Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 16

One of the most difficult aspects of a long-term investigation—especially a case in which someone’s life is in jeopardy—is knowing when to call it a night. I know it’s a self-defeating mind-set; everyone needs sleep. But I invariably feel as if I’m turning my back on the victim when I go home. The truth of the matter is, I don’t know how to stop being a cop. How can I go home to eat or sleep or sit on my sofa and watch TV when a young girl is depending on me to find her?

The answer is a simple matter of human endurance. No one can work around the clock indefinitely. If people try, there will come a point when they’ll become in effective, or, worse, a detriment to the investigation. They reach a point where exhaustion and emotions cloud the decision-making process, reaction time, and good old-fashioned common sense. I’m loathe to admit it, but I’ve been there. I’m not the least bit proud of the way I handled some aspects of cases past. The only positive gleaned is that I learned my limits.

It’s nearly 1:00 A.M. when I unlock the door of my house and step inside. The aromas of stale air and the overripe bananas I left on the kitchen counter greet me.

Flipping on the light, I carry my overnight bag to the bedroom and drop it on the floor outside my closet. Physical exhaustion presses into me as I peel off my clothes and toss them into the hamper. But while my body is crying for sleep, my mind is wound tight, and I know sleep will not come easily.

In the bathroom, I crank the water as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray. I soap up twice, knowing I’m trying to wash away more than just the dirt of the day. I haven’t let myself think of Sadie in emotional terms. I haven’t let myself think about how this could turn out or what she might be going through at this very moment.

Now that I’m alone with my thoughts, all of those gnarly beasts come calling. I can’t help but compare Sadie’s disappearance to the murder of Annie King. The possibility that the outcome will be the same terrifies me. Another young life snuffed out long before its time. Another family shattered. And all I can think is that I can’t let that happen.

In the bedroom, I pull on an old T-shirt from my Academy days and a pair of sweatpants. Padding barefoot to my office, I flip on my computer. While it boots, I pull out my Rand McNally road atlas and turn to a map of northern Ohio. Tearing out two pages, I take both to the bulletin board I keep on the wall adjacent to the desk and pin them up side by side. With a black marker, I circle the location of each disappearance. Monongahela Falls. Sharon, Pennsylvania. Rocky Fork. Buck Creek. Painters Mill. I draw a larger circle encompassing all the towns.

Leaning over my desk, I open the pencil drawer and pull out a red Sharpie, snap off the lid, and go over to the map. I circle Buck Creek, where Stacy Karns, Gideon Stoltzfus, and Justin Treece are located. I circle Salt Lick, where Frank Gilfillan and the Twelve Passages Church are located. I draw a larger circle to encompass each location and go back to my desk.

I stare at the map. The two large circles overlap each other and include much of the same area. All of the towns, the locations of the victims and suspects, are roughly within a one-hundred-mile radius. In rural terms, that’s less than a two-hour drive. Chances are, the killer resides somewhere within that circle.

“Why do you do it?” I whisper.

I turn to the whiteboard and write, Why? with a double underscore. Then “No ransom demand. Sexual in nature? Fetish related?” I think of Annie and Sadie and write, “Vulnerable? Runaways?” Then I add, “Blood found at scenes.”

“Where are they?” I’m thinking aloud now, letting my mind run with random thoughts and undeveloped theories. “Why did we find Annie King’s body and not the bodies of the others?”

I divide the board in half with a bold line. Below the delineation, I write, “Suspects: Stacy Karns, Frank Gilfillan, Gideon Stoltzfus, Justin Treece.” Finally, I write, “Unknown perpetrator.”

“We don’t know you yet,” I say.

I circle “Unknown perpetrator.” Next to it, I write, “Motive?” And then add, “Why?”

“Why do you take them?” I say aloud.

And I know that once we know why, we will find the who.

The sound of pounding drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. A hard rush of adrenaline sends me bolt upright. For an instant, I’m disoriented, uncertain about the source of the noise. Then I realize someone’s at the door. My mind registers that the doorbell didn’t ring. Back door, I think, and something else niggles at my brain. A glance at the alarm clock on my night table reminds me that 3:00 A.M. visitors are almost always the bearers of bad news.

Jerking the robe from the chair next to my bed, I work it over my shoulders and tighten the belt. I open the top drawer of the night table and snag my .38, cock it. Holding the weapon low at my side, I pad silently to the kitchen, sidle to the back door, and peer through the curtains.

John Tomasetti stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the backyard as if his being here in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.

I turn the bolt lock and swing open the door. “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You were in the neighborhood.”

He turns to me, hands still in his pockets, his face deadpan, and for a split second I’m terrified he’s come here with some dire news about the case. “Actually, I drove a hundred miles, against my better judgment and without telling my superiors, to sleep with you.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Well, that’s pretty subtle.”

“That’s me. Mr. Subtle.” His lips don’t move, but I see the smile in his eyes. “Pink robe goes nicely with that thirty-eight.”

Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I glance down at my threadbare robe, then open the door the rest of the way. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”

“Yeah, but you’re still glad to see me.”

The truth of the matter is that he looks damn good standing there in that crisp shirt and those charcoal-colored trousers. Not a good key indicator for a prudent outcome to all this.

I motion him inside. “Is everything okay?”

“Definitely looking up.”

His presence fills the kitchen the instant he steps inside. It’s as if the air itself becomes charged with some electrical energy I feel all the way to my core.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says. “I know sleep is tough to come by right now.”

“Sleep is always hard to come by when we’re together.”

“I was talking about the case.”

“That, too.” Before I turn away from him, I see his eyes sweep the length of me. Trying not to let that rattle me, I set my gun on the kitchen table and flip on the light.

“Anything new on the case?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he crosses to the table, works his jacket off, and drapes it over a chair back. I watch as he slides his Glock from his shoulder holster, unfastens the buckle, then sets both on the table. “We got the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house. By the time the judge signed off, it was too late to get out there. Sheriff’s office wanted to wait until morning to execute it.” He turns to me. “I’ll need to get out of here early.”

“It’s already early,” I say.

“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”

“You’re such a sweet talker.”

“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”

I’ve known Tomasetti for about a year and a half now. After a shaky start and a little bit of head butting, we became friends—something that doesn’t occur naturally for either of us. Maybe because we have so much in common. Or maybe because not all of the things we share are good.

Trust is hard to come by for people like us. But he’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve never discussed it; the truth of the matter is, neither of us is very good at the whole male-female relationship thing. We’re even worse at communicating, especially when it comes to talking about our feelings. This is new ground, I suppose, but I like it. He keeps coming back for more. I keep letting him.

I go to the living room and switch on the stereo. I’ve always loved music, even when I was Amish and it was one of many forbidden fruits. Once, I stole a CD player from an English girl’s car when I sneaked out to the mall. It was filled with a mishmash of genres—rock, mostly—and I couldn’t get enough. I listened to those songs over and over until my datt caught me and made me return it. As an adult, there’s not nearly enough music in my life. I choose Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon and my nerves begin to smooth out.

I find Tomasetti standing at the doorway of my office, looking at the map and whiteboard I worked on earlier. He gives me a long look when I come up beside him. “You’ve been busy,” he says.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He turns his attention back to the whiteboard. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t know the suspect.”

We study the whiteboard for a full minute, neither of us speaking. “I think we’re missing something,” he says finally.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet.” He walks over to the map and reads aloud what I’ve written. “Once we figure out the motive, we’ll figure out the who.” He turns to me. “The overriding question being: Why the Amish?”

“Not just the Amish,” I remind him. “Young Amish who have considered leaving that way of life.”

He nods. “Who would be off ended by that? I mean, off ended so profoundly that he’d go to extreme measures?”

“Someone who is devout.” I toss out the first thing that comes to mind, playing off his question, brainstorming. “Someone who disapproves of the way these young people are living their lives. Someone who believes they should be punished.” I look at Tomasetti. “Frank Gilfillan and the Twelve Passages Church.”

“Is he trying to punish them? Recruit them? Or redeem them?”

“Maybe all three.”

“So the fact that these Amish teens are confused about their religious beliefs makes them vulnerable. That’s a benefit to Gilfillan. That’s how he finds them.”

“Maybe Annie King refused to be recruited,” I venture.

“That could fit,” Tomasetti says.

“I’m starting to like Gilfillan for this.” I find myself wanting to return to Buck Creek with him in the morning, so I can be there when they execute the warrant. But I can’t leave with Sadie missing. Not when the last missing girl turned up dead.

An image of Sadie flashes in my mind’s eye. I see her as she was that day on the bridge in her skimpy tank top, with her long brown arms and reckless, engaging smile. Sadie with a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Sadie rolling around on the ground and throwing punches with the abandon of a born street fighter.

“Tomasetti, I don’t want to lose this girl,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“Sadie is . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I almost said “special,” but I know in my heart she’s no more special than the others. All of them are someone’s daughter or son or brother or sister. All of them are loved.

“We’ll get him,” he says.

“She’s hard to handle. She won’t acquiesce.” I stare at the whiteboard, but I no longer see the words. “She might not have much time.”

“Kate, we’re doing everything we can.”

That’s one of the things I admire about Tomasetti; he’ll never prop me up with false hope. He’ll never make promises he can’t keep, no matter how desperately I need to hear them.

He crosses to me. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I smile, but it feels crooked on my face. “That I wish I wasn’t on the wagon?”

He’s standing so close, I can smell the remnants of his aftershave, feel the heat radiating from his body against mine. I see the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, the capillaries in eyes that are red from lack of sleep and too many hours on the road.

He frowns, but not in a serious way. “You’re beating yourself up because you’re not out there looking for her.”

The urge to argue is strong. But I don’t. Mainly because he’s right. “Do you want me to lie down on the sofa so you can ask me how I feel about that?”

“I know this is going to be a stunning revelation for you, Kate, but you and I need sleep and downtime, just like everyone else.”

“You’re not trying to tell me we’re human, are you?”

He offers a wan smile, but his eyes remain serious. “I wish I could tell you we’re going to go out there tomorrow and find her and bring her home. That we’re going to get this guy. We both know it doesn’t always work out that way.”

When I look away, he puts his fingertips under my chin and guides my gaze back to his. “The one thing I can tell you is that we’re doing our best. That’s all anyone can do. That’s got to be enough.”

I don’t intend to reach for him. But one moment, I’m standing there, feeling shredded and unbearably guilty. The next, my arms are around Tomasetti’s shoulders and his mouth is fastened to mine. The power of the kiss makes my head spin. My body surges to life with an intensity that shocks me. I’m caught in a flash flood and tumbling out of control. . . .

He grasps my biceps, and then my back is against the wall. His mouth trails kisses down my throat. His hands fumble at my belt and my robe falls open. His hands find my breasts. I hear myself gasp as callus-rough palms brush against sensitive skin. I’m having a difficult time catching my breath.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice shouts a warning. It tells me anything that feels this good can’t possibly be real or true or lasting.

I don’t listen.

He’s got the robe off my shoulders when I realize if I don’t stop this right now, we’re going to have sex either on the floor or on my desk, neither of which appeals.

I sidle right. Tomasetti follows and we stumble down the hall and into my bedroom. Dropping my robe on the floor, I draw back the covers and get into bed. Clothes rustle as he works off his shirt and steps out of his trousers.

And then he’s sliding into bed beside me. The familiar rush of what I can only describe as joy fills me when he puts his arms around me. My worries about Annie King and Sadie Miller and the case that has refused to come together fade into the background. And for a short time, we shut out the rest of the world. We take refuge in each other’s arms and this safe harbor we’ve built.

I wake, to find Tomasetti standing beside the bed, naked, his hair still wet from a shower. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stretching.

“I’ve got to go,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost five. I’m late.”

But he climbs into the bed beside me. I snuggle against his shoulder, reveling in the solid warmth of him, the feel of his arm around me, the smell of soap and aftershave and his own distinct scent.

“There’s never enough time,” he says.

“You’re always sneaking away in the middle of the night.”

“Not by choice. I’ve missed you.”

Surprised by the seriousness of his tone, I raise up on an elbow and look at him. “Same goes.”

“We could make this a little more permanent.”

Shock rattles through me with such force that for an instant I can’t speak. “What do you mean?”

He surprises me by laughing. “For God’s sake, Kate, don’t look so terrified.”

I feign punching his shoulder. “I’m not.”

He sobers, looks away, then finally meets my gaze. “I found a house,” he says. “In Wooster. It’s old and big, with four bedrooms and a barn. It’s set on a couple of acres with a pond and lots of trees.”

The statement hits me like ice water splashed in my face. “Wooster?” I repeat dumbly as my brain struggles to sift through the implications.

“It’s less than an hour from the Richfield office. An easy commute for me. And thirty minutes from Painters Mill.”

“You want to buy a house?”

“I want to live with you,” he says firmly, but he’s watching me carefully. “The house doesn’t matter, Kate. It doesn’t matter where we live. We can rent. What ever you want.”

“That’s a big step, Tomasetti.”

“It is. But we have something good.” His expression softens and he kisses my temple. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

I try to laugh, but my throat is too tight. “I didn’t know you were thinking about . . . moving in together.”

“It would allow us to spend more time together.” He shrugs. “Less commuting for me.”

“More time for sex,” I say with a laugh.

“There is that.”

I stare at him, trying to digest everything he’s just laid on me. Admittedly, there’s a part of me that’s excited and flattered at the prospect of living with this man who is such a big part of my life, a man I admire and am wildly attracted to. But another part of me is terrified it would change things, bring something unwanted to a relationship that’s good the way it is.

Knowing Tomasetti has enriched my life in ways I never imagined. In ways I never believed possible. I’m a better person because of him. I try harder because I know he will judge me, and I can’t bear the thought of not measuring up. In a world that’s stingy with friendship and trust, I’ve found a deep well of both with the most unlikely of sources.

I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found that with Tomasetti. I love him every way a woman can love a man. I love the part of him that is damaged and complex and difficult.

Does he love me? He’s never said the words. He’s never given me any indication as to the seriousness of his feelings for me. But is that proclamation some kind of unspoken prerequisite to shacking up? I don’t know the answer to that, either.

What I do know is that three years ago, Tomasetti went through a horrific ordeal when his wife and children were murdered. He’s come a long way since. He’s recovered as much as a man can after something like that. But is he ready to love another woman?

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says.

“I’m trying not to screw this up.”

“Nothing to screw up,” he tells me. “Either you want to live with me or you don’t.”

“It’s not quite that black and white,” I tell him. “We’re in a good place right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Leaning close, he brushes his mouth against my cheek and slides from the bed. “You don’t have to decide in the next ten seconds. I have to go.”

I watch as he steps into his trousers, jams his arms into the same shirt he wore the night before. “Tomasetti—”

“I left the rental parked in your driveway.” He doesn’t look at me as he buttons the shirt and cuffs. “I’m going to need the Tahoe.”

“Keys are on the counter by the fridge.” I sit up, find my robe at the foot of the bed, and slip it on.

“Go back to sleep.” He starts toward the hall.

“Tomasetti.” I follow him, barefoot, knotting the belt as I go. “We need to talk about this.”

I catch him in the kitchen just as he snags the keys off the counter. “I get it, Kate. It’s okay.”

“I’m terrible at this,” I blurt. “I’m a coward.”

“No you’re not.” He opens the door, pauses with his back to me. “On both counts. I have to go.”

“I need to know if we’re okay,” I say.

“We are,” he tells me, and closes the door behind him.