of violence. Paper, trash, and leaves skitter along the sidewalk and street, like small animals running for cover. Some of the shopkeepers along Main Street took the time to close the awnings to protect their windows. Judging from the size of the wall cloud, I don’t think it will help.

The sky opens as we fly past the city building. Through the curtain of rain, I spot Councilman Stubblefield dashing up the steps two at a time, wrenching open the door. Then the deluge of rain blinds us. The wipers are already cranked on high, but they’re useless. It’s as if we’ve driven into a bottomless body of water and we’re on our way to the murky depths.

“There’s Lois’s Caddy.”

I can barely make out the silhouette of her Cadillac parked in its usual spot. “Police radio is probably going nuts.”

The SUV skids to a stop beside the Caddy. “Hopefully she’s in the basement by now.” Tomasetti jams the vehicle into park, yanks out the key, and throws open the door.

Through the rain streaming down the windshield, I see a large plastic trash can tumble down the sidewalk. I shove open my door. The wind jerks it from my grip. Wind and rain slash my face with a ferocity that takes my breath. Grabbing the door, I slam it shut and sprint toward the station. The wind howls, harmonizing weirdly with the scream of the sirens. Hailstones hammer down hard enough to bruise skin. Tomasetti reaches the door first and ushers me inside.

I’m soaked to the skin, but I don’t feel the cold or wet. Lois stands at the dispatch station, headset askew, her expression frazzled. “Chief ! All hell’s breaking loose!”

“You okay?” I ask.

“Scared shitless. Never seen it like this.”

On the desktop in front of her, the radio hisses and barks with activity. The switchboard rings incessantly. On the shelf behind her, a weather radio broadcasts the latest warning from the National Weather Service.

“You got radar up anywhere?” Tomasetti asks as he strides to the dispatch station.

Lois motions to the computer monitor on her desk. “Been watching it for fifteen minutes now, and I swear it’s the scariest damn storm I’ve ever seen.”

“Flashlights?”

“There.” She indicates two Maglites on her desktop. “Batteries, too.”

I come up behind Tomasetti to look at the screen, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. A wide swath of magenta with the telltale “hook echo,” indicating rotation, hovers west of Painters Mill, moving ever closer with every blip of the heading flash.

“It’s almost on top of us,” I say.

“Worst of it’s to the south,” he counters.

“Lots of 911 calls coming in from that trailer park down there.” Lois thumbs a button on the switchboard, takes another call. “Yes, ma’am. We know. There’s a tornado on the ground. You need to take cover immediately in a storm shelter or your basement.” She pauses. “Then get into your bathtub and cover yourself with sofa cushions, a mattress, or blankets.” Pause. “Take your son with you. I know it’s scary. Get in the tub. Right now.” More incoming calls beep, but she shows no impatience.

I can’t stop thinking about that mobile home park. A lot of young families live out there. A lot of children. There are no basements. No storm shelters. No place to go.

A few years ago, I volunteered to help with the cleanup of Perrysburg, Ohio, which is about two hours northwest of Painters Mill, after an F2 tornado ripped through the township. There were no fatalities, but many serious injuries occurred, mostly to individuals who tried riding out the storm inside their mobile homes.

“Stay away from the windows,” Lois instructs the caller. “Put the older kids in the closet. Cover them with the mattress. Take the baby and get in the tub. Take care.”

Tomasetti looks away from the computer monitor. “Any way to forward 911 calls to the basement?”

“I can forward the switchboard to the extension down there.” Lois’s fingers fly over the buttons. “Done.”

“We need to take cover.” Tomasetti snaps his fingers at Lois. “Headset off. Now.” When she doesn’t comply fast enough, he eases it from her head and motions toward the hallway. “Let’s—”

The front window implodes. Glass flies inward. Lois yelps. Something large gets tangled in the blinds. The wind roars like a jet engine. Water soaks the floor instantly.

“Let’s go!” Tomasetti shouts, grabbing the weather radio.

Lois scrambles from her chair and dashes to the hall. I’m a few feet behind her with Tomasetti to my right. Around us the building shudders and creaks. Behind me I hear more glass breaking. The blinds flap wildly. We’re almost to the basement door, when we’re plunged into darkness. For an instant I’m blind, the meager light from outside unable to penetrate the shadows of the hall. Tomasetti flicks on a flashlight, shoves the other one into my hand. I turn it on, yank open the door. We descend the stairs, our feet muffled against the carpet.

The basement is a dank, dark room equipped with a single jail cell, a duty desk, and a couple of antiquated file cabinets. I shine my light on the desk, and Lois goes directly to the phone and snatches it up. “Dead,” she tells us.

I grapple for my cell and call Sheriff Mike Rasmussen on his personal number. He answers on the first ring.

“You guys okay up there?” I begin.

“Went to the south of us,” he says. “You?”

“Not sure yet. We’re in the basement. I think we’re going to take a direct hit.”

“You have access to radar?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s going to be damage, Kate. That damn thing’s half a mile wide and chewing up everything in its path.”

I tell him about the mobile home park. “I couldn’t get to them, Mike. If that park takes a direct hit, there are going to be casualties.”

“Pomerene and Wooster are on standby,” he tells me, referring to the two nearest hospitals. “Electric and gas companies are gearing up for power outages and gas leaks.” He sighs. “Soon as we’re in the clear, I’ll have my guys head down to that trailer park.”

“Thanks, Mike. We should be in the clear here in a few minutes.”

“Call if you need anything.”

I end the call and look at Tomasetti. He’s standing a few feet away, dividing his attention between me and his smartphone, watching the radar.

Above us, the ceiling rattles and groans. My ears pop, and I hear the ungodly roar of a train careening down rickety tracks. In the beam of my flashlight, dust motes fly, shaken loose by the vibration from above, and in the back of my mind I find myself hoping the building holds.

Tomasetti looks away from his phone and makes eye contact with me. I can tell by his expression the news isn’t good. “National Weather Service thinks it may have been an F3 that touched down to the west earlier.”

I recall the level of damage I’d seen in Perrysburg after that F2, and the knot of worry in my chest draws tight.

He crosses to me, his expression grim. “Do you have an emergency preparedness plan?” he asks.

“Of course we do.” Realizing I’m snapping at him when he’s just trying to help, I take a deep breath. “I should have thought of that.” I step away from him, work my phone from my pocket. “I’ll call the mayor.”

Auggie answers on the first ring. “Kate. Thank God. Where are you?”

“At the station.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Fine. You?”

“Except for the damn maple tree in my kitchen, we’re just peachy.”

Auggie and his wife live in a nice neighborhood of historic homes and mature trees on the north side of town. “Auggie, is there much damage? Did the tornado get your neighborhood?”

“Aside from that tree, I don’t think so. But the wind was … unbelievable.”

“Look, I think we need to activate the emergency contingency plan.”

The mayor goes silent for a moment, as if trying to remember what it is. The truth of the matter is, since its inception two years ago, we’ve never had to use it.

“You’ve got a copy of the plan, right?” I ask.

“Uh, yes. Here in my file, I think.” But he doesn’t sound too sure of that, and I don’t think he knows what to do.

I have a copy of it here at the station, but Mayor Auggie is the official coordinator. “You probably need to notify the Red Cross first,” I tell him. “I suspect we’re going to have casualties. Gas leaks. Power outages. We’re going to have citizens in need of food and water and shelter.”

“Right.”

“Our designated shelter is the VFW hall,” I tell him. “You might give Rusty a call and have him get things ready. I think they’ve got some cots and blankets and bottled water over at the Lutheran Church.”

“Sure. Sure. I’ll call him.”

“Look, I’ve got to get out there. I’ll call my officers and get everyone out helping. Phones are down at the station. If you need something, I’ve got my cell.”

I disconnect and look at Tomasetti. “I don’t have time to drive back to the farm for my Explorer, so I’m going to have to commandeer your vehicle.” I’m only half kidding.

He’s already got his keys in hand. “You’ve got a driver, too, if you want it.”

“I do.” I look at Lois. “Call everyone in the department. Make sure they’re okay. Then I want every officer on duty. Pickles and Mona, too. Unless they’re dealing with their own emergency. First priority is the injured, most critical first. We’re setting up a temporary shelter at the VFW.”

“Gotcha.”

“Call one of the guys—T.J. or Skid—and get them to fire up that generator for you so we have power here at the station. It might be a while before we get our power back, and I’d like to get the phones up and running.”

“Okay.”

I take the stairs two at a time to the top. Tomasetti and Lois bring up the rear. Then I’m through the door, and as I tread down the hall, I feel the cool, damp air coming through the broken window. Outside, the tornado sirens wail their eerie song. Though it’s late afternoon, it’s nearly as dark as night, so I turn on the Maglite.

I reach the reception area and look around. My heart sinks as I take in the damage. The blinds flap in the wind coming in through the window. Rain sweeps in with every gust. Water glistens on the floor. An aluminum trash-can lid is lodged between the blinds and the sill. Shards of glass, chunks of wood, and other small debris—leaves and twigs and trash—litter the floor. There’s paper everywhere.

“Looks like we dodged the bullet here,” comes Tomasetti’s voice from behind me.

“Computer and radio are dry.” It’s the only positive comment I can come up with.

“Oh my God.” Lois looks a little shell-shocked as she walks over to her desk. “Want me to call that glass guy up in Millersburg about that window?”

Usually we require three estimates on any work done for the township. Since time—and security—are at issue here, I reply with, “Get him down here within the hour. If he can’t replace the glass today, I want it secured some other way. Lois, if you smell any gas or smoke, get out and call the gas company and then call me.”

“Okeydoke.” She rounds the reception desk and gets behind the phone console, which is eerily silent.

“I’m going to go down to the trailer park to see if anyone’s hurt,” I tell her. “Call me if you need anything.”

Outside the window, the rain pours down, slapping against the concrete like a thousand angry fists.

About the Author

Linda Castillo
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Kate Burkholder novels, including
Sworn to Silence
, which was recently adapted into a Lifetime Original Movie titled
An Amish Murder
starring Neve Campbell as Kate Burkholder. Castillo is the recipient of numerous industry awards, including the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence, a nomination by the International Thriller Writers for Best Hardcover, the Holt Medallion, and a nomination for the RITA. In addition to writing, Castillo’s other passion is horses. She lives in Texas with her husband.

Visit her Web site at
lindacastillo.com
. Or sign up for email updates
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