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

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 12

She dreamed of that night. Even after all this time, and so many years spent trying to forget, it was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The absolute dark of an Amish farm. A drug-fueled plot that had gone horribly wrong. The spill of innocent blood. It was a night in which a series of bad decisions had led to more bad decisions and culminated in a nightmare. People she thought she’d known turned into strangers she wished she’d never met.

Six people had died because of them. An Amish mother and father. Four innocent children. A teenaged boy had been left alone, to fend for himself. But those weren’t the only tragedies that night. Four other lives had been irrevocably changed. Promising young lives wrecked by unfathomable guilt and secrets they would have to live with forever.

Those secrets had destroyed her life, stolen her innocence, and any semblance of happiness or hope for the future. In the weeks that followed, she’d even found herself questioning whether she wanted to remain on this earth. But somehow she’d gotten through those dark days. She’d graduated from high school. Gone to college. Gotten married and had children. After the divorce and with the kids grown, she’d thrown herself into her art and opened the gallery. Through it all, Jules had never found happiness. She knew something about herself she couldn’t live with. It was like living with a person you hated—someone you could never trust nor leave.

Murderer.

Jules woke with a start, the word a whisper in her ear, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. Sitting up, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and put her face in her hands. “Damn you,” she muttered, not exactly sure whom she was cursing. Herself. Or maybe the others.

She grabbed her robe off the foot of the bed and worked it over her shoulders as she padded to the kitchen. Like so many nights before, she went to the refrigerator for the bottle of chardonnay she kept in the door for such occasions. Mild annoyance rippled through her when the fridge light didn’t come on, but she knew by heart where to find the bottle. The wine didn’t kill the pain; nothing could do that. But it would get her through the night.

In the murky light coming through the window above the sink, she uncorked the wine, snagged a stemmed glass from the cupboard, and poured. She stood at the counter and drank it down without stopping. She poured a second glass and recorked the bottle. A glance at the wall clock told her the electricity had gone out at 3 A.M. Vaguely, she wondered if any of the others were awake. If they were as frightened and tortured as she was. If they ever considered doing anything about it.

Goddamn them.

Back at the refrigerator, she tugged open the door and replaced the bottle. Quickly, she drained her glass, then turned to take it to the sink. Ice slinked through her body when she noticed that the window was open. She stood there, frozen in place, trying to make sense of it even as she realized the screen had been removed. It was the only window she ever opened. It faced the pretty backyard and sometimes in the morning, she’d stand at the sink drinking coffee and watch the squirrels and the birds and think about all the things that might have been.

A faint sound—a shoe against tile—spun her around. Adrenaline burst in her midsection when she saw the woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She discerned the silhouette of an Amish dress. A winter head covering shadowed her face. Still, Jules thought she recognized her. That image of her had been burned into her memory for thirty-five years.

“But … how can it be you?” she whispered in a voice that was bizarrely calm, considering the circumstances. “I saw you die.”

Even in the meager light she could see that the woman’s expression was devoid of emotion. Eyes as dead and blank as a mannequin’s. Dead like me, she thought vaguely.

Her eyes never left Jules as she entered the kitchen. “You remember me.”

“Every day of my life.” Jules knew it was crazy, but she wanted to throw herself at the woman and beg her for forgiveness. “If I could change what happened, I would.”

The woman stared at her.

Jules told herself this couldn’t be happening. Prolonged stress could do strange things to one’s mental health, after all. But as impossible as it was, she knew this was no hallucination.

“I’m sorry for what they did,” she said.

“For what they did?” There was something cruel in the twist of her mouth. “Or for what you didn’t do?”

“I’m so sorry.” Jules didn’t realize she was crying until her voice revealed it. She’d never believed in ghosts, but knew she was seeing one now. Deep inside, she knew she wouldn’t survive the encounter. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here. Dale Michaels knew.”

A landslide of fear tumbled through Jules at the mention of Dale. Then she spotted the knife the Amish woman held at her side—the butcher knife from Jules’s own kitchen—and her heart went wild in her chest. She thought of her ex-husband’s pistol on the night table beside her bed, but she knew she wouldn’t reach it before that blade found its mark in her back.

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “All of us are sorry. Please don’t hurt me!”

“Too late for sorry.”

Jules dashed to the counter, where her cell phone was charging. The woman blocked her way, raised the knife. Screaming, Jules darted left, leaving the kitchen. Through the dining room. Toppling a chair. If she could reach her bedroom and the gun—

“Help me!” Her bare feet pounded through the living room, down the hall. Her hand brushed a framed photo, sent it crashing to the floor. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth. Heart exploding with terror. The knowledge that she was going to die. That she deserved this. That hell was waiting for her with open arms.

She heard the woman scant feet behind her. Shoes hard against the floor. “You killed them! Die kinner!” The children. “Die kinner!”

At the end of the hall, Jules started to go right toward the bedroom. The blade slashed down. The searing heat of a cut flashed on her right forearm. She felt the warm spurt of blood. Panic leaping in her chest. Crying out for help, she ran toward the bathroom.

A dozen feet away. The door standing half open. Jules hit the door with both hands. It slammed wide, hit the wall like a gunshot. Then she was inside. Spinning to close the door. Lock it. Lock out the past. Lock out death.

The door burst open, striking her in the face. She reeled backward, dazed. The knife arced to her left. The blade glinted, pierced her shoulder. She danced back. Slapped at the knife with both hands. “No!”

Pain streaked across her left palm. Blood warm on her arm. She turned, looked around wildly. The bathroom window. If she could break it, get through before she was mortally wounded …

She was midway there when the blade slammed into her back with the force of a baseball bat. She felt the blade hit bone. Another scream ripped from her lungs. Electric pain streaking down her spine. And then she was falling.

On the floor. Cold tile against her bare legs. She twisted, sat up. The woman hovered over her. Dead calm expression. Knife raised. Murder in her eyes.

“Murderer,” she said.

Jules scrambled away, made it to her hands and knees. She floundered, bare feet sliding on tile slick with blood. She grabbed the shower curtain, pulled herself to her feet, partially ripping it from the rod. She faced her attacker, raised her hands to protect herself. “Don’t.” The word came out in a pant of panic. “Please.”

Mouth contorted in rage, the woman slashed. Violently, putting her body weight into it. Fire flashed across Jules’s throat. The knowledge that it was a death blow. Terror ripping through every nerve ending.

Jules tried to scream, gargled blood. She saw blood on the blade. On the tile. Red against her bare arms. Her right calf hit the side of the tub. The knife came down again, a hammer blow to her sternum. No air in her lungs. No way to breathe. She fell backwards into the tub. Darkness closing in. The familiar face looking down at her, now as impassive and cold as a predator on prey.

I didn’t mean for you to die, she thought.

And then the knife came down again.

*   *   *

Tomasetti calls my cell twice during the drive from the farm to my house in Painters Mill. As much as I want to speak to him and work this out, I don’t answer. There’s no simple fix for the issues we’re dealing with. And I’ve got too many emotions pinging around inside me to partake in a meaningful conversation. An uncomfortable mix of fear and anger and, as much as I don’t want to admit it—even to myself—jealousy. Probably better for both of us to cool off before we talk.

I park in the driveway and sprint through the pouring rain to the front door and let myself inside. The house is dark, and even though I’ve gone to great lengths to maintain it as I try to decide whether to sell or rent, it has the feel of a place that’s been closed up without fresh air for a long time.

A pang of melancholy moves through me. This was my first house, and I’ve loved it since the first time I saw it four years ago. I painted every room myself and chose the colors with such care. I spent a week’s salary on the Amish rug in the living room. This place is so much more than a house. It symbolized a fresh start for me, a new phase of my life when I moved back to Painters Mill and became chief.

Tonight, standing in the living room, looking down at the layer of dust on the coffee table that had once been polished to a high sheen, it no longer feels like home.

I don’t let myself think about Tomasetti or the harsh words between us as I pull linens from the hall closet and put them on the bed. A quick shower, and I climb between the sheets. Despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come easily and I end up tossing and turning for an hour before I can turn off my mind. When slumber finally descends, it’s restless and fraught with dreams.

I’m wakened by the chirp of my cell phone. For several seconds I’m disoriented and unsure where I’m at. I reach for Tomasetti, only to remember the argument we had earlier. I curse him as I grapple for the phone. “Burkholder.”

“Chief, sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know about a call I just took.”

“Hey, Mona.” I push myself to a sitting position. A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s just past 5 A.M. “What is it?”

“Kid tossing newspapers says Julia Rutledge’s front door is standing open. He got a little freaked out and called his dad. Dad called us a few minutes ago. T.J.’s working an injury accident out on Delisle Road and said you were just out there tonight and I should let you know.”

Wide awake now, recalling my recent meeting with Rutledge, I set my feet on the floor and snatch my uniform trousers off the back of a chair. “I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 13

Ten minutes later, I pull into Rutledge’s driveway to find the house dark and quiet. No movement inside. No cars in the driveway or on the street. I hit my lapel mike. “Ten twenty-three.”

“Ten four.”

I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out. Sure enough, from where I’m standing, I can see that the front door is open a couple of feet. A newspaper still in its clear plastic sleeve lies on the threshold. “Shit.” I walk toward the house and take the steps to the porch. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I peer inside. “Hello? Ms. Rutledge? It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Is everything all right?”

Before I’m even fully through the door, I sweep the beam around the living room. Nothing appears out of place. I flip the switch on the wall, but it doesn’t produce any light. I stand there a moment, listening, but the house is so quiet, I can hear the heat rushing through the vents.

“Ms. Rutledge?” I call out her name and identify myself a second time. The last thing any cop wants to happen when entering a premises is to be mistaken for a robber and get shot.

I go to the lamp on the end table and turn the switch. Again, no light. I’m midway across the living room when my beam illuminates a muddy shoe print on the hardwood floor. I can’t tell if it’s male or female, but someone has recently come in from outside.

I reach the far end of the living room. “Ms. Rutledge? Are you there?”

The lack of a response makes the nerves at the back of my neck crawl. I know it’s possible she’s sleeping and didn’t hear me. Some people are sound sleepers; they take sleeping pills or wear earplugs. But ever present in my mind is that she was one of the last people to speak with Dale Michaels before his death and the situation has a high probability of going downhill quick.

I point my beam down the hallway, where I presume the bedrooms are located. I get the impression of a narrow space with hardwood floors and three doors, all of which stand partially open. Framed photographs on the walls. Ahead, a picture frame lies on the floor, the glass broken. I shine the beam on the wall and see a smear of something dark against the light paint. I can’t be sure, but it looks like blood.

“Shit,” I whisper. I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my service revolver. “Mrs. Rutledge?”

The first door I come to is on my right. The hinges squeak as I push it open. Quickly, I sweep the beam around the room. It’s a small, tidy bedroom with a queen-size bed covered with an Amish quilt. Curtains drawn. A small desk and chair. Guest room, I think. The closet door stands open. I see summer clothes hung on plastic hangers—shirts and jeans and an Ohio State hoodie lying on the floor next to a pair of sneakers. There’s no one in the closet, so I continue down the hall.

A narrow door to my left opens to a good-size bathroom. At the end of the hall is the master bedroom. I see the outline of a window. Sheer curtains. A bed with a frilly skirt and a comforter that’s turned down. Night table with a lamp and e-reader. It looks as if someone had been sleeping in the bed, but threw the covers aside and rose. I step into the room and try the light switch, but it doesn’t work. The closet door is closed, so I stride to it and pull it open. The beam of my flashlight reveals blouses and jeans and a couple of dresses, all neatly hung. Boots and low-heeled pumps lined up on the floor. But there’s no one there.

I back out of the room, shift my light to the bathroom. The sink and medicine cabinet are to my right. Tub to the left. Window ahead. “Julia Rutledge,” I call out. “Police.”

The bathroom is small. No closet. No place for anyone to hide. I step inside. My beam reveals blood. On the floor. On the sink. The wall ahead. I’m reaching for my mike when a sound spins me around. The burn of adrenaline in my gut. Then I notice movement in the bathtub. Stumbling back, I thrust my light toward it. The shower curtain has been torn from the rod. I see the shocking red of blood. Blond hair against porcelain. Staring eyes within the pale oval of a face.

“Ms. Rutledge!” I hit my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight!” I hear fear in my voice, make an effort to crank it down. “Ten thirty-one C.”

“You want me to send County?”

“I need an ambulance!” I rush to the tub and drop to my knees.

“Stand by.” A quick scratch of static and then. “What’s your twenty?”

I relay the address from memory. Quickly, I set my flashlight on the floor with the beam pointing toward the tub. Jules Rutledge is lying on her back with one hand pressed against her chest, blood flowing between her fingers. The other hand is slung over the side of the tub, fingers twitching. She’s wearing a white nightgown, the front of which is blood soaked. Her eyes are open and on me, blinking. In their depths I see terror and I hate it that she’s afraid, because I don’t think she’s going to survive this.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell her. “Who did this to you?”

A clawlike hand reaches for me. Fingers grasping air. Eyes beseeching me to help. Panic on a face that already knows it’s too late. Her bloody mouth opens and whispers, “We didn’t … mean for it to … happen.”

I try to pull away, but she clenches my jacket lapel with surprising strength. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?” I ask.

Her lips move. A bubble of red-tinged saliva between them. “Kill … her.”

I stare at her, not sure if I heard correctly, not sure if she’s cognizant of what she just said. I hear gurgling in her chest and throat. Part of me wants to tell her not to speak, to save her strength. But the part of me that is a cop wants her to name the son of a bitch responsible.

“Tell me who did this,” I press.

“… ghost…”

The hand at my lapel falls away. Her body sinks more deeply into the tub. Her head lolls.

“Julia,” I say. “Julia. Stay with me.” But I know it’s too late.

“Goddammit.” I tug a latex glove from a compartment on my belt, slip my right hand into it, and reach over to check her carotid artery for a pulse, but she’s gone. “Shit. Shit.”

“Chief?” Mona’s voice scratches over the radio.

Uneasy with my back to the door, I snatch up my Maglite and get to my feet. “Ten seven nine,” I say, requesting the coroner.

“Ten four.” Another short hiss of static. “You okay?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I go with, “Suspect at large.”

“Description?”

“No.” I peel off the glove and tuck it into my pocket. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here to the scene. Tell T.J. to set up a perimeter.”

“Copy.”

“Get Glock out here, too.”

“Will do.”

Keeping an eye on the door and the hall beyond, I shift the beam back to the tub. The shower wall is splattered with arterial spray. Julia Rutledge seems to stare at me from within that deathbed. I can’t meet her gaze. The wet-iron stench of blood is stifling in the small space, and my stomach jitters. The urge to leave the room is strong, but I don’t concede to it.

I shift my light to the faucets at her feet and see signs of a struggle. Several long smears of blood mar the tile, as if she’d lashed out with her feet.

“Sheriff’s Department! Sheriff’s Department!”

I startle at the shout, swing my beam to the door. “Back here!”

Another flashlight beam joins mine, and then a Holmes County deputy steps into the bathroom. “Chief?”

I recognize him as Deputy Frank Maloney, and I holster my .38. “I’m okay.”

He averts his beam to avoid blinding me, but there’s enough light for me to see his eyes widen at the sight of the blood before he pulls his cop’s mask into place. “Holy shit.” He takes a step back.

“Coroner’s on the way.” I let out a breath, surprised when it shudders slightly. “Frank, she was alive when I arrived.”

“She ID anyone?”

“I tried, but … I think she was out of it. Said something about a ghost.”

His gaze meets mine, but there’s no hint of a cop’s black humor in them. The hairs on my arms prickle, and for the first time in the course of my career, I feel threatened. Not by some crazy guy with a knife, but by something intangible and dark.

“Aw, hell.” He glances at the body. “You see anyone?”

“No.”

Head bent to his lapel mike, he sends out the code for homicide. “Unknown perpetrator at large.” He motions toward the body. “You know her?”

I nod. “Julia Rutledge.”

He edges closer to the bathtub, sets his beam on the body. “Damn.”

A macabre scene dances in the beams of our flashlights. I can’t help but think that just a few hours ago, Jules Rutledge was a lovely, vibrant woman who seemed to be enjoying her life. Now her mouth sags open, her lower jaw jutting slightly. Her head is cocked to one side, and from where I’m standing, I see a horrific wound high on her chest.

“What’s that?” Maloney points at the wound. “Knife handle?”

Leaning closer, I set my beam on her chest. The fabric of her gown is blood soaked. There’s a slit in the material, evidently from the blade. Something protrudes about half an inch from the wound.

“I don’t think it’s a knife,” I say.

“Coroner’s going to have to dig it out.”

But I can’t stop looking at the small foreign object. Deep inside, I already know what it is, and the knowledge is so disturbing, I have to withhold a gasp. “I think it’s a wooden figurine,” I whisper.

He gives me a sharp look. “Come again?”

“An Amish peg doll.” Quickly, I fill him in on the Michaels homicide. “We didn’t release that information to the public.”

A siren wails in the distance, but neither of us acknowledges it.

“BCI on the way?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He whistles. “Two major crime scenes in a single week. They’re going to start a running tab for you.”

Despite the grimness of the scene, I smile, and I’m glad there are no civilians around to notice. Cop humor is one of those things that can easily be misinterpreted and blown out of proportion, usually by someone who doesn’t understand that sometimes the only way to combat despair is through humor, even when it’s dark.

Concerned now with contaminating the scene, we carefully exit the bathroom and walk into the living room. The flash of emergency lights through the window draws my attention. I look over to see an ambulance pull into the driveway, followed by a fire truck that parks curbside. I see Glock on the front porch and motion him in.

“Anyone find a point of entry?” Maloney asks.

“Kitchen window is open,” Glock tells him. “Screen was cut and removed.”

“What about the lights?” Maloney asks.

“We’ll need to check the breaker box,” I say.

I brief both men on everything I know about the scene. “I’m pretty sure the foreign object in the wound is similar to the peg doll we found in Michaels’s mouth.”

“So this isn’t random,” Glock says.

I nod. “When Skid and I talked to her, she said Michaels had been in touch with her about a painting he wanted to buy.” I think about that a moment. “Skid and I both noticed she seemed nervous about her security. Bolt lock on the door. Security chain.” I shine my beam at the end table where I’d seen the Beretta earlier, but it’s gone. “She had a nine mil on the bottom shelf of that end table.”

“Guess she couldn’t get to it in time,” Glock says.

“We need to find it,” I add.

“Do you think Blue Branson or Jerrold McCullough are involved?” Maloney asks.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “But I think they know more than they’re letting on.” I consider that a moment and repeat Rutledge’s dying words. “I think she said something like: ‘We didn’t mean to kill her.’”

Maloney cuts me a sharp look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “When I asked her who did that to her, I’m pretty sure she said ‘ghost.’”

The words hang suspended, as if no one knows how to respond.

I break the silence with, “The peg doll we found in Dale Michaels’s mouth was made by Willis Hochstetler.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Glock says. “Willis Hochstetler has been dead for over thirty years.”

“But it’s a link,” Maloney says.

“Something had Julie Rutledge running scared,” I tell them.

Maloney laughs. “Fucking ghosts.”

I look from man to man. “Did either of you happen to run across any keys here at the scene?”

“There’s a ring of keys on the kitchen counter,” Glock tells me.

I go to the kitchen, pick up the keys, and go back to the living room, where Glock is standing. “Will you keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives?”

“No problem.”

“Get photos of everything. A sketch if you can manage. And see if you can pick up some prints or footwear tread. Plenty of blood in that bathroom.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” he says. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to take a look around Rutledge’s gallery.”