Sworn to Silence

CHAPTER 25

Following the chief of police on some half-baked hunch probably wasn’t a very good idea. With the temperature dropping fast and the snow coming down in earnest, John figured it fell into the downright stupid category. He was reaching for the ignition key when headlights cut through the darkness, telling him a vehicle was coming down the lane. “Shit,” he muttered.

He’d parked a dozen yards from the mouth of the lane, but he’d be lucky if she didn’t spot him. If she looked hard enough before turning onto the road, she’d see him. He might be a good liar, but he’d have one hell of a time explaining this. Leaning against the seat back, he watched the Explorer barrel down the driveway. It hit the road with enough speed to fishtail and then sped toward town.

Relieved, John started the engine, turned up the heat and put the Tahoe in gear. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was following her. Kate Burkholder hadn’t done anything wrong. Aside from not calling in the feds or the state for help, she was investigating the murders much the same way he would have had he been in her shoes.

It was the appearance of the mysterious note that had aroused his suspicions. Mayor Brock had delivered it just that morning. Had it come from anyone other than an Amish bishop, John might have written it off as a hoax. It was, after all, ludicrous to believe Kate knew the identity of the killer as the note had claimed.

But over the years John had learned to trust his gut. Right now it was telling him she was hiding something. Did she know the killer? Was he a relative? A lover? Was he Amish? Was she protecting him?

The questions gnawed at him as he followed her toward town. It was after nine P.M.; she was probably going to call it a night. That was fine by him. He could use a hot shower and some food. Not to mention a drink . . .

But Kate didn’t turn onto Main Street. Instead she headed south on the highway, a little too fast considering the road conditions. Curious, John fell back to a discreet distance and followed her into Coshocton County.

“Where the hell are you going?” He punched off the headlights as she turned onto a little-used road. Surprise rippled through him when she pulled into an abandoned grain facility. Intrigued, he watched the Explorer disappear behind the building. John parked a hundred yards away and shut down the engine.

“What are you up to, Kate?” he muttered.

The only answer he got was the tinkle of snow pellets against the windshield and the nagging insistence of his own suspicions.

I know coming here is a mistake. Chances are, I’ll dig until I’m exhausted, frostbitten and disheartened, and still not find what I’m looking for. In some twisted way, I want to believe proof of Daniel Lapp’s death will exonerate me for not telling anyone he could be a suspect in these murders.

Gathering the shovel, the pickax and my Mag-Lite, I enter the structure through the rear door. The place seems different now that I’m alone. The wind tears at the loose sheet metal outside and whistles through every crack, filling the place with the ghostly moans and groans of some Halloweenesque haunted house.

Cold nips at my face as I walk the length of the building. Though I was raised in farm country, I’ve always been foggy on the mechanical workings of the grain elevator. After that night with Jacob, however, I hit a couple of Web sites and learned the basics. Fifty years ago, trucks loaded with wheat or corn drove through the overhead door and onto the platform to be weighed. Once the truck was weighed, the driver pulled forward and dumped the load of grain into the “boot pit.” The empty vehicle was weighed again and the driver was paid per pound for the weight difference.

“So where the hell is the boot pit?” I say aloud.

The overhead door shudders with a gust of wind. I hear snow pinging against steel. Picking up the Mag-Lite, I shine it around the weigh platform. The boot pit grate should be nearby. I set down the flashlight and ram the tip of the shovel into the ground where I think the truck drive-through aisle might have been—and a hollow thud sounds.

Using the shovel like an oar, I scrape away dry earth and spot a rotting piece of plywood. Dropping to my knees, I use my hands and tear at the ground like a crazy woman. I hear gasping sounds echoing off the walls. It scares me when I realize those sounds are coming from me. Unearthing the plywood, I drag it aside. Hope leaps through me when I see the rusty grate. The boot pit is about eight feet square and twelve feet deep. The elevator leg has long since been removed, but the hole was never filled. Grabbing the flashlight, I shine the beam into the pit. I see chunks of broken concrete, loose dirt, gravel and a pile of broken boards.

I use the shovel to pry at the grate, but the heavy piece of steel doesn’t budge. I keep a cable in my vehicle during the winter months and use it for hauling stranded cars out of snow. It strikes me that I can use it to move the grate. Grabbing my keys, I run to the Explorer and back it up to the grate. When the vehicle is in position, I snatch up the cable and secure the hooked end to the Explorer’s undercarriage. I clip the other end to the grate. Sliding behind the wheel, I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and give it gas. The cable goes taut. The engine revs. The tires spin and grab. Steel screeches against steel as the grate is pulled from its ancient nest.

I drag it about three feet, then kill the engine and get out. Snatching up the Mag-Lite, I shine it into the hole. It’s too deep for me to jump; the last thing I need is a broken ankle. Realizing I can use the cable to rappel down, I unhook the end from the Explorer and drop it into the pit. I toss the shovel in next. Finally, I sit on the edge, grasp the cable and lower myself into darkness. The air smells of earth and dust and decay. The instant my feet touch the ground, I swing the flashlight beam around the pit. A rat skitters across a pile of weathered boards.

The shovel lies on the ground a few feet away. I pick it up and use it to tap on the pile of wood. I’m not unduly frightened of rodents, but I don’t want one jumping on me. Propping my flashlight on a cinder block, I start dragging boards aside. Dust curls up to irritate my nose and eyes, but I don’t slow down. I lift a length of sheet metal and toss it aside. A rotting two-by-six crumples in my hands. I look down and find myself staring at several small pale objects in the dirt.

I snag the flashlight. My blood freezes in my veins when I realize the objects are teeth. Nearby, I discern a tattered scrap of fabric. Is this what’s left of Daniel Lapp? Squatting for a closer look, I identify several ribs still attached to a length of spine. Then I spot the skull and I know. Daniel Lapp is dead. The knowledge fills me with a bizarre mix of relief and dread. I’d been certain he was the killer. But if not Daniel, then who?

I don’t know how long I stand there. It’s as if this revelation has paralyzed me. The logical side of my brain tells me to bury this part of my past and go home. Forget about Lapp and concentrate on finding the killer. Salvage what’s left of my career. I begin dragging wood over the remains. When that’s done I go to the cable and proceed to climb out of the pit. I’m in good shape, but it’s not easy. I’m nearly to the top when I catch a glimpse of movement above. Too large to be a dog or raccoon. Someone’s there. Shock jolts me with such force that I nearly lose my grip. I freeze, my body shaking, my thoughts reeling.

Did someone follow me?

I look up, but see nothing. I hear myself breathing hard. My hands ache from clutching the cable. I’m aware of my gun against my side. But even armed, I’m in a vulnerable position. If someone wanted to harm me, this would be a prime opportunity.

I begin a frantic climb to the top. The toes of my boots dig into the walls. Loose dirt crumbles. My breaths echo off the walls. I slide my hands up the cable, pulling until my muscles quiver with exertion.

Finally, at the mouth of the pit, I drag myself out. Shaking and gasping for breath, I look around and get the shock of my life. John Tomasetti stands ten feet away, his flashlight in one hand, a sleek Sig Sauer semiautomatic in the other. His eyes burn into mine and then he blinds me with the light.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

My mind scrambles for a lie. My pulse roars like a jet engine on takeoff. I can only imagine how bizarre this must seem to him. I’m covered with dirt and probably look as strung out as a junkie on a three-week binge. Lucky for me I’m pretty fast on my feet. “I’m following up on a lead.” I make a show of brushing dust from my pants. “What are you doing here?”

He ignores my question, his flashlight beam moving from me to the pit. “Lead on what?”

I don’t want him near the pit. I’m not sure how well I covered those bones. I want to slide the grate back into place and get the hell out of there. “An anonymous call about illegal dumping. Guy claiming someone dumped paint and some type of solvent.”

It’s a viable lie. An ordinary person would believe it. But John Tomasetti is no ordinary schmuck. I can tell by his expression he doesn’t believe me.

“Did you find anything?” he asks.

“Not a thing.” I pull the cable from the pit and start toward the Explorer. “Crank call, probably. Teenagers. We get that here.”

“Maybe I’ll have a look for myself.”

“There’s nothing down there but rats.” It strikes me then that it’s no coincidence Tomasetti is here. He didn’t drive by and see my headlights. The son of a bitch followed me.

The realization rattles me further as I slide behind the wheel. Tomasetti circles the pit as I move the Explorer into position. I need to get that grate over the pit before he decides to act on all that suspicion I see in his eyes.

I back the Explorer to the grate and slide out. My hands shake so badly now I can barely get the hook around the undercarriage.

“You nervous about something, Chief?”

“Just cold.”

“You’re in an awful big hurry to cover that hole.”

“I just want to get home.”

He pauses. “Kate, what the fuck are you really doing?”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’m too close to some precipitous edge. Once I go over the brink, I may not be able to drag myself out. “Look, this is the second complaint I’ve taken about dumping here,” I snap. “I didn’t feel like going home, so I’m following up.”

“Is that why you’re shaking?”

I finish with the hook and straighten, meeting his gaze. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold.”

“You’re fucking sweating. Covered with dirt. Look at you. Now what the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I don’t appreciate you following me around, spying on me. Whatever it is you’re doing, I want it to stop. You got it?”

“You’re lying to me and I want to know why.”

I laugh. “You need to talk to someone about all that paranoia, Tomasetti.”

“You didn’t go into that pit because you were following up on a complaint.”

“Like you know.”

Abruptly, he strides toward me, shines the light in my eyes. “You want to know what I know, Chief? I know that someone in this town believes you know who the killer is. I think you’re hiding something.” He thrusts a finger at the pit. “And I know you didn’t go into that goddamn hole because of some anonymous tip.” He circles the boot pit, shining his light into the darkness. “If I go down there, what am I going to find?”

“What do you want from me? Did Detrick tell you to follow me? Or was it the town council? Are you their new lapdog?”

One side of his mouth lifts. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling. “You know better than that.”

“Do I?” I start toward the Explorer. I’m close to pulling this off. All I have to do is slide the grate back into place and leave. I don’t think he’ll go to the trouble of moving it again.

I climb behind the wheel and twist the key. The engine turns over. I reach for the shifter. The next thing I know the door flies open. I gasp when Tomasetti reaches in, turns off the ignition and takes my keys.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jumping out, I make a wild grab for the keys.

He drops them into his pocket. “Let’s just say I’m following up on a hunch.”

“This is ridiculous. Give me my keys. Now.”

Removing the cable from the grate, he tosses one end into the pit.

Panic ignites in my chest. I can’t let him find those bones. “You’re overstepping.”

“Not the first time I’ve been accused of that.”

“I swear to God I’ll have your job for this.”

Taking hold of the cable, he braces his legs against the side and drops into the hole like a rock climber.

“Tomasetti, damn it, stop playing games. I want to leave.”

No answer.

“Damn it! There’s nothing there!” I look around wildly. For a crazy instant I actually consider pulling out the cable and stranding him. Of course, I can’t do that. I’m going to have to deal with this. With what I’ve done. The secrets I’ve covered up all these years.

My entire life flashes before my eyes. My career will be ruined. My parents’ memory, their reputations, will be dragged through the mud right along with the rest of the Amish community. My brother and sister and nephews will suffer. I could find myself facing a grand jury. Worse case scenario, I could be tried and sent to prison for murder . . .

I rush to the pit and look down to see Tomasetti shove a piece of plywood out of the way with his foot. I can see the skull from where I stand. Dizziness descends. I feel sick and terrified. I can’t believe this is happening.

“What the fuck?”

Turning away, I press my hand to my stomach. I can’t cover this up. It’s over. The secrets end here. Nausea seesaws in my gut. I make it ten feet before I throw up. The thud of my knees hitting the ground surprises me. I’ve been knocked unconscious before, but I’ve never fainted. The swirl of confusion tells me I’m close now. Somehow I lose time, seconds or maybe even minutes, because the next thing I know Tomasetti is kneeling beside me.

I jolt when his hand touches my shoulder. I’m embarrassed and humiliated, but I’m not sure I’m finished puking so I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge him. I look down at my gloves in the dirt and I feel like crying.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

I dry heave and spit.

He waits a moment before speaking. “Those remains. Do you know who it is?”

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Daniel Lapp.”

“Who’s Daniel Lapp?”

“An Amish man.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Sixteen years.”

“How did he die?”

“Shotgun blast.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

He pauses. “Who?”

“Me,” I say and the tears come in a rush.