Pray for Silence (30 page)

But I stop him. “Yes, I do.” The words are little more than croaks, but I force them out. I can feel my emotions winding up. I know if I don’t get a grip they’re going to spiral out of control. My brain chants
Danger, danger, danger!
But I don’t stop. “She was in love with him,” I grind out. “She wanted to marry him. Have his child. Spend her life with him. She was willing to leave everything she’d ever know. And he did this to her.”

The muscles in Tomasetti’s jaw flex, and he looks away. “He got what was coming to him.”

“That’s not justice.”

“Maybe not. But it’s about as happy an ending as you’re going to get with a case like this.”

It’s a hard, cynical view. But then John Tomasetti can be a hard, cynical man. At this moment, staring at the cruel realities playing out on that laptop, the world feels like a hard and cynical place.

I don’t want to look at that awful screen, but my eyes are drawn to it. Another unspeakable scene stares back at me. I see the glazed eyes of an innocent
girl. A young woman full of goodness and life. I see evil in its most insidious form. He raped her body, her mind, her heart. He committed upon her the ultimate betrayal.

I stand so abruptly, my chair nearly falls over backward. Tomasetti looks uneasily at me. “Kate . . .”

“Can you get this stuff to the lab?” I hear myself say.

“Sure . . .”

Before even realizing I’m going to move, I’m heading toward the door. I hear my breaths rushing out as I shove it open. It bangs against the wall, and then I’m running down the hall. I hear John say my name, but I don’t stop. I see the dispatcher’s concerned expression as I cross through the reception area. I’m aware of T.J. standing in his cube, staring at me. Glock calls out my name as I yank open the door. Then I’m outside. Only then do I realize I’m crying. Giant, wracking sobs that rip out of me with a force that makes my entire body shudder.

Relinquishing control of your emotions is the ultimate bad form for a female cop. Especially a female in a position of command. I need to get a grip. Suck it up and get the hell back in there. Start the paperwork that will close this godforsaken case once and for all.

But I’m in no condition to go back inside. I can’t face my team. I’m too raw. Too far gone. Already over that precipice and tumbling down the mountain. I know Tomasetti will take care of any evidence that needs to be sent to the lab. The paperwork can wait until in the morning. Climbing into my Explorer, I back blindly onto the street and head for the nearest haven I can find.

I find refuge at McNarie’s Bar. I didn’t know where I was going until I turned into the gravel lot. It’s the last place I ought to be. Not only am I the chief of police and still in uniform, but I’m in no frame of mind to be anywhere near alcohol. Or other living creatures. I suspect Tomasetti might be out looking for me, so I park in the rear lot, out of sight.

I’m not a self-destructive person. I learned that lesson at a relatively young age. But at some point during the drive from the police station to the bar, I stopped thinking. I stopped being reasonable. I stopped being so goddamn responsible. Sometimes none of those things make a damn bit of difference. Just look at the Planks.

It’s seven
P.M.
when I walk in the front door. Happy hour has given way to the pool players and football-game watchers and the guys that just want to get out of the house for a little peace and quiet. It’s another kind of peace I’m shooting for tonight.

I go directly to the small booth at the rear. The one in the corner where the tulip light is burned out and the only people who pass by are the ones heading into the alley for a snort or into the restroom because they’ve had too much to drink. I suspect McNarie keeps that corner dark on purpose.

An old Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song rattles from the jukebox as I settle in, facing the door. McNarie doesn’t make me wait. He sets a bottle of Absolut, a shot glass and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table in front of me. “You need the glass or are you going to drink straight from the bottle?”

“Better go with the glass,” I say. “Don’t want to start any rumors about
the chief of police seeking solace in a bottle.” The fact that my state of mind is so obvious disturbs me.

I reach for my wallet, but McNarie stops me. “This one’s on the house, Chief.” He sets a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Bic next to the bottle.

“You don’t have to—”

“I just heard you got the fucker responsible for killing that family. Nice work.”

If only it were that simple. I thank him anyway, figuring I can make good with the tip.

He stares at me a moment, nods once. That’s all. No questions. No morbid curiosity to sate. No phony concern. No lectures. McNarie is one of the reasons I come here. He lets me be. Tonight, I appreciate that more than he could know.

I break the seal before he even reaches the bar. By the time he picks up his towel and glass and resumes drying, I’ve already poured. The first shot goes down badly, makes me shudder, but then they always do. The second shot is easier. The third slides down my throat like liquid gold.

Brooding over a case is a counterproductive use of time for a cop. I should be feeling celebratory. A mass murderer is dead. A sort of primal justice has been served. I should be whooping it up with the guys. Slapping them on the back for putting in the hours and getting the job done. They should be here with me, toasting the death of a predator. Then I think of the Plank family and it hits me again that none of this can be undone.

Or maybe it’s not the case at all that’s bothering me. Maybe it’s my own past that haunts me tonight. Maybe I’ve finally acknowledged all those jagged parallels between myself and Mary Plank. Parallels I didn’t want to see. Things I thought were buried, but will never really die.

I’m midway through my first cigarette when I see Tomasetti come through the door. He looks out of place here with the words
big city cop
written all over him. He’s got attitude and style with a little bit of bad-ass thrown in. Most cops dress like slobs. Suiting up is one of many things Tomasetti does well. The charcoal suit looks custom; the color plays nicely off the five-o’clock shadow. Pale blue shirt. Expensive tie. He holds his ground for a moment while his eyes adjust to the dim interior. His expression shifts when he spots me. I stare
back, feeling busted, not sure if I’m pleased that he’s here or annoyed because my zen of misery has been interrupted.

He makes his way to the booth and slides in across from me. I smoke, watching him, wishing I hadn’t drank that third shot. An alcohol-fuzzed brain is a huge disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Tomasetti. He can be unpredictable and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m in no shape to deal with either.

“I guess it would be stupid for me to ask how you found me,” I begin in way of greeting.

He catches McNarie’s eye and gestures toward the shot glass. “I went by your house first.”

“Not many places to hide out in this town.”

“I guess the real question is why you’re hiding.”

I’m saved from having to answer when McNarie sets down a fresh shot glass, a second beer, and hustles back to the bar.

Tomasetti fills both shot glasses and downs his in a single gulp.

“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” I say.

“I have, for the most part.” He smiles down at his glass. “Just not tonight. But then this isn’t about me, Kate.”

Since I’m the last person I want to talk about, I say nothing.

Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Your guys are wondering what’s up with you.” He sets down the glass. “I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”

“It was a tough case.”

“It’s over. You did a good job. The whole department did.”

“The Planks are still dead. Those girls were still tortured.”

“Kate.” A thin layer of impatience laces his voice. “You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s out of your control. You gotta let go or it will drive you nuts.”

Even though my brain warns me away from more alcohol, I pick up the shot glass and drink it down. “I’m too hammered to talk about it.”

“Sometimes that’s the best time to talk.”

“Not for me.”

He turns thoughtful. “Is it because they were Amish?”

I take a moment to study my glass, realizing I’m not sure how to answer.
How can I put my emotions into words that will make sense to this man who sees the world in stark black and white? I’m not sure I want to open that Pandora’s box because I don’t know what will come flying out.

“You’re probably the most levelheaded woman I’ve ever known,” he says. “Getting caught up like this isn’t like you.”

I look at him over the top of my beer. “More your style, isn’t it?”

He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Why don’t we save my analysis for next time?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t apologize. Honesty is one of the things I like about you.”

“I thought you liked my legs.”

“That, too.”

He gives me a half smile, and we sip our beers. The turmoil inside me eases. The silence becomes slightly more tolerable. Almost comfortable. He shatters it with his next question. “Is this about what happened to you seventeen years ago?”

My flinch is slight, but I know he saw it because his eyes sharpen. I can feel his gaze scratching at my shell, a predator trying to get to the soft meat inside.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“There are some parallels.”

I’m aware of my heart beating in my temples. The familiar clenching of my gut. It shocks me that even after all this time, talking about that day, about what happened—what I did—and the domino effect that followed, can shake me so profoundly. “Probably more than you know.”

“Is that something I should be able to figure out?”

I stare at my beer. At the shot glasses. The tabletop. Anywhere but at him. I know it’s stupid, but I feel if I look at him, he’ll know.

He waits with a patience that makes me want to splash my beer in his face. I light a second cigarette, inhaling deeply, punishing my lungs, taking my time. I don’t realize I’m going to say anything until I hear my own voice. “Two months after Daniel Lapp raped me, I found out I was pregnant.”

My own words shock me. It’s the first time I’ve spoken them aloud and they seem inordinately loud. I glance quickly around to make sure no one
else heard, but the place is nearly deserted. The jukebox plays on. McNarie stands at the bar, watching the television, drying glasses with his dingy white towel. No one is looking my way. The earth didn’t move.

Tomasetti isn’t easily shocked, but I can tell by his expression this shocks him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I had an abortion,” I say quickly. “I couldn’t . . . have it. Didn’t want it.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, Kate.”

“I never even considered having it. Not for one second. In the eyes of the Amish, that’s considered murder.”

“Not everyone sees it that way. Especially considering the circumstances.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

“A lot of weight to carry around all these years.”

I smile at him. “You and I, we have strong shoulders, don’t we?”

“Probably a good thing.”

I look down at my bottle of beer. “When I read Mary Plank’s journal, she became a real person to me. An Amish girl with a heart full of hopes and dreams. I was her once. All that hope. So many dreams. But I was lucky. I got my future. She deserved the chance to live her life. Long killed her twice. First he killed her innocence, then he took her life.”

“This case brought it all back for you.”

“I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy or the abortion in years. I never let myself go there. Not even once.” I’m alarmed when tears threaten. They are a female cop’s worst enemy. One that can zap credibility faster than bad police work or sleeping around or both.

Because I can’t look at Tomasetti, I put my face in my hands and sigh. “I know that in the scope of things, it’s not important. It’s over. Ancient history. The Planks are dead. Mary is dead. Long is dead.”

“It’s important.” He slides his hand across the table.

For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to take my hand. I’m relieved when he only runs his fingertips over my forearm. Too much kindness from him at this moment would crumple me.

“But life goes on,” he says. “It’s an unstoppable force. That was the hardest thing for me to accept when Nancy and the girls were killed. It’s the living who are left to suffer. A hard truth, but that’s the way it is.”

“Tomasetti, you’re not making me feel any better.”

“What are friends for?”

I manage to give him a small smile. “You probably came here to get laid, and I blabbered all over you instead.”

His laugh is deep and throaty. I like the sound of it, realize he doesn’t do it often enough. And a flush spreads over me like warm oil. “Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“Thanks for listening,” I say after a moment.

“I’m glad you told me.”

The bottle of Absolut sits half empty on the table between us. The jukebox has moved on to an old Neil Young rocker. I reach for the bottle and fill both shot glasses. There’s more to say, but we both know enough has been said for tonight.

Tomasetti picks up his glass. “Are we going to get drunk?”

“I think so.”

“You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

I raise my drink. “Another thing we have in common.”

We slam back the vodka and set our glasses on the table with a little too much force. The alcohol runs like nitro through my blood now. I can feel it loosening my brain. A rusty faucet in my head breaking free, opening up.

“Do you think Long acted alone?” I ask after a moment.

He eyes me over the top of his beer. “Do you think there was someone else involved?”

“I don’t know. There seems to be a lot of loose ends.”

“What are you talking about specifically?”

I think about that for a moment. “How did one man subdue seven people? An entire family?”

“The Planks were Amish, Kate. They were pacifists. Maybe they didn’t fight back.”