After the Storm (11 page)

We cross the reception area and go through the front door. “I heard about those bones out on Gellerman Road,” he says as we unload the generator. “You guys figure out who they belong to?”

“Not yet.” I tell him about the six missing person cases in Holmes County. “The forensic anthropologist, Doc Coblentz, and another coroner from Lucas County are going to take a look at the remains first thing in the morning. If we’re lucky, they’ll get DNA.”

I hold the door while he rolls the generator inside. “How’s your shift going?”

“There’re still a lot of people without power, but everyone’s behaving themselves. Red Cross is going to be handing out hot meals and water again tomorrow.” He grimaces. “I heard you had some trouble out there today with Paula Kester.”

“Not my best moment.” I let the door close behind us and motion toward the hall. “Let’s roll it down to the basement.”

He nods. “I had a run-in with her husband a couple of years back, and let me tell you, Nick Kester’s a loose cannon.”

“He’s got a record?”

“Felony assault and possession,” he tells me. “Those are the only two convictions I remember off the top of my head. But that guy has a temper. If those two are still together, you might want to keep an eye on him. He likes his meth, hates cops, and he’s got a screw loose to boot.”

“Bad combination,” I tell him.

“Especially if you’re Nick Kester and you think someone fucked you over.”

CHAPTER 7

She still thought of him after all these years. More often than was wise for a woman her age. It usually happened in the course of some menial chore, which seemed to be the lion’s share of her life these days. Sometimes, when she was hanging clothes on the line or washing dishes or pulling weeds in her garden, she still saw him the way he’d been all those years ago. Laughing eyes the color of a robin’s egg. Unkempt hair that was just a little too long. A quicksilver grin that was as contagious as a summer cold. She still remembered the way he’d looked at her. As if she were the only person left on earth. Oh, how the sight of him would make her heart quicken and her palms grow wet with sweat. She knew it was a silly thing—those memories of the frivolous girl she’d been. But a woman never forgot her first love. Even now, a lifetime later, her foolish heart still quivered in her chest when she thought of him.

Feel dumbhaydichkeit
. Such foolishness.

She’d lived a lifetime since those days. A good life filled with family and love and God. She had a husband and four grown children now. Her first grandchild on the way. It was sinful to think of a man from her past when she had so much to be thankful for.

Then this morning, after her husband had left the house to feed the livestock, she’d drunk a cup of coffee and skimmed through
The Budget
before starting breakfast. Usually those pages are reserved for news of marriages and births, deaths and baptisms, with the occasional proverb sprinkled throughout. This morning the front page headline had made something inside her go cold:
HUMAN REMAINS UNCOVERED BY TORNADO.

It was the kind of story she usually didn’t devote any time to reading. Why invite bad news into your life? But as she sipped her second cup of coffee, she’d found her eyes skimming, seeking details, looking for things she shouldn’t be looking for. And on page six, where the story continued, she’d read a quote from the English police: “We know very little at this point. The only things we do know are that the bones belong to a male between sixteen and thirty-five years of age, and they’ve been buried in the crawl space of that barn between ten and thirty years. Aside from a few scraps of clothing, the only items found in the vicinity were a metal plate—possibly a medical device for a broken bone—and a woman’s engagement ring.”

The sound she’d heard had been her own quick intake of breath. She’d closed the newspaper and risen so abruptly she’d spilled her coffee. She’d looked down at the newspaper, her eyes drawn once again to the words she wished she hadn’t read.

 … a woman’s engagement ring.

 … thirty years …

Folding the newspaper, she’d placed it in the paper bag with the rest of the newspapers she’d be using to clean windows later in the week. She was wiping up the coffee spill when her husband came in from the barn.

Brushing bits of alfalfa hay from his coat, he walked to the table and looked down at the stained tablecloth. “Where’s the newspaper?” he asked in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I spilled coffee on it,” she told him.

It was the first time in thirty years of marriage that she’d lied to her husband.

*   *   *

I’ve walked this road a hundred times and yet I don’t recognize it. The wind has stripped the leaves from the trees, ripped the cornstalks from the ground, and set the telephone poles at 45-degree angles. The asphalt beneath my feet is covered with an inch of mud and dead foliage. In the distance, the tornado sirens shriek. The storm bears down, a black beast with an insatiable hunger for violence.

I hear the cry of a baby, and when I look down, the child is in my arms. Soft skin warm against my breast. Four months old and crying her heart out. She’s soaked from the rain and shivering with cold. Tiny mouth open, chin quivering. Her eyes are on mine, watchful, trusting me to save her.

She’s partially wrapped in a white blanket, but it’s stained with blood. I’m holding her, running as fast as I can, but the mud is hampering me. The wind is pummeling me, trying to tear her from my arms.

“I’ve got you,” I tell her. “I’ll keep you safe.”

But when I look down, the baby is being sucked from my arms. I grab for her, but my fingers slide against wet flesh. I hear her high-pitched wail. And then she’s gone. When I look at my hands, they’re covered with blood.

“Kate.
Kate.
”

Tomasetti’s voice drags me awake. I’m lying in our bed, my back against the pillows. My legs are tangled in sheets that are damp with sweat. I’m aware of Tomasetti beside me. I glance down, but my arms are empty. No baby. No blood on my hands. But I swear I can still feel the warmth from when the child was nestled against my chest.

“Jesus,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You okay?”

In the quiet semi-darkness of our bedroom, I hear myself breathing hard. I see the sheets quivering, and it shocks me to realize I’m shaking. “It was just a stupid dream.” Throwing the sheets aside, I start to get up.

He stops me. “Kate, hold on. You don’t have to leave.”

I sit with my legs over the side of the bed. The cool air feels good against my heated skin. I can feel the wet fabric of my T-shirt sticking to my back.

He moves across the bed to sit beside me. “You want to talk about it?”

For the first time I look at him, but I can’t hold his gaze and I look away. I’m on the verge of tears. I’m embarrassed because I don’t want him to see me like this. “Not really.”

He nods as if understanding, but his eyes are digging in to me, prying into places I don’t want him to pry.

“Tomasetti, for God’s sake, stop staring at me,” I say, trying to feign annoyance and not quite managing.

“I’m just trying to figure this out.” He shrugs. “Figure you out.”

I choke out a laugh that eases some of the tension. “There’s nothing to figure out. It was just a dream. That’s all.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t look away.

I glance at the alarm clock and groan when I realize it’s already after seven. “I have to go.”

I start to rise but he stops me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you if you don’t want to, but I’m going to keep asking.”

I look down at my hands, which are clasped in front of me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and holds me against him for a moment. It’s a kind gesture, not sexual, and he tells me he’s here for me if I need him.

“All right,” I tell him.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “Just so you know.”

*   *   *

I blast through an abbreviated morning routine, forgoing breakfast with Tomasetti for a Pop-Tart and a to-go cup of coffee. My third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, calls as I pull into my designated parking spot off of Main Street, which is crowded with vehicles I don’t recognize, including a news van from Columbus. I let the call go to voice mail and head inside.

In a town the size of Painters Mill, the police department is usually the kind of place someone might go for a little peace and quiet. That’s not the case this morning. The instant I walk inside, I’m assailed by a series of camera flashes that leave me half blind. The man behind the camera has hair longer than mine, black rimmed glasses, and enough facial hair to make a rug.

“Blind me with that flash again and you’re going to lose it,” I mutter as I stalk past.

He snaps two more shots at my back.

At the reception desk, Mona Kurtz is standing, talking to a woman wearing a geometric-print dress. At twenty-five, Mona is one of my more colorful employees. She keeps things interesting with her Lady Gaga–esque wardrobe and a personality that’s part rock and roll, part girl next door. But when it comes to her job, all frivolity goes out the window; she’s got her eye on an officer position, and as soon as one becomes available—or my budget allows—I plan to promote her. She’s not unflappable, though, and as I close the space between us, I see her composure waiver.

She spots me and her relief is palpable. “Chief.”

To my right, I see T.J. Banks, my third-shift officer, standing outside his cubicle. It’s nearly 8:00
A.M.
, which tells me he’s finishing post-shift incident reports.

The woman in the geometric dress turns, her eyes sweeping over my uniform. “Chief Burkholder?” Even as she says my name she nods at her hairy counterpart with the camera.

Giving her half of my attention, I pluck a dozen or more message slips from my slot on Mona’s desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Bridge Howard with Channel Sixteen out of Columbus?” She ends the statement on an up note, as if she’s asking a question.

She’s about six feet tall with the requisite blue eyes and blond hair and enough lip gloss to wax an SUV. Her cameraman passes her a mike, which she promptly shoves in my face. “Chief Burkholder, what can you tell us about the bones found here in Painters Mill? Have you identified them yet?”

I glance past her to see that the cameraman is already filming, and I tamp down a flare of annoyance. But while I’m no fan of the media, I’ve been around long enough to know I might need them at some point and a contentious relationship is about as helpful as a migraine.

“We have not identified the remains,” I say simply. “We’re looking at all missing persons cases now. DNA testing will be done, but as you know, that could take a while.”

“How long have the bones been there?”

“We don’t know.”

“Have you been approached by any family members looking for loved ones?”

“No,” I tell her, but I know the calls will come. People never give up hope when a loved one goes missing. “I’ll be sending out a press release later this afternoon. If you leave your contact information, I’ll make sure you get a copy. Excuse me.”

I start toward my office, when I hear the front door slam open with a little too much force. I turn to see a thirty-something man walk in, not bothering to close the door behind him. I take his measure, not liking what I see. Six feet tall. About 160. Dark, receding hair. Brown eyes. He’s wearing grungy blue jeans and a worn golf shirt, untucked. The tattoo of a horned devil peeks out from beneath the left sleeve. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a firearm or knife tucked into his waistband or boot.

I’m in uniform, my firearm strapped to my hip. I make eye contact with him and approach. “Can I help you?”

“You Burkholder?”

“I’m Chief Burkholder.”

He’s got a mean look in his eyes. The kind a man gets when he’s spoiling for a fight. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your goddamn motherfucking wallet handy is what you can do because I’m going to sue your fucking ass off. How’s that for starters?”

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to watch your language.” I glance to my left toward T.J. who’s started toward us. “Do you understand me?”

He stares at me, saying nothing.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“You want to know who I am?” He huffs a belligerent laugh. “I’m the man whose baby you killed. The man whose wife you put in jail when she
complained.
That’s who the fuck I am.”

He moves closer to me so he’s standing about three feet away. Too close; if he decided to make a move I wouldn’t have time to defend myself, so I step back, keep my right hand loose over my sidearm. He smells like dirty hair and fast food. When he speaks I see stained yellow teeth and a canine tooth that’s black with rot, and I think:
meth mouth.

“What’s your name?” I repeat.

“My name’s Nick Kester, but you can call me ‘sir.’” Spittle flies from between his lips with the last word. “That’s who you’re going to be making the fucking check out to.”

“If you want to talk, I’ll talk to you, but you need to calm down. You need to watch your language. I’m not going to ask you again. Do you understand?”

“Do I understand?” He looks around at all the people staring at us and laughs. “Hell, yeah, people! I understand! I got it! Your chief here? She killed my baby.” He jabs two fingers at me, not touching, but close. “A little fuckin’ girl, four months old. The only good thing I ever done in my whole life.” He turns his attention back to me, and I swear I see raw hatred in his eyes. “And you took her away.”

I stare at him, my vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Around me, the station has gone silent. Everyone is staring at us.

“If you’re not going to calm down, you need to leave,” I hear myself say.

“Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down.”

T.J. steps forward. “Mr. Kester, you need to leave. Now. Or I’m going to handcuff you and put you in a cell.”

Kester turns his attention to T.J. and lets out a laugh. “All right. I get it. I’ll leave.” To the journalist standing next to me: “You want to ask her a hard question, blondie? Impress the hell out of your boss? Ask her what she did to Lucy Kester.” His eyes slide back to me. His lips part, giving me a peek at teeth that look sharp enough to tear skin. “You’d better get used to calling me ‘sir,’ because once my lawyer gets finished with you and this Podunk town, you’re going to be waiting tables—if anyone will hire you. Fuckin’ baby killer.”