Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (16 page)

“Please find her for us, Chief Burkholder. We don’t care about her mistakes. We just want her back.”

“I’ll do my best,” I tell her. “I promise.”

The line goes dead. I take my time clipping my phone to my belt, then turn my attention to Tomasetti and recap the conversation. “She never told her husband.”

“It sounds like these two girls—Bonnie Fisher and Annie King—were behaving way outside of Amish norms,” Tomasetti says after a moment.

I nod in agreement, thinking of the third girl, whose family was killed in the buggy accident. “It would have been helpful to talk to Leah Stuckey’s parents to see if she was somehow acting out, too.”

“Might have helped us figure out if their behavior somehow ties in to their disappearances.”

“We both know certain kinds of behavior can put people at risk.” I shrug. “But does it connect the cases?”

“We’ve got too many threads, and none of them ties to anything.”

We pause when the waitress sets our burgers in front of us. We both look down at our plates. The food looks good and smells even better. We dig in with gusto.

“Let’s put everything on the table,” he says.

I go first. “Maybe there’s a religious angle.”

“The Twelve Passages Church,” he says. “According to Goddard, they don’t like the Amish.”

“That could tie in. Annie King had an English boyfriend. Bonnie Fisher was pregnant, had multiple partners, and was considering an abortion.”

“That’s enough to piss off any self-respecting religious fanatic.” Tomasetti’s tone is bone-dry.

“So we keep everyone with ties to The Twelve Passages Church on our list of suspects.”

We concentrate on our food for a couple of minutes. Tomasetti finishes the last of his Killian’s. I look down at my plate, drag a fry through catsup, running everything we know about the case so far through my head.

“Do you think Noah Mast’s disappearance is related?” Tomasetti asks after a moment.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “According to Stoltzfus, he talked about leaving.” I think of the place setting for him in the Mast kitchen. “You’re checking into other missing-person cases? Cold cases?”

He nods. “If there’s something else out there, VICAP will kick it out.”

“If it’s been reported.”

He gives me a sharp look. “Do you think Amish parents might not file a missing-person report if one of their kids went missing?”

“Most would,” I tell him. “Initially, they might try to handle it themselves. But I think eventually, when they got scared and the reality of the situation sank in, they’d turn to the police.” I think about that for a moment. “That said, there’s a large faction of Amish who believe God will take care of them. If you combine that with a general mistrust of the English, particularly the English police, then I could see a family not making an official report.”

“Something to keep in mind.”

I nod, move on to other possible scenarios. “What about the photographer Goddard mentioned?”

“Stacy Karns.”

“That conviction and the fact that his victim was a young Amish female definitely puts him on the list.” I glance at my watch. “We could pay him a visit.”

“I think he’ll keep until morning.” He gazes steadily at me. “You look tired, Kate. Have you had any sleep?”

“Not much.”

He lays a couple of bills on the table. “What do you say we call it a night and check out the Buck Snort Motel?”

The Buck Snort Motel is located on the main highway two miles outside Buck Creek. Set back from the road in a heavily wooded area, the motel is comprised of a dozen or so cabins replete with picnic tables and a community pit barbecue. Lights burn in two of the cabins. As we pull into the gravel lot, I see a group of kids sitting at one of the picnic tables. The motel office is a larger cabin with a huge front window and the requisite red neon sign that blinks
VACANCY
. A smaller sign boasts
FREE MOVIES
.

Tomasetti parks adjacent the office and kills the engine. “I’ll check us in and grab the keys.”

Without waiting for a reply, he’s out of the Tahoe and striding toward the office. I watch him, vaguely aware that I’m admiring the way he moves, when it strikes me that I have no idea what kind of sleeping arrangements have been made—or how the night is going to play out. When we’ve worked together in the past, our relationship has never been an issue and we’ve never let it interfere. The investigation always takes precedence. This case is different in that both of us are away from home base, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to get in the way.

The door swings open, startling me. Tomasetti slides in, then cranks the engine. Without looking at me, he drives to the farthest cabin and parks. “I’m in cabin twelve. You’re in eleven.”

“So we’re neighbors.” Without looking at him, I reach into the back for my overnight bag.

He stops me. “I’ll get that for you.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I make my exit before I start blabbering and watch as he opens the rear door and pulls out both our overnight bags.

We walk to cabin 11, and he unlocks the door, then passes me the key. The first thing I notice is the bed. It’s a full with a camouflage pattern spread and a headboard made of deer antlers. A night table holds a single lamp, the base of which is constructed of antlers. Camo curtains. Hunting art on the walls—ducks and deer and Labrador retrievers. But the room is neat and smells of clean linens and cedar.

“I believe this is the most antlers I’ve ever seen in one place,” I say.

“Might be a problem if you’re a restless sleeper.”

I laugh. “Better than mounted heads on the walls.”

“Heads are probably in my room.” Chuckling, he sets my bag on the bed, then quickly checks the bathroom. “Coffeemaker in the bathroom,” he tells me when he emerges.

On the small table near the window, a handwritten sign tells me the room is equipped with free Wi-Fi. I see a hookup for a laptop and a pad of paper printed with the motel’s name and logo. “All the comforts of home.”

An awkward silence falls. The rise of tension is palpable. I look at Tomasetti and find his eyes already on me. For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks, and neither of us looks away.

“So how are we going to do this?” he asks after a moment.

The question needs no clarification. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m kind of out of my element here.”

“Me, too,” he says. “I’m used to traveling alone.”

“I’m used to you sneaking into my house through the back door in the middle of the night.”

He laughs.

Time freezes for the span of several heartbeats. I feel the weight of his stare, the power of my attraction to him. I sense the importance of this moment, the discomfort between us.

We’ve slept together before in the course of an investigation. We work well together despite our personal relationship. But this is my first consulting gig, and it feels different. It feels . . . premeditated.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” I say after a moment.

“You won’t,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”

“Maybe we should just take it slow.”

He nods and steps back. Some of the intensity leaches from the moment, and I can breathe again.

Bending, he brushes his mouth against mine. “Careful with that headboard.” He walks to the door and turns to face me. “Get some rest, Chief, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I stand there vibrating and breathless for a full minute after he closes the door, not sure if I’m relieved he’s gone or disappointed I let him go.

Finally, I turn on the television, find the local news, and listen with half an ear as I unpack my clothes and put them away. I try to focus on the case as I set up my laptop and log onto my e-mail account. But the encounter with Tomasetti has left me unsettled. Combined with thirty-six hours without sleep, I can’t concentrate and I’m too tired to be productive. I answer a few e-mails and head for the shower.

The truth of the matter is, I don’t know where our relationship is heading. I enjoy being with him, working with him. My trust in him is absolute. I respect him on every level, and I believe those sentiments run both ways.

The long-distance aspect of our relationship has worked for both of us. We’re too independent for anything too cozy. But I know that no matter how hard we try to keep things simple, relationships have a way of becoming complicated.

There are times when I think I love him. I want to be with him when I’m not. He’s constantly in the periphery of my thoughts. When something amazing happens, he’s the one I want to share it with. I honestly don’t know if that’s good or bad. Truth be told, it scares me. I can’t seem to get past that little voice in my head that tells me what we have is too good to last.

I know my own heart, but so much of Tomasetti remains a mystery. Three years ago, he was married and had children. I don’t know if he was happy or discontent or, like the rest of us, somewhere in between. He rarely speaks of his past. But I know he loved them. I know he loved another woman and had children with her. And I know the loss of them nearly killed him.

Sometimes, when he’s untouchable, when I can’t reach him, I wonder if she’s the one he wants to be with. I wonder if he’s still in love with her. I wonder if I’m with him because she isn’t, if I’m competing with a dead woman.

The sound of my cell phone drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. I fumble for it on the night table, flip it open, put it to my ear. “Burk-holder,” I rasp.

Even before I hear Tomasetti’s voice, I know it’s bad. When a cop is awakened in the middle of the night, it’s never good news.

“We’ve got a body,” he says without preamble.

I sit bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding. The room is pitch-black, and for an instant, I can’t remember where I am. Then the case rushes into my brain, the missing Amish teens, the blood on the road, and I’m out of bed and reaching for my clothes.

“Is it Annie?” I ask as I jam my legs into my slacks.

“I don’t know.”

“Give me five minutes.”

The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock tell me it’s 3:53
A.M.
when I go through the door. Tomasetti has already pulled the Tahoe up to the gravel area outside my cabin and is leaning against the passenger side’s front fender, talking on his cell phone. The night is humid and still, and I smell rain in the air.

He cuts his call short as I climb in. A moment later, he’s behind the wheel and we’re idling across the parking lot. “Hell of a way to start the day,” he growls.

“Tell me what you know,” I say.

“Not much. There’s no positive ID yet. But apparently, the victim is a young female.”

I think of a young life cut short, the parents who will be notified in the coming hours, the family that will be shattered by the news. I feel the familiar rise of outrage in my chest.

The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He’s in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.

“Where’s the body?” I ask.

“In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her.”

I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. “Anyone on-scene?”

“Goddard’s en route.” He tosses me a grim look. “We’re closer.”

“Coroner?”

“There’s a team from Youngstown on the way.”

I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He’s not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn’t any different.

We pass through Buck Creek and head north on a narrow two-lane road that cuts through a heavily forested area. A few miles in, we come to a rusty steel bridge. A big Dodge Ram is parked on a gravel turnout. Tomasetti parks behind the truck, kills the engine, and grabs a Maglite off the backseat. “There’s another one in the door panel.”

I find the flashlight and swing open my door. The night sounds—crickets and bullfrogs and nocturnal animals—emanate from the thick black of the woods.

Tomasetti is already walking toward the truck. “Where the hell’s the driver?” he mutters.

I look around, but there’s no one in sight. I set my hand on my revolver as we start toward the Dodge. Chances are, this call is exactly as it seems: a citizen who’s stumbled upon a terrifying scene. But we’re all too aware of the fact that where there is murder, there is also a murderer. More than one cop has been ambushed when he thought he was walking into a benign scene.

Lightning flickers on the horizon as I reach the truck. Tomasetti tries the driver’s door, but it’s locked. Using the Maglite, he checks the interior, sets his hand on the hood. “Still warm.”

I drop to my knees, shine my beam along the ground. “No one underneath.”

We’re checking the truck’s bed when I hear something large crashing through the brush on the other side of the bar ditch twenty yards away. At first, I think it’s some kind of animal—a rutting buck or a black bear—charging us. Adrenaline skitters through my midsection. I raise my sidearm and spin to face the path cut into the trees.