After the Storm (39 page)
Authors: Linda Castillo
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural
“This was more than a scuffle. The fall alone—”
“I’ll have Glock drive me over to Pomerene. A quick X-ray, a wrap for my wrist, and I’ll be good to go.”
He falls silent. I know he’s not happy with the situation. But this is ground already covered, and I know he doesn’t want to rehash it, especially over the phone.
“I’ll be home before dark,” I tell him. “What do you say we meet out at the pond and catch a few fish?”
After too long a pause, he says, “I’ll buy the bait.”
“In that case, I’ll meet you at the dock,” I tell him, and disconnect.
If someone were to ask me in January or February if I’m planning to spend the rest of my life living in northeastern Ohio—or anywhere in the Midwest for that matter—my answer would be something along the lines of
Hell no! Are you nuts?
Ask me the same question on an evening like this one, when the breeze is like silk on your skin, the frogs and crickets and the last of the birds launch into their end-of-day serenade, and the moon is a pale yellow sphere rising above the treetops to the east, I’d respond with
Why would I ever want to live anywhere else?
It’s evenings like this one that make those long winters worth the wait.
It’s dusk and I’m sitting in a lawn chair on the small wooden dock, looking out over the pond, and there’s no place else in the world I’d rather be. The cattails on the far side teem with dragonflies and a few early evening lightning bugs. A turtle snoozes on a rock a couple of feet from the bank. In the cottonwood tree on the north side of the pond, a male cardinal laments the end of the day. A glass of iced tea sweats atop the cooler next to a citronella candle. A six-pack of Killian’s Irish Red chills inside. I brought the bamboo fishing poles, both affixed with the requisite red-and-white bobbers. On the outside chance Tomasetti wants to show off his casting prowess, his rod and reel with the lure most likely to catch the big bass that’s been taunting him for weeks now is lying on the dock alongside the poles.
“Looks like you started without me.”
I startle at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice and turn to see him striding toward me. Long strides. Eyes intent on me.
Worried about me,
I think, but he doesn’t want me to see it, so I let it go. There’s enough light for me to see that he’s still wearing his work clothes—slightly wrinkled button-down shirt, creased trousers, and one of the ties he bought at Milano last time we were in Columbus. The tie is askew, telling me I’m not the only one who’s had a long day.
“Did you bring the bait?” I ask.
“Of course.” He holds up a container very much like one for Chinese food takeout. “Night crawlers.” He grins. “Nothing better for catching bass at night.”
“Does that mean we’re going to fish all night?”
“We could.”
“And play hooky tomorrow?”
“Best idea I’ve heard all week.”
I rise from my chair, open the cooler, and hand him a Killian’s. “You look like you could use this.”
“I can.” He takes the beer.
I see him looking at the wrap on my wrist, and it makes me feel self-conscious. “I think the big one has your name on it.”
“Hopefully, he’s hungry and feeling reckless tonight.” He sets the beer on top of the cooler without opening it. “Kate.”
Before I can speak, he strides toward me. His arms go around me and he pulls me close. “God, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me, too.”
“How’s the wrist?”
I fall against him, set my face against his shirt, breathe in his scent, and sigh. “Hurts like hell.”
“Well, that’s just like you to milk it, isn’t it?”
“You’re on to me, I guess.”
“Broken?”
“You know by now that I never do anything halfway.”
He pulls away slightly, putting just enough space between us to make eye contact with me. For an instant I avoid his gaze, then I look into his eyes.
“Bad scene today?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods. “So what aren’t you telling me?”
I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry, but I feel the burn of tears rising in my eyes. “I lost the baby.”
John Tomasetti is one of the most guarded people I know. But I don’t miss the ripple that runs the length of him. I see that same ripple play across his features. Surprise. Concern. A quick flash of pain.
“Aw, Kate.” He makes a sound that’s part sigh, part groan. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.… What happened?”
“The doc couldn’t say for certain. Trauma, maybe. I fell about twelve feet.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes miscarriages happen and you never really know why.”
He averts his gaze but not before I see the pain slice across his features, as raw and unwanted as a knife wound. “Are you sure?”
“The doc checked my hormone levels when I was in the ER. I mean, I had to have my arm X-rayed … a CT scan … my hormones fell.…”
“Did you lose consciousness? I mean, in the fall?”
I nod. “I think so. For a few seconds.”
“I guess you forgot to tell me about that,” he says dryly.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Do you have a concussion?”
“No.”
He blinks rapidly, then closes his eyes. Trying to figure out how to react, how to feel. Good luck with that.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. CT was normal. Aside from the broken wrist…”
We both know the pain of a broken bone is nothing compared to the heartache of losing something precious.
He puts his arms around me again and pulls me closer. His lips brush against my temple. I feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Wet tears on my cheek. I don’t know if they’re mine or his.
“Tomasetti, we weren’t exactly ready to bring a child into the world.”
“I know.”
“So why does it hurt so much?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer for the span of a full minute. He just holds me snugly against him. So close I can hear the thrum of his heart. The steady rhythm of his breathing. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, vibrating beneath my hands.
“When you love a child,” he says slowly, “you’re at the mercy of your heart.”
“I don’t know the first thing about raising kids.”
“Somehow we would have bumbled through.”
I smile, but my cheeks are wet. A thousand more tears wait at the gate. “Tomasetti, this was ours. Something innocent and precious and good. A new life we created together. Even if we weren’t quite ready … I didn’t want to lose that.”
“I know. Me, too.” Finally, he pulls away, looks down at me, and for the first time I see tears on his face. “We would have made it work, Kate. And we would have been good at it. But I was afraid, too. That kind of love … for God’s sake, it takes over your life. I wasn’t sure I had the courage to lay myself open like that again.” He grimaces, grapples for the right words. “But I did,” he whispers finally. “I did.”
I put my hands on either side of his face, bring his mouth down to mine. I taste the salt of tears on his lips. “I’m sorry.”
He straightens, gives me a stern look. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“If I hadn’t gone into that loft…” I shrug. “If I’d waited for backup. Let Skid or Glock do it … If I hadn’t tried to do it by myself. If I hadn’t fallen. If I wasn’t a cop—”
“Kate. Stop.” He steps away, slides his hands over my shoulders to my biceps and squeezes gently. “You don’t know any of that for sure. You can’t blame yourself for something that might’ve happened anyway.”
“You told me I shouldn’t be a cop. Maybe you were right.”
“Or maybe I was being an overbearing ass.”
I choke out a laugh. Some of the pressure compressing my chest releases.
He offers a half smile. “What? No argument?”
“Well…”
We fall silent, trying not to think or feel too much, failing on both counts.
“Are we going to be okay?” I ask.
“We’re going to be fine.”
“What about the future?”
He lifts his hand and sweeps a strand of hair from my face. His eyes search mine. His knuckles linger against my cheek. “Might be a good idea to keep that bassinet handy. I mean, just in case.”
“It
is
beautiful. One of a kind…”
“And old. Kind of like me.” His eyes burn into mine as he recites the proverb inscribed into the bottom of the bassinet: “A child is the only treasure you can take to heaven.”
“I love that.” Fresh tears fill my eyes and course down my cheeks. “And I love it that you remembered.”
“The proverb might be Amish, but I’ve known it for a long time.”
Raising up on my tiptoes, I press a kiss to his cheek, then wipe the tears from my face. “Tomasetti, if we’re going to get any fishing done, we should probably get started.”
“I think you’re right.”
Stepping away from him, I bend and pick up one of the bamboo poles. “Do you think you could bait my hook for me?”
He takes the pole. “You’re kind of squeamish for an Amish girl.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Hey, your secret’s safe with me.” He steps away, spots the flashlight lying against the cooler, picks it up, and turns it on. I watch as he takes it to the edge of the dock and sets it down so that the beam shines out over the water to draw insects—and fish.
“So what’s going to happen to Abigail Kline?” Bending, he opens the tackle box containing hooks, lures, bobbers, and fishing line, and begins to rummage.
“She admitted to poisoning her husband. She could be charged with first-degree murder, but I suspect the county attorney will strike a deal and go with second-degree. I mean, she found out Jeramy had murdered her lover. He’d lied to her for thirty years. If the case goes to trial, the jury will probably be sympathetic. Better chance of a conviction if she’s prosecuted for a lesser charge.”
“What about the Kaufmans?”
“There’s a lot we don’t know yet, but Abram may be charged with the murder of Leroy Nolt. We don’t know how much Naomi knows, but she’ll be thoroughly questioned. If it’s determined she knew, appropriate charges will be filed. The thing is, we don’t know if Nolt’s falling into that pen was premeditated or accidental.”
Nodding, he threads the hook, then leans forward and bites off the excess line. “I heard they didn’t find a rifle at Kester’s father-in-law’s place.”
“Abram Kaufman owns a .22. Deputy found it hidden in the barn during a search.” I pick out my hook and tie it onto the line of my own pole. “I’m betting it’s going to be a match.”
Tomasetti usurps my pole and finishes. “So Kaufman’s our sniper.”
“Looks like.”
Leaning close, he reaches for me, pulls me close, and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m glad he’s a bad shot.”
I grin at him. “Me, too.”
Pole ready, he rubs his hands together and picks up the box of bait. “What do you say we catch us some fish?”
“Last one to reel one in has to scale them.”
“You’re on, Chief Burkholder. You’re on.”
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 and the HOLT Medallion, and she received a nomination for the RITA. In addition to writing, Castillo’s other passion is horses. She lives in Texas with her husband and is currently at work on her next novel. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
ALSO BY
LINDA CASTILLO
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