Breaking Silence

CHAPTER 16

By the time we round up James Springer and Kevin Steele, it’s 4:00 A.M. They weren’t very happy when we rolled them from their beds and slapped on the cuffs. Unlike their counterpart, both men refused to talk to us without lawyers, so I handed them off to Rasmussen, who booked them into the Holmes County Jail.

Tomasetti, Skid and I are sitting in my office. On the credenza behind me, my desktop computer rattles like an old refrigerator. I’ve got a couple of reams of arrest-related paperwork spread out on my desk, but I’m too tired to finish reports tonight.

But it’s a good tired, the kind that comes in the wake of a righteous bust and the knowledge that we got three criminals off the street in a single fell swoop. I don’t like the idea of letting Willie Steele off on lesser charges; he’s no less guilty than the other two men. But if that small concession will guarantee his cooperation and convictions for the other two, then it’s a compromise I’m willing to make.

“I think I’m going to head back out.” Skid rises and stretches. “Leave you two all the fun paperwork.”

“Should be quiet now that the three-man crime wave is off the street,” I tell him.

“Hell of a bump on Steele’s forehead,” Skid comments. “Never seen anything like it in my life.”

“The moral of the story is, Never ram your forehead into an immovable object,” Tomasetti says.

“Going to have to remember that.” Giving us a mock salute, he saunters out of my office.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I shut down my computer and arrange the paperwork into a couple stacks. “I’ll tackle these reports first thing in the morning,” I say.

Tomasetti eyes me from across the desk. “It already is first thing in the morning.”

I smile. “Postsleep.”

He doesn’t move, and I get the impression he’s got something on his mind. “What do you think?” he asks.

“I think you’re welcome to sleep at my house.” The words come with surprising ease.

“Do we have to sleep?”

“We probably should.”

“Should usually doesn’t stop us.”

Despite the comfortableness of the moment, I blush. When he smiles, the now-familiar thrill moves through me, and it shocks me all over again that two people as wounded as we are have come this far in a relationship neither of us believed possible.

“What do you think about Steele?” he asks after a moment.

“I think he might be telling the truth.”

“Leaves us with a couple of loose ends.”

“Leaves the Slabaugh case open.”

He sighs. “You think Steele and friends did the Slabaughs?”

I consider the question, let it roll around in my head a moment. “I think they’re at the top of the suspect list.”

He nods, but I can tell my words didn’t alleviate whatever it is that’s troubling him. I don’t think we’re going to solve it tonight, so I reach for my coat and rise.

Tomasetti stands, too, and we start toward the door. “So if Steele and his goons didn’t beat the crap out of Mose, who did?” he asks as we pass through the reception area.

I wave at Mona. “Maybe James Springer and Kevin Steele did it. Maybe we’ll get more out of them after they’ve spent the night in jail.”

Tomasetti nods, but as he leaves me and starts toward his Tahoe to follow me home, he still looks troubled.

The events of the day follow me into the disjointed world of my dreams. I’m at the Slabaugh farm, in the barn, standing a few feet from the manure pit. I’m holding a baby in my arms, and though I’ve never had a child, I know the baby is mine. I feel the connection as surely as I feel my heart beating in my chest, the blood running through my veins. James Springer stands before me. Only this apparition is not Springer. His eyes are the color of blood, and I see hatred in them, a barely controlled rage.

“Dirty Amish bitch,” he says.

He’s looking at my baby. His eyes burn red, and I see the veins pulsing in his face. I’m aware of the child’s warmth against my breast, and I know Springer wants to take him from me. He wants to hurt him. Kill him. I’m willing to die—or kill—to keep either of those things from happening.

When he lunges, I’m not fast enough to get away. I’m not strong enough to stop him. I feel hands on my arms and look over to see Willie Steele and his brother, Kevin, on either side of me. They yank me back, so violently that my head snaps forward and my teeth clack together. I lose my footing. Springer jerks the baby from my arms. Then the baby is falling into space. I struggle against the talonlike hands, fingers digging into my skin. I hear my own scream, so loud that it rattles my brain. But the hands that catch the baby are not mine.

Springer grins and looks down at the baby in his arms. I see rotting black teeth. He smells of death and decay. He stares down at the baby as if he wants to tear into it with his teeth, devour it, consume it. And in that moment, I know I’m going to kill him.

I reach for my sidearm, but my fingers fumble the grip. I grapple with my holster. I know my .38 is there, but I can’t get my hand around it. My certainty that I have the upper hand evaporates. Ten feet away, Springer holds the baby by its tiny foot, dangling it over the manure pit. The infant’s face is red. His cries ring in my ears, shatter my heart.

“Don’t kill my baby!” I scream.

Then I’m running toward them, but I’m not moving. When I look down, I see that my feet are immersed in black muck. And I know I’m not going to get there in time to save the baby. Already I feel the horrific loss the child’s death will cause; it’s like a baseball bat slamming into my body. The terrible shock of that is almost too much for my mind to bear.

Don’t kill my baby!

It’s Salome’s voice screaming the words. I look around, but she’s not there. When I look down, I’m wearing her blue dress. Don’t kill my baby! It’s Salome’s voice, but my thoughts. It’s my heart that’s breaking. My life that will end with the death of that child.

Springer’s fist opens. The child flails, then tumbles headfirst into the black muck of the pit. I scream out a name I don’t recognize. Then I hear the terrible splash, and I tell myself my baby can’t be gone, because I know God would never be that cruel. Not twice in one lifetime.

Then I’m falling. Above me, I see the rafters of the old barn. I smell the stench of the liquid manure. I feel the methane gas stealing the oxygen from my lungs. Then the black ooze rushes up and slams into me, as cold and black as death. The noxious liquid sucks me down, like a huge, voracious mouth swallowing me whole.

Blackness closes over me, but it doesn’t silence the baby’s cries. Nothing will ever silence that tiny voice, because it’s inside me. Hearing those cries and not being able to reach the child is like dying a thousand tortuous deaths. I thrash and struggle against the muck. But it sucks me down, smothering and digesting me until I cease to exist.

“Kate.”

I’m still thrashing when I wake. Tomasetti is leaning over me. Even in the dim winter light slanting in through the window, I see concern on his face, and I realize I must have cried out. I blink at him, shaken and embarrassed. A cold slick of sweat covers my entire body. My hands and legs are shaking, and I can still feel the dark grip of the nightmare. For several disorienting seconds, I think I can still smell the muck of that terrible pit.

“Jesus.” Sitting up, I shove the hair from my face. “I’m sorry.”

“You okay?”

I draw a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Must have been a bad one.” He sets his thumb beneath my chin and forces my gaze to his. “If I ask you how often that happens, would you tell me the truth?”

“Probably not.”

“Kate…”

I look at him, not liking the way he’s staring back at me, as if I’ve just been diagnosed with some fatal affliction. “It’s been a while,” I say after a moment.

He nods. “You want to talk about it?”

I try to smile but don’t quite manage to. “Think you could check under the bed first?”

“There’s no monster here.”

“Just you.”

“A monster with a heart.”

That makes me smile, and I feel the dream tumble into the backwaters of my mind.

Dipping his head, he kisses me, and I’m amazed that such a small thing can have such a profound effect.

A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s not yet 7:00 A.M. We have a few minutes, so I lie back and snuggle close to him. He puts his arm around me, and in that instant his embrace is the safest place in the world. I love the way his arms feel when they’re around me. I give him a condensed version of the nightmare. When I’m finished, we go quiet, thinking, listening to the rain outside.

“Sigmund Freud would probably have a field day with that,” I say after a moment. “You know, baby envy and all that.”

“Freud was full of shit.”

That makes me grin. “I’m glad I have you to help me keep things in perspective.”

“Probably just the case working on your mind,” Tomasetti says. “Mixing it up with your past. Stress does that.”

“My sister, Sarah, had a baby,” I blurt. “Two months ago. I don’t know why, but I haven’t been able to make myself go to see the new baby. I’ve driven by their farm, but I never go inside. I just … sit out on the road like some weird stalker. I know my not showing up is hurting my sister. And there’s a part of me that wants to see my little niece. But…”

Lying next to me, Tomasetti goes still. I sense his mind sifting through everything I’ve said, and I kick myself for unloading on him. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Kate.” He says my name with a slight reproof.

We fall silent. I can hear rain dripping off the eaves, slapping down on the ground. I know Tomasetti’s about to say something wise and profound. I know it’s going to hurt a little bit, but I’ll be better for it afterward. “This case has a lot of themes running through it,” he tells me. “Amish kids. The deaths of their parents. Babies. Pregnancy.” He pauses. “Might be dredging some things up for you.”

“I thought of that.”

“I know you have.”

“Salome is about the age my child would have been if I hadn’t—” Even after all this time, I have a difficult time saying the word, but I force it out. “Abortion,” I finish, but the word feels thick and greasy coming out of my mouth.

“Maybe dealing with these kids is bringing some of that back for you,” he says. “You didn’t get a chance to deal with it right after it happened.”

“Maybe.”

“Your new niece represents something you lost, Kate. Sometimes things like that are hard to face.”

He’s right, and the truth of his words hurts. But I don’t let myself flinch. I’m tougher than that, and I want him to know it. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Well, since you’re naked…” He smiles at me. “You know I will.”

“Don’t ever feel sorry for me. I think that’s the one thing I couldn’t stand.”

His expression turns puzzled. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you know what happened to me. Because I’ve … let you in. I mean, I’ve let you inside me. Inside my mind.” I swallow, not sure how much to tell him. Trust is so damn hard to come by. “My heart.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. Not by a long shot.”

“You know a lot about me. Probably more than anyone else in the world.”

“I promise not to blackmail you.”

A tension-easing laugh bursts from my throat. Gathering my emotions, I punch his shoulder. “We’re having a serious talk here.”

He feigns offense. “I’m serious.”

Leaning close to him, I press a kiss to his mouth, then start to rise. “I’ve got to go.”

He stops me. Shifting in the bed, he turns me to him, then sets his hands on either side of my face. “I’ve let you inside, too, Kate. Don’t forget that. This relationship thing is a two-way street, and I’m right there with you.”

I blink at him, stunned, and a little bit thrilled. “So I could blackmail you, too?”

“You could, but then I’d have to kill you. That would be a shame, because I really like you.”

We’re staring at each other. He gives me a small smile. I’m keenly aware of his closeness. I smell the lingering remnants of his aftershave, remember all the impressions his body made on mine during the night. “We’ll figure out this relationship thing sooner or later,” I tell him.

For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. I don’t know what that might be, but I see it in his eyes. And in that instant, I want to hear it more than anything else in the world.

The phone on my night table interrupts, and the moment evaporates. We stare at each other a few seconds longer, not speaking, wanting more time but knowing it’s not to be.

“I’ve got to get that.” Rolling away from him, I grab the phone, put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I snap, trying to sound as if I’m not in bed, sleeping or otherwise.

“Chief Burkholder, this is Chief Archer from Connersville, Indiana.” He clears his throat. “Sorry to call so early.”

It takes my befuddled brain a moment to place the name. Then my intellect clicks in, and I realize he’s returning my call. Mose had told me his family was from Connersville and I wanted to check out his adoption story. “Thanks for returning my call, Sheriff.”

“Sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I was out of town. Big conference over in Richmond on the meth problem.” He sounds harried, as if he’s back in town and pounding through a whole collection of messages. Mine wasn’t very high on his list, and he’s anxious to move on to the next.

“I’m calling to verify some information about a young man by the name of Moses Slabaugh.”

“Slabaugh…”

“His name would have been Hochstetler. He’s living here in Painters Mill, but he’s originally from Connersville.”

“Yeah, I know that name. Amish folks?”

“That’s right. Mose claims his parents were killed and he was adopted by another family shortly thereafter.”

“I remember that,” the sheriff says. “Hell of a thing. Nice Amish family, too.”

“How long ago did it happen?”

“Oh, gosh, I’d say it’s been ten years now. One of the worst accidents I’ve ever seen.”

In the three years I’ve been the chief of police here in Painters Mill, I’ve investigated one fatal buggy accident. A logging truck from Pennsylvania crossed the yellow line and hit a buggy head-on. It was a triple fatality, and I was first on the scene. The images ran through my head for months.

“We require all buggies to have ‘Slow Moving Vehicle’ signs here in Painters Mill,” I say. “Some of the more conservative families balk, claiming the signs are ornamentation.”

A too-long pause ensues, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Sheriff Archer?”

“The Hochstetlers weren’t killed in a buggy accident,” the sheriff tells me.

The prickly sensation augments to a stabbing suspicion. “Mose told me his parents were killed in a buggy accident.”

“The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. You know, methane gas. I ought to know; I was first on the scene. First damn week of work and I got two dead Amish on my hands.”

His voice fades as the words hit home. The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. I almost can’t believe my ears. All I can think is, Why would Mose lie to me about something like that? He was seven years old at the time. Why would he lie? Muttering a thank-you, I hang up the phone, then sit there, my head reeling.

“What is it?” Tomasetti asks.

I look at him, feeling shell-shocked, and tell him what I learned from Sheriff Archer. “Why would Mose lie about something like that?” I ask.

Tomasetti’s expression is dark. “Because he’s lying about something else,” he says. “Or covering something up.”

“Or both.” My mind spins through the possibilities, and I hate all of them. I don’t want to say aloud what I’m thinking. Of course, I don’t have a choice. As much as I don’t want to confront those possibilities, they’re there, staring me in the face. Until this moment, I’ve been too blind to see them.

“My God, he would have been seven years old,” I say, and another chill runs through me.

Tomasetti nods, knowing what I’m thinking. “We need to get out there.”

I’m already up, rushing toward the shower. “Could Mose be the one who pushed his parents into the pit? Has he done it before?”

“I think it’s time we asked him.”