Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 31

Ten minutes later, Pickles and I are in my Explorer, bound for the Yoder apple farm. My police radio crackles with activity as my officers and Holmes County sheriff’s deputies are dispatched to several high-water areas. I call Glock as I pull onto the highway. “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” I begin.

“I figured I was going to get a call from you with all this flooding. What’s up?”

“The rain isn’t the only thing wreaking havoc.” I give him a condensed version of my theory on Ruth Weaver.

“You want me to go with you?”

“I’ve got Pickles with me. We’re heading out there now.”

He makes an indecipherable noise in his throat, and I quickly add. “I need you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston. There’s a possibility she’ll show up there.”

“What about Blue Branson?”

“T.J.’s on his way there. I can’t imagine Weaver making a move on the police station, but…” I sigh, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. “She’s unstable and tough to predict. Do me a favor and wear your vest, will you?”

“I’ll head over to Johnston’s now.”

I disconnect as I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Yoder place. Rain pelts the windshield as I pass the house and park in the gravel a few yards from the back door. Jamming the shifter into Park, I turn and pull a slicker from the backseat. “We’re just going to talk to her. I’m going to knock on the back door. I want you to go around to the front and make sure no one leaves. Don’t knock, okay?”

“Got it.”

I pull on the slicker and we disembark simultaneously. I wait until Pickles is around the side of the house; then I approach the back door. The rain is coming down so hard, it stings my exposed skin. I can’t hear anything over the downpour, and visibility is down to just a few yards.

Ever aware of the .38 against my hip, I use the heel of my hand to knock. To my surprise, the door rolls open, and I think, Shit. A police officer must exercise caution when entering any premises. Even in a benign situation, there’s a risk of being mistaken for an intruder and getting your ass shot off by an armed homeowner. That’s not to mention the rights and privacy issues anytime you enter a home without a warrant or the express permission of the owner. But certain circumstances transcend those things, including concern for the homeowner’s well-being. Several gnarly possibilities run through my head as I stand there, trying to decide what to do next. I’m not 100 percent certain Hannah Yoder is Ruth Weaver, which means she could be in danger, too.

“Mrs. Yoder?” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the police department. Is everything all right?”

The pound of rain is thunderous, making it impossible for me to hear anything inside or out. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I step into the mudroom and call out for her again. “Hannah! Are you home? Is everything all right?”

No response.

I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my pistol, keeping it low at my side. I walk through the mudroom to the kitchen and find it dark and empty. I go right and peer into the living room, but there’s no one there. Through the curtains at the front door, I see Pickles’ silhouette. Quickly, I ascend the stairs to the second level and check the bedrooms, the closets and the bathroom, but there’s no one there. When I come downstairs, I find Pickles standing in the mudroom.

“No one here,” he says.

I holster my sidearm. “Let’s check the barn.”

Exiting through the back door, we slog through mushy gravel and ankle-deep puddles toward the barn fifty yards away. All the while, I keep an eye on the house for movement or light. I slide open the big door and step into the large structure. Like many of the older barns in this part of Ohio, the floor is hard-packed dirt. I notice the buggy immediately. To my right are stairs that lead to the loft. Ahead are two stalls, each occupied by a horse.

“Could she have a second buggy?” Pickles asks. “Another horse?”

“It’s possible, but not probable.” I walk to the buggy and see mud, still wet, caked on the wheels. “This one’s been used recently.”

“So if she didn’t take the buggy, where the hell is she?”

“Her husband just died. It’s possible one of the local Amish families came by and picked her up. They rally when something like that happens.” I’m looking at Pickles as I speak. I can tell by his expression that neither of us believes it.

“Yeah and people confuse me with Tom Selleck,” he grumbles.

I’m in the process of closing the door when I happen to glance down and see tire tread marks in the dirt. I kneel and set the beam of my Maglite on it for a closer look.

Pickles squats beside me. “Those ain’t from no buggy.”

I look around, silently cursing the dark and the pound of rain against the tin roof. “I can’t think of a single logical reason why someone would have a vehicle out here.”

“You think she’s got a car?” he asks.

I unclip my cell and speed-dial Mona.

“Hey, Chief.” She sounds breathless and stressed. “Phones are lit up like a Christmas tree. People bugging out all along the creek.”

“I need you to check with DMV to see if anyone with the name of Ruth Weaver, Wanetta Hochstetler, or Becky Weaver in Pennsylvania or Ohio has a vehicle registered to them. While you’re at it, check Hannah and Hoch Yoder, too.”

“I’m on it.”

“Call me.”

I hit End and clip my phone to my belt. “There’s one more place I want to check.”

Pickles gives me a quizzical look.

“The old Hochstetler place,” I tell him.

“I guess it’s the perfect night for ghost hunting,” he mutters, and we walk back out into the rain.

*   *   *

Because of water on the road and low visibility, I end up creeping along at thirty miles an hour, and it takes us fifteen minutes to reach the Hochstetler farm. I nearly miss my turn into the lane, brake hard enough to skid, and then jam it into four-wheel drive and slosh up the hill. I traverse mud puddles deep enough to swallow a tire and park several yards from the hollow where the house had once stood. I kill the engine, and in the darkness and flickering lightning, the place looks like the set of some B horror movie.

“Never liked this place,” Pickles grumbles.

“You don’t believe in all that ghost talk, do you?”

He doesn’t answer, and my attempt at humor is lost.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, the old farm has a sad, abandoned appearance. The maple tree that had once stood tall in the front yard is still there but long dead. Some of the branches have rotted and fallen to the ground amongst hip-high brown weeds.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” I tell him. “Let’s take a quick look around and get back to the station.”

He points. “If she’s got a vehicle, she might’ve stowed it in that old round barn over there.”

I set my hand against the door handle and look at Pickles. “Just in case, you might want to keep your sidearm handy. She’s armed.”

Flipping up my hood, I get out of the Explorer. The rain hammers down on me in torrents. I can hear it pinging against the Explorer, the tin roof of the old round barn twenty yards away, and plunking into the standing water in the old basement like hailstones.

My slicker comes to my knees, and the lower half of my slacks and feet are soaked in seconds. Usually, if I’m approaching a scene and I don’t want to be visible, I wouldn’t risk using a flashlight. But nights are incredibly dark in Amish Country. No streetlights or porch lights. With the thick cloud cover, visibility is nearly down to zero. The last thing I want to do is end up in some hole or ditch, so I pull out my Maglite and we start toward the barn.

I train the beam on the ground, looking for tire tracks or footprints, any sign that someone has been here, but all I see are weeds and mud, stands of saplings, and the occasional piece of trash. The old round barn has stood on this spot for over a century. But for the last three decades, the structure has gone without maintenance and looks every bit of its hundred years.

“I remember when this was a showplace,” Pickles says as we go around the side of the building toward the rear. “Old Willis Hochstetler and his pop worked their tails off. Made some damn nice furniture, too. Not the kind of stuff you find today.”

We reach the back of the barn. The door has been torn off its hinges and hangs at a perilous angle. I enter first. The smells of rotting wood and rodent piss greets me. I shine my light along the perimeter of the room. Broken windows—either from hail or vandals or both—allowed the elements to invade. The once-gleaming oak floors are warped and rotting in places. The support beams show signs of termites. Mindless graffiti has been spray-painted on one wall in fluorescent orange. A pile of what looks like coyote shit sits on the seat of a rail chair that has the back rest broken off.

“Hate to see this place go to crap like this,” Pickles mutters.

“Me, too.” I sigh. “I think we’ve struck out. Let’s go.”

We take the same route out of the building and start toward the Explorer. We’re midway there when Pickles calls out, “I’m going to take a quick look-see in all that brush over there, Chief.”

I glance to my left to realize he’s referring to the place where the house once stood, which is little more than a partially caved-in pit now. The once-manicured landscaping is overgrown, some of the bushes jutting twelve feet high. A tangle of vines hang down from the branches of a pear tree.

I’ve got my beam trained on Pickles when I notice the tire ruts in the grass. They’re pounded down by the rain, but I don’t think they’re very old. “Pickles! I’ve got—”

The crack! of a gunshot cuts off my words. It’s not loud, and almost drowned out by the rain. Ducking slightly, I jerk my beam back to Pickles, surprised that he hasn’t moved to take cover. Then I noticed that he’s stooped at an odd angle. The realization that he’s been hit registers like a punch to my forehead. “Pickles!”

His Maglite drops to the ground next to him. He looks down at it, staggers left as if he’s trying to pick it up, then goes to one knee. His right hand reaches out to me. His eyes meet mine. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. Then he reels sideways and falls into the pit.

A hundred thoughts hit my brain at once. I have no idea where the shot came from. There’s no cover. I know Pickles was wearing a vest, but that doesn’t mean he was completely protected from a bullet. I don’t know how badly he’s injured. I don’t know if he’s conscious—or dead. And I’m ever aware that he just toppled into water deep enough to drown him.

I hit my lapel mike. “Officer down!” I scream the words, barely recognizing my own voice. “Ten thirty-three! Fuck! Ten thirty-three!”

I fumble for my .38. The slicker hinders me, costing me precious seconds. Then my sidearm’s in my hand and I’m sprinting toward the place I last saw Pickles. “Police!” I don’t know where the shooter is, but I shout the words anyway.

Movement ahead and to my left draws my attention. I catch a glimpse of a figure in the periphery of my beam. “Drop your weapon! Police!” I take aim and fire three times.

Vaguely I’m aware of my radio lighting up with activity, telling me every cop within ten miles will be here in short order. I don’t think Pickles has that kind of time.

Two shots ring out. I hear a plunk! and actually feel the concussion next to my foot as a bullet plows into mud inches from where I’m standing. I douse my flashlight, making me invisible but blind. I think the shooter has taken cover behind the outhouse to my left, forty-five feet away. I drop low, moving fast, and head toward the opposite side of the pit, expecting a bullet to slam into my chest at any moment.

I don’t have much cover here, either. A few small trees growing out of the pit. The brick chimney. The ten-foot-high stump of a dead tree. The best I can hope for is that the piss-poor visibility will keep her from getting off a good shot.

Sidling right, never taking my eyes from the place where I last saw her, I get as close as I can to the pit. “Pickles?” I call out.

No answer.

It seems like hours since he went into the water, but it’s only been seconds. I know that if he were able, he would have answered. Panic clenches my chest, a fist twisting the air from my lungs. I can’t help but think: head shot.

I hit my radio. “Where’s my backup!”

“Sheriff’s office ETA five minutes, Chief.”

“Ten thirty-three! Ten thirty-nine!” I shout the codes, frightened because I know Pickles doesn’t have five minutes, and I’m not going to let him die.

I drop to my belly. Cold sinks through my clothes as I slither through mud and weeds to the edge of the pit. My line of sight is hindered by dead vegetation and trees that have taken root. Cursing, I look around for a way get into the pit, but it’s dark and raining and I can’t see shit.

“Pickles! Where are you?”

“Bitch … got me.”

Choking back a swell of emotion, of hope, at the sound of his voice, I crawl in the direction of the sound. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Bad…”

“Can you get out of there?”

“Negative.” The word is followed by a groaned, “Shit.”

“Help’s on the way.”

“Chief…”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything more. “Pickles?”

I’m on my belly and elbows on the east side of the basement, facing west, toward the shooter’s last position, but I see nothing. I don’t know if she’s moving to a new location or if she’s running. All the while, I envision Pickles slipping beneath the water.…

Calling out his name, I wriggle closer to the edge. The ground falls away beneath my elbows as I draw near. I risk using my Maglite and flash it on and off into the pit. I get a snapshot of black water that’s thick with foliage, rotting wood, and trash of indiscernible sources. A slick of blood two feet away. Pickles facedown in the water.

I slide my legs over the side and jam my fingers into the mud. I try to lower myself slowly, but my fingers plow through mud and I plunge into four feet of icy water. I manage to keep my Maglite above the surface. My feet sink deep into mud and God only knows what else. When I move toward Pickles, I trip over a submerged object and nearly go under.

I lunge toward the place I last saw him. My right hand makes contact. His skin is cold to the touch. He’s trembling, thrashing weakly, trying to keep his head above water. “I’ve got you,” I say.

He tries to speak, but he’s choking and sputtering.

The crack of a gunshot rings out over the din of rain. I look around wildly, spot movement on the other side of the pit, a silhouette against the sky. I raise my .38 and fire once, conserving ammo, but in the process I drop my flashlight. Cursing, I drag Pickles through the water, stumbling over debris and squeezing through saplings and brush. He’s conscious and cries out several times, but there’s nothing I can do to ease his pain. My leg hits something solid. When I reach out, I realize I’ve found the stone steps that were probably part of the original house and led to the basement.

Using every ounce of strength I possess, I haul Pickles onto the steps. He’s too heavy to pull completely from the water, but I’m able to get his head and shoulders out. “Pickles, where are you hit?”

“Went in at my armpit … angled into my side…”

“I need to go get her,” I say. “Will you be okay?”

“Go,” he whispers.

I don’t want to leave him, but we’re sitting ducks here. If she spots us, there’s no doubt she’ll kill us both.

Giving his hand a final squeeze, I rush up steps that are slick with mud. At the top, keeping low, I go right, toward the place I last saw her. Brush tears at my slacks as I make the sprint. If I can get behind her, I might be able to surprise her. I hear sirens in the distance, but I can’t tell how close they are. My .38 is heavy and reassuring in my hand, but I’m ever aware that I have only three shots left. Better make them count.

The roar of an engine sounds to my left. I glance over and see headlights. At first, I think a sheriff’s deputy has arrived, but the position is wrong. Then I realize it’s Weaver. She must have hidden her vehicle in the trees beyond the outhouse, and now she’s making a run for it.

I hit my lapel mike, but quickly realize it’s dead from being immersed in water. I run to the Explorer, yank open the door, jam my key in the ignition. I grab my radio mike and flick on my emergency lights. “Ten eighty! In pursuit! Old Hochstetler place.”

The radio crackles with voices and codes. A sheriff’s cruiser is northbound on Old Germantown Road, less than a minute away. I’m turning my vehicle around when the cab is suddenly filled with light. I glance left to see headlights bouncing wildly. Coming directly at me. Too fast. Too close. I jam the shifter into reverse and hit the gas. The Explorer lurches backward, but not fast enough to avoid the collision. Headlights blind me. I see the front end of a pickup truck. Then I’m jerked violently left. The air bag deploys, punching my face and chest like a giant fist. My head slams against the driver’s-side window hard enough to shatter the glass.

I sit there for a few seconds, dazed, unable to move. As the air bag deflates, I regain my senses. I look right and see taillights disappearing down the lane. Weaver’s running, I realize, heading toward the road. The Explorer’s engine died on impact, so I restart it and stomp the accelerator to the floor.

The wheels hiss as they spin over grass and mud; then the vehicle jumps forward, crashes over something unseen that scrapes the undercarriage, but I don’t slow down. Flipping on the wipers, I squint through the rain-streaked windshield. Ahead, I see the red flash of brake lights.

I snatch up my radio. “In pursuit. White Chevy pickup.” The vehicle reaches the road and goes left. “Northbound Old Germantown Road.”

“Roger that.”

The Explorer bumps over potholes and debris and old vegetation. I’m fifty yards behind her. I reach the road, haul the wheel left, and floor the accelerator.

Another voice cracks over the radio. “I got a visual.”

A glance in my rearview mirror reveals flashing lights of a Holmes County cruiser. My speedometer registers 80 mph. It’s a dangerous speed in such poor conditions, but within seconds, I catch up with her. I nose the Explorer to within a few feet of the bumper. The road here is poorly maintained; the asphalt is pitted and uneven. The ditches on either side are filled with water. I’m thinking about attempting a PIT maneuver when Weaver takes the decision away from me.

The truck makes a hard left toward the gravel entrance of a field, but she’s traveling too fast. I stomp hard on the brake. The Explorer slides out from under me. My training kicks in, and I turn into the skid, keeping my eyes on the truck. It spins 360 degrees and slams into the ditch. Water cascades twenty feet into the air.

Jamming the Explorer into Park, I throw open the door. Then I’m running toward the truck, my .38 poised, finger on the trigger. “Get out of the vehicle! Get your fucking hands up! Get on the ground! Right fucking now!” I scream the words in rapid succession. Overwhelm the target. Take control of the situation. Stay alive.

“Drop that weapon!” I scream. “Show me your hands! Do it now!”

My pulse is a jackhammer inside my head. I’m vaguely aware that it’s pouring rain, but I don’t hear it. I don’t feel the wet or cold on my skin. Every ounce of my focus is on the driver’s-side door.

“Show me your hands!” I come up behind the vehicle, staying out of her line of vision. Out of the line of fire. My gun hand is steady, but my heart is like a fist punching my ribs from inside my chest.

I reach the rear of the truck, check the bed. Nothing there. Keeping close to the truck, I sidle to the driver’s-side door. I look through the window. I can see the silhouette of her inside. Reaching out, I try the door, but it’s locked.

“Open the door! Do it now!” My finger snugs more tightly against the trigger, my aim steady at her center mass. “Open the door!”

I hear a vehicle skid to a halt behind me. Lights glint off the truck windows. I don’t take my eyes off the suspect. “Open the door!”

Movement inside the cab. The passenger door flies open. I stumble back, keep my weapon steady. “Stop! Drop the weapon!”

Then she’s out of the truck. She looks at me over her shoulder, and I get my first glimpse of Ruth Weaver’s face. Features pulled into a snarling mask. Crazy light in her eyes. And I know she’s not going to obey my command.

“Stop or I will shoot you!” I scream.

She hauls ass toward the gravel lane that will take her into the field and, beyond, a wooded area. She’s not a bad runner for a woman, but I’m faster. And I’m pissed. I round the front of the truck, splash through the ditch, go up the other side. And then I’m six yards behind her, running full out and closing in fast. “Police!” I shout. “Stop! Now!”

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t look behind her. It’s too dark for me to discern if she’s got the gun in her hand. But I know she’s armed. She’s already shot a cop. Tried to kill me. One wrong move on her part, and I’ll cut her down.

I catch her thirty yards into the field. I dive and throw my arms around her waist, ramming my shoulder into the small of her back. A scream tears from her throat as she goes facedown in the mud. She tries to turn over, but I’m faster and stronger and I’m able to use my body weight to pin her.

“Stay down!” I shout. “Give me your hands!”

She writhes, twisting in an attempt to get her knees under her, but she’s not strong enough to dislodge me. Holstering my weapon, keeping my eyes on her hands, I grind my knee into her back. “Stop resisting!”

A cry of rage erupts from her throat as I clamp my left hand around her left wrist. I reach for my cuffs with my right. “You’re under arrest.”

“Get off me!”

“You shot a cop,” I snarl as I crank the cuff down tight. “A friend of mine.”

“I hope he dies!”

I shove her face into the mud. I’m still trying to get a grip on her right hand when the deputy arrives. He’s panting like a dog as he drops to his knees beside me and helps me snap the cuff into place.

I sit back on my heels, go for my lapel mike, only to remember it’s dead.

Noticing I’m without communication, the deputy speaks into his own radio. “Ten ninety-five.” He looks at me, taps his left temple to indicate mine. “You okay?”

I get to my feet. “My deputy’s been shot. He needs an ambulance.”

“They got one out there now.”

“He’s seventy-six years old.” Bending, I grab Ruth Weaver’s biceps and try to haul her to her feet. In that instant, I understand how a cop can get caught up in the high adrenaline of a chase, the rage of having one of your own cut down as if his life means nothing.

“Stand up,” I snarl.

The deputy goes to the other side of her and helps her rise. He’s tossing concerned looks my way, and I make a conscious effort to pull myself back from the edge upon which I’m standing.

This should be a good moment. I made my arrest. Got a dangerous killer off the street. But as the adrenaline ebbs, a hundred other gnarly emotions rush forward. Anger at the utter senselessness of the crimes. Relief that she can’t hurt anyone else. But worry for Pickles is at the forefront of my mind. At this point, I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, and that makes me angry all over again. The need to see him is a desperation I can’t contain.

“I need to check on my officer,” I tell the deputy. “Can you put her in your cage?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Go.”