CHAPTER 29
Some nights are darker and colder and longer than others. This is one of those nights. It’s only eight P.M., but it feels like midnight. I’m hungover and so unsettled I can’t stand being in my own skin. After Tomasetti and Glock left earlier, I had another drink. Not to mention a good old-fashioned cry. But crying and drinking myself into a stupor aren’t my style. I’m more proactive than that. Yet here I am, pacing the house, bawling like some high school girl, doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: feeling sorry for myself.
I should be relieved a suspect has been arrested. I should be elated knowing no more women will die. My career might be in the toilet, but there are worse fates. So why the hell do I feel like someone has just ripped out my guts?
It’s not until I’m in my Mustang and heading toward the Hershberger farm that I identify the core of my disquiet: Jonas is not a viable suspect.
I’ve always made a conscious effort to keep my prejudices and preconceived notions removed from my job. I know, perhaps better than anyone, that the Amish are not perfect. They’re human. They make mistakes. They break rules and traditions. Sometimes they even break the law. Some have strayed from basic Amish values, going so far as to drive cars and use electricity. But not Jonas. I know for a fact he doesn’t drive. Not a vehicle. He doesn’t even use a motorized tractor for his farm. There’s no way in hell he drove that snowmobile.
That’s not to mention the fact that he doesn’t even come close to matching the profile of this killer. I’ve known Jonas most of my life; he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. When I was a kid, Mamm and Datt bought pork from the Hershberger family. Once, while Datt and Jonas’s father were talking, Jonas took me to the barn to see their new kittens. The mama cat, a pretty little calico, had already birthed four kittens. Jonas was so wrapped up in the new babies, he didn’t notice that the cat was in distress. Lying on her side, she was panting, her pink tongue hanging out. I could see her little body straining to expel another kitten. We didn’t know how to help her, so Jonas ran to his father and begged him to take the cat to the English veterinarian in town. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Jonas cried like a baby. I’d been embarrassed for him and upset that the cat was suffering and would probably die right along with her kittens. I learned later that after the mama cat passed, Jonas bottle-fed the four babies, and they survived.
Such a small thing in the scope of a lifetime. I know people change. I know life can take a toll, and time has a way of turning innocence to cynicism, sweet to bitter, kindness to cruelty. But I also know that most serial murderers are sociopaths from birth. As children, many begin their dark journey with animals. Few are made later in life.
It’s been years since I spoke to Jonas, and I know he’s changed. I’ve heard the rumors. After his wife’s passing five years ago, he became somewhat of an eccentric. He lives alone and has been known to carry on conversations with people who aren’t there, including his dead wife. His farm is run-down. He doesn’t exercise good manure management and the smell is terrible. He keeps to himself, and no one seems to know much about him anymore. That doesn’t keep them from talking.
I want to speak with Jonas, but I know Detrick won’t let me. I settle for the next best thing and drive to his brother’s farm. James Hershberger’s place is almost as decrepit as Jonas’s. I pray I don’t run into law enforcement as I pull into the driveway. The last thing I need is for someone to figure out I’m not as gone as they’d like me to be. A buggy is parked at the rear of the house. A Percheron gelding stands quietly with its rear leg cocked, its coat covered with snow. I park behind the buggy and take the sidewalk to the porch.
The door opens before I knock. James Hershberger stands just inside, his expression telling me I’m not welcome.
“I just heard what happened to Jonas,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“I do not wish to speak with you, Katie.”
Quickly, I explain that I’ve been fired.
He looks surprised, but doesn’t open the door to let me in. “I do not understand why the English police have arrested my brother for these terrible deeds.”
“Does he have an alibi?” I ask.
The Amish man shakes his head. “Jonas is a solitary man. I try to be a good brother, but I do not see him often. He leads a simple life. For days in a row, he does not leave the farm.”
“Do you know what kind of evidence the police have?”
“The policeman claims to have found blood on the porch.” James fingers his full beard. “Katie, my brother is a butcher. There is often blood. But it does not belong to any of the women.”
“Have you been to see him?”
“The police will not allow it.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “He did not do these things. I stake my life on that.”
“I know he lost his wife a few years ago. How did he handle her death? Did it change him in any way?”
“He was deeply saddened, of course, but neither bitter nor angry. Her death only served to bring him closer to God.”
“Does he drive a vehicle?” I ask.
“Never. He still uses the horses to farm.” He looks at me, his expression beseeching. “Katie, he would not go against God’s will. It is not in his nature.”
Once again I’m reminded of the kittens. Reaching out, I touch James’s arm. “I know,” I say and start toward the Mustang.
I don’t want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. I consider driving to Jonas’s farm, but if the police are still processing the scene they won’t let me on the property. I wonder what forensic testing on the blood will reveal. Is it possible the shy Amish boy I once knew transformed into a monster in the span of twenty years?
I spot John Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in front of my house, and a small rise of anticipation runs the length of me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m looking forward to seeing him. I want to believe it’s because of the case. I don’t let myself analyze it any more closely than that.
We meet on the front porch. “What does Detrick have on Hershberger?” I ask as I open the door.
“I sent the blood to the lab.” He’s got snow in his hair and on his shoulders. He’s staring at me with those intense eyes and I realize I like being the focus of his attention. “It’s human.”
The news puts a chink in my hope for a quick exoneration for Jonas. I hang John’s coat in the closet. “Have they typed it?”
“The blood is O negative. Hershberger is A positive,” he says. “Brenda Johnston was O negative. DNA will tell us if it’s hers.”
“When do you expect results?”
“Five days. Seven max.”
None of this is good news for Jonas. I’m keenly aware of John behind me as I walk toward the kitchen. Flipping on the light, I go to the stove, fill the teakettle with water and set it on the flame. “You think he did it?” I ask.
“If the blood is from one of the vics, it’s a slam dunk.”
I turn to Tomasetti. “I’ve known Jonas since we were kids. He’s not a violent man.”
“People change, Kate.”
“Have you interviewed him?”
John nods.
“What do you think?”
He makes the hand sign for crazy. “I think he’s a fuckin’ loon.”
“Emotional problems don’t make him a killer.”
“Doesn’t vindicate him, either.”
“What about an alibi?”
“He rarely leaves the farm.”
“Tell me about the evidence.”
“In addition to the blood evidence, a BCI tech found a shoe believed to have belonged to one of the victims. A bloody length of baling wire. A knife that fits the specs of the murder weapon.”
The news shocks me. “Don’t you think that’s just a little too neat? Think about it. He hasn’t left a single clue behind and all of a sudden he leaves all this stuff at his own property?”
“Kate.” Surprise ripples through me when he wraps his fingers around my upper arms. “Stop. It’s over. We got him.”
I meet his gaze. “Jonas didn’t do it.”
“Because he’s Amish?”
“For God’s sake, John, he doesn’t drive. He couldn’t have been driving that snowmobile.”
“Or so he says.”
“He doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Profiling isn’t an exact science.”
I sigh, wishing I could be satisfied the way everyone else seems to be. “Did you run the modified MO criteria through VICAP?”
He groans in exasperation. “Anyone ever tell you you have a hard time letting go?”
“I want to look at the reports.”
“Look, I told the analyst not to bother, since we made an arrest.”
“John, please.”
He sighs. “You’re wasting your time, but I’ll call her back and ask her to e-mail them to you.”
“Thank you.” Raising up on my tiptoes, I kiss his cheek.
“They want me back in Columbus, Kate. I came to say good-bye.”
This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. “When are you leaving?”
“I’m packed. I was going to take off tonight.”
In the last couple of days John has become an unlikely ally. He’s been a source of support and information. I realize he’s been a friend, too. “I’m glad you came by,” I say.
One side of his mouth hikes into a half-smile. “You just wanted to pump me for information about the case.”
“That, too.” I like his sense of humor. I wonder what it would be like to have him in my life. “I was just getting used to having you around.”
“Most people just want to get rid of me.”
I laugh outright, but I’m suddenly uncomfortable. I’m not very good at farewells. I can’t meet his gaze. I start to turn away, but he reaches out and stops me.
“We left something unfinished earlier,” he says.
“You mean the kiss?”
“For starters.”
He leans into me until his body is flush against mine. My heart pounds like a metronome run amok. For the first time in days, thoughts of the case leave my head, and my entire focus shifts to John. Lowering his head, he brushes his mouth against mine. His breath smells of peppermint. The kiss is gentle, but not tentative. Pulling away, he slides his hands to my face. “I’ve been wondering what might have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.”
“I probably would have chickened out.”
“Or I would have said something inappropriate and pissed you off.”
“Maybe we’re just a little out of practice.”
“You think maybe we could stumble through the basics?”
“If we put our minds to it and stay focused we could give it a shot. See what happens.”
We grin stupidly at each other. I don’t want this moment to be awkward, but it is. I realize neither of us are good at this kind of intimacy.
“You want a drink?” he asks.
“Will it help with the butterflies?”
“Helps with all sorts of things.” Stepping back, he goes to the cupboard above the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of vodka. I turn off the stove, gather glasses and set them on the counter.
Scratching at the window draws my attention and I see the orange tabby, his face covered with a frosting of snow.
“Cold night for that little guy.” John crosses to the door and opens it. The cat darts inside, hisses at John, then disappears into the living room.
“He’s warming up to you,” I say.
“I’ve got that stray cat thing going.” He pours into our glasses and raises his to mine. “Here’s to the end of a long and difficult case.”
I clink my glass to his, and try not to wonder if the case is really over. We knock back our drinks without breaking eye contact. I know what’s going to happen next. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about acting on the reckless impulses running hot in my blood.
He takes my glass and sets in on the counter. The next thing I know I’m being swept into his arms. “What are you doing?”
“I was thinking about trying to get you into bed.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
He kisses me, but this time it’s not tentative. It’s the kiss of a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. “So are you okay with this?” he whispers.
He’s asking about the rape, I realize. “At one point in my life, I would have run away from this moment and never looked back. Or maybe I would have sabotaged whatever relationship we’d begun.”
“I thought I had the market cornered on the relationship-busting thing,” he says.
“You don’t.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Probably.”
He looks at me with those dark, intense eyes. “No pretenses, Kate. It’s just us. You and me.”
“And our baggage.”
Laughing outright, he carries me down the hall and starts into the first bedroom.
“Wrong room,” I say.
“Sorry.” He backs into the hall and carries me into my bedroom.
He puts me down next to the bed. His eyes go to the old kerosene lamp on my night table. “Does that thing work?”
“It belonged to my mamm.” One of the few things I have of hers. “Matches are in the night table.”
“Don’t go anywhere.” He softens the words with a smile.
My nerves are snapping now. I watch as he removes the globe from the lamp. A match flares, then flickering light fills the room. He crosses to me, sets his hands on my shoulders and gazes into my eyes. “It’s been a long time for me.” He glances away, then back. “Not since Nancy.”
“Two years is a long time to be alone.”
“Plenty of demons to keep me company.”
I think about everything I’ve read or heard about him, and I wonder if the stories are true. If he went rogue after his wife and kids were murdered. I wonder if he would tell me the truth if I asked. I wonder if I really want to know.
He slides his hands to the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift my arms and he pulls it over my head. His gaze flicks to my bra, skims down my belly, lower. He runs his hands through my hair, mussing it. His fingers linger on either side of my face, then he snags the straps of my bra with his thumbs and tugs them over my shoulders.
Cool air washes over my breasts, and I shiver. I’m keenly aware of his hands going to the fly of my jeans. His fingers tremble as he unfastens the button, then tugs down the zipper. Self-consciousness creeps over me. Needing something to do with my hands, I reach for the buttons of his shirt. But my fingers are shaking and I fumble them.
John takes my hands in his and kisses my knuckles. “How is it that you can chase a madman into the woods in the dead of night and not even break a sweat, but when it comes to this, you’re shaking so hard you can’t even manage the buttons on my shirt?”
“I think if push came to shove, I could probably kick your ass, Tomasetti.”
He grins. “I think you probably could, too.”
I try to smile, end up flushing hotly. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Yes you are.” He touches his mouth to my forehead. “Don’t be nervous. It’s only me.”
He unbuttons his shirt and it opens to a solid chest covered with a thatch of dark hair. He’s muscular, but not buff. Thin, but it’s a long-distance-runner kind of thin. My thoughts evaporate when he tugs my jeans down my hips. I step out of them, then watch as he kicks his own slacks aside.
His touch is electric, positive and negative charges skittering over every nerve ending in my body. Slowly, he backs me to the bed, pushes me back and comes down on top of me. Arousal comes in a flash flood. It courses through me with every hammer strike beat of my heart. I arch, wanting him, wanting this moment, wanting too much.
As John eases his body into mine, I feel as if we’re the center of the universe and a kind God has blessed two imperfect people with a perfect moment.