I’m dragged from sleep by the sound of pounding. I sit upright, disoriented, realize I’m on the sofa in Adam Lengacher’s living room. Crepuscular light slants in through the window coverings. I’m wearing my clothes. A headache hovers at my temples.
I’ve just swung my legs to the floor when the window on the front door rattles. Cursing Gina and her bottle of Gentleman Jack, I go to the mudroom, grab my .38 off the shelf, and slide it into the waistband of my jeans. Back in the living room, I grab my cell off the coffee table, squint at the display to see that it’s not yet six thirty A.M.
Another round of knocking, this time accompanied by a singsong male voice. “Er hot sich widder verschofe!” He overslept again, which is the Amish way of poking fun at someone who sleeps too late.
I stride to the door, glance out the window. A middle-aged Amish man, with a full beard and wire-rimmed eyeglasses over small blue eyes, startles at the sight of me. I recognize him from years past, but it takes my sleep-muddled brain a moment to remember his name. I open the door.
His smile falters. “Katie Burkholder?” he says, pressing his hand to his chest.
“Hi … Mr. Yoder.” I stammer his name, keenly aware of how my presence here this early in the morning when I’ve clearly been wakened from sleep might be perceived—and get the tongues wagging.
His barn coat and muck boots are covered with snow. He looks past me as if expecting an equally disheveled Adam to appear behind me.
Oh boy.
“I’m here to see Adam,” Yoder says. “He is home?”
“I believe he is.” I look past him, where big, wet flakes are coming down hard. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
“Katie.”
I turn at the sound of Adam’s voice to see him emerge from the hall. Not from upstairs where his bedroom is located, I realize, but the hall off the sewing room, where Gina has been staying. Something sinks inside me as I take in the sight of him. He’s disheveled, wearing the same clothes he had on last night, hair sticking up on one side, his hat in his hand. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, unspoken words passing between us. I see discomfort in his eyes. Regret etched into his features. Those same awkward sentiments climb over me, settle onto my shoulders, but I shove them back, keep my mind on the business at hand.
“Amos Yoder is here to see you,” I say, a little too stiffly.
Adam’s eyes flick toward the front door. He takes a moment to put on his hat, squares his shoulders. “I … overslept.”
“I think everyone except for Mr. Yoder overslept,” I say beneath my breath.
He doesn’t so much as crack a smile. Shamefaced, he strides to the front door. “Amos. Guder mariye.”
“I thought you’d be up by now.” Amos Yoder looks from Adam to me and back to Adam. One side of his mouth twitches, but he covers it with a cough.
“Overslept.” Adam clears his throat.
Yoder ducks his head, looks at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “I didn’t realize you had non-Amish visitors.”
Adam steps back to clear the way for the other man to enter. “Kumma inseid. Witt du wennich kaffee?” Come inside. Would you like coffee?
“Nee, denki. I still have to feed the hogs.” Yoder sobers. “I wanted to let you know … there was an English car parked on the road last night in front of your place. Very late.”
Adam’s brows furrow. “A car?”
Appearances forgotten, I move up beside Adam, open the door the rest of the way. “Mr. Yoder, did you recognize the vehicle? Have you seen it before?”
“No.”
“Do you know what kind of vehicle it was?” I ask. “Car? Truck?”
“Well, I’m not sure exactly. Too far away, you know. All we could see were the headlamps. Martha was up sick with a cold. She saw it first and called me over. I thought it was strange for someone to be out here with all the snow, especially so late.”
“Could it have been a snowmobile?” I ask. “Someone out for a late-night ride?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve seen the snow machines.” He slips his fingers beneath his hat and scratches his head. “What was strange about it is that the driver turned off the headlamps. Sat there in the dark for twenty minutes.”
“Any idea what color it was?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Too dark to see. Too much snow. And you know my eyes aren’t as keen as they used to be.”
I nod. “Did you see how many people were inside? Anything like that?”
Another shake of his head. “No.”
Of course, it’s possible someone suffering with cabin fever went out for a drive. Teenagers out in Mom’s car for an illicit cigarette or can of beer. Maybe someone who lives nearby got into an argument with their spouse and needed to get out of the house. Things like that happen this time of year when people are snowbound. Still, a thread of worry stirs in my gut. In the back of my mind I wonder if someone is looking for Gina. Law enforcement. Or someone else.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve been out there that time of night? A neighbor, maybe?” I look from man to man, address both of them. “Do people drive out this way to drink alcohol or park? Anything like that?”
Adam shakes his head. “No one comes out this way, Chief Burkholder. Except for Mr. McKay down on Ithaca Road, all the farms out here belong to the Amish. There’s rarely a car on the road.”
“With all this snow, I thought it was odd, especially that time of night,” Yoder says. “Two A.M. I guess you never know what kind of people are going to be coming down your lane these days.”
I’ve just poured coffee into a mug when Adam enters the kitchen with his coat and boots on. His eyes slide away from mine when I look at him over my shoulder. “No school again today, I think,” he says without looking at me.
“Mr. Yoder left?” I ask.
“Ja.”
He starts toward the mudroom, but I stop him. “Would you like coffee?” I ask.
Shaking his head, he continues on. “I’m late feeding the animals this morning.”
His expression is a collage of discomfiture and that Amish shame I experienced myself so many times in my youth.
“Adam. Wait.”
He stops in the doorway of the mudroom, sets his hand on the jamb, but he doesn’t face me. For a moment, I think he’s going to keep going so he doesn’t have to deal with me or my questions. All the guilt I see boiling inside him.
“You don’t have to…” My brain scrambles for the right words. Feel awkward? Guilty? Blame yourself for acquiescing to a weakness that is fundamentally human?
He turns to me, his expression stoic. “I know what you’re thinking and—”
“I’m thinking your personal life is none of my business. You don’t have to say anything and you sure don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Nothing happened,” he says in a low voice. “I know how all of this might look. When you saw me come out of her room. We … didn’t…”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Though I don’t know him well, I feel as if I have a pretty good handle on his character. The weight of his responsibilities. The depth of his loneliness. But I understand the Amish mind-set, too. While they suffer with all the same frailties and imperfections as the rest of us mortal souls, they are bound by the rules of the church, the teachings of the Bible, and mores that are instilled at a young age, not only by their parents, but by their peers. Most Amish live their lives beneath the watchful eyes of their brethren and a community that can be judgmental.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Gina … I think she…” He lets the sentence trail and sighs. “Last night … she wanted someone to talk to. She asked me to stay with her for a bit, so … I did. She needed a friend. The rest…” He shrugs. “I fell asleep. I … we … did not. That’s all.”
We stare at each other a moment. A sense of respect moves through me. A slow rise of admiration. An uncomfortable tinge of embarrassment. “I wasn’t going to ask,” I tell him. “I just didn’t want you to feel awkward this morning.”
“I saw the questions,” he says. “On your face.”
“Thank you for staying with her.”
“It was not a hardship. She’s…” He doesn’t complete the sentence. Something unexpected flashes in his eyes.
“A complicated woman,” I finish for him. “And she’s led a complicated life.”
Tilting his head, he approaches me and lowers his voice. “I know she is in trouble. I know she is wanted by the police. Maybe by someone else, too, no? When I asked her about it, she wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t speak of it. But she’s frightened, Katie.”
Looking at him, I’m reminded that good men still exist in a world that sorely needs them. “I know.”
“Katie, she was shot. She brought a gun into my home. Pointed it at me when I was trying to help her. I need to know if she’s brought danger here. I need to know if my children are safe.”
They are questions I should have answered by now. That I didn’t makes me feel as if I’ve taken advantage of his kindness and generosity. “I can’t get into all the details with you, Adam. What I can tell you is that it’s a police matter. Tomasetti is involved. We’re trying to work through it.”
“What about the people looking for her? Why is she so afraid of them?”
“I think they’re dangerous. The rest … if it wasn’t for this storm, I would have taken Gina somewhere else.”
“These men … they are police?”
“Yes.” When he continues to stare at me, his expression rigid, I reach into my pocket for my cell. “Look, I can call Tomasetti right now. You’ve already gone above and beyond. I can’t ask you to—”
Adam reaches out and lowers my hand. “They are bad men? Who would harm her?”
“Yes. But you are under no obligation.”
“Katie, her heart is good.”
“Not perfect,” I say.
“No one is.” He gives a decisive nod. “Where there is darkness, let me bring Your light. Let me not seek as much to be consoled as to console.”
Remembering more than is wise, understanding more than I should, I finish the prayer, “For it is in giving that one receives.”
“Don’t make the call. I can give her refuge. Here.”
I stare at him, wondering if his decision is because of all those Amish norms—or if he’s a man who’s feeling protective of an attractive woman.…
“It’s just for another day or two,” I say. “You’re certain?”
He nods. “Where there is despair, let me bring hope.”
I look away, take a moment to tuck all of the gnarly emotions coming at me back into their proper place.
“Now, I’ve got to get to work.” He starts toward the mudroom.
I hold up my hand. “Hang on.” Quickly, I go to the cabinet, pull out the biggest mug I can find, and fill it with coffee. “Take it with you,” I say as I hand it to him. “It’s cold out there.”
Taking the cup, he starts for the back door.
I find the bottle of Gentleman Jack hidden haphazardly behind a bag of cornmeal in the pantry. I’m in the process of pouring it down the sink when Gina emerges from the living room. Her hair is a wild tangle of black curls, her face pale, eyes warning of a foul mood.
“I see you’ve decided to do away with the last of my sanity,” she mutters as she shuffles to the percolator on the stove and pours.
“Yup.” I chuck the empty bottle into the trash. “I hear you had a rough night last night.”
“I’ve had better.” She tosses me a sour look, narrows her eyes. “Word travels fast.”
“Stay away from Adam.”
She rolls her eyes, brings the mug to her lips, and slurps. “For God’s sake, Kate, nothing happened. We just—”
“He spent the night with you. That’s enough.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “We didn’t … We fell asleep. Although he did kiss me good night. It was sweet. Just a peck on the cheek. I didn’t realize men still did sweet.”
Her insouciance chafes all of those old Amish sensibilities still scattered about inside me. Her indifference and lack of respect for him and his ways stir my temper. I think about Adam, a young widower for going on two years now, raising a family, and running a farm alone, all of it in a society where the institution of marriage is cherished, encouraged, and expected.
I cross to her and get in her face. “He’s not some loser you picked up at a bar.”
“Do not go there, my friend,” she snaps. “I’m hungover and I already told you nothing happened. So drop it.”
It’s good advice. Advice a wiser woman might heed. But I know Gina too well to let this go without my driving home my point. “Something did happen, Gina. He spent the night with you. That’s a big deal. Something that will likely cause him a great deal of guilt and get the tongues wagging.”
She laughs. “For God’s sake, Kate, this isn’t frickin’ high school—”
“He’s Amish. He’s part of a culture you do not understand. He’s part of a community that will think less of him if he makes a mistake. He’ll become the focus of gossip that can be cruel and it will matter to him.” I jam my finger in her face. “It’ll matter to his kids.”
She smacks my hand away. “Fine. For God’s sake, get off my back.”
“Gina, he’s a good man. If something had happened between the two of you, it would have … meant something to him. You can’t play with people’s feelings that way. Not here. Not him. Not like that.”
She stares at me, blinking, nostrils flaring. For the first time since she walked into the kitchen, I feel as if she’s listening, that she heard me, and that I’m getting through to her.
“I got it,” she says quietly.
I go to the table, sink into a chair, stuff my temper back into its hole. “A neighbor saw a vehicle parked on the road in front of the house at two o’clock this morning.”
Coffee in hand, she joins me at the table, energized now, her eyes sharp on mine. “Did you get a plate? Make? Model?”
“It was too dark and too far away for him to see. He thought it was odd that the driver had turned off the headlights.”
“That is odd.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But in rural areas, sometimes people drive out to the back roads to drink or whatever. Teenagers park to make out. I’ve seen it a hundred times since I’ve been chief.”
“I guess hormones don’t give a damn if there’s two feet of snow on the ground,” she grumbles.
“That said, this road is a ways off the beaten path. I can’t see someone braving all the snow and risking getting stuck, especially that time of night.”
“Had a plow been by?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe once. Even so, there are drifts. You can barely get through with a four-wheel drive and chains.”
She thinks about that a moment, but I see the filament of worry take up residence in her expression. “Bertrand owns a four-wheel-drive Subaru Outback.”
“I know.” At her how-do-you-know-that look, I add, “Tomasetti checked.”
“Even so, no one knows where I am.”
“Like I said, it’s not that much of a stretch for someone to have remembered that you and I were tight once and put two and two together. Cops have resources out the wazoo when it comes to finding someone.”
“If they know where I am, why didn’t they just knock on the door, whip out their bogus warrant, and arrest me?”
Why, indeed? It’s a valid question. One that’s been scraping at the back of my brain since I heard about the mysterious vehicle parked in front of the farm. In light of the storm and the road conditions, it’s unlikely two detectives would travel all the way from Columbus to execute an arrest warrant and then drive away without making said arrest. Chances are, they’ll wait until the roads are open, they’ll contact County or me, and then make the trip.
But if that’s the case, who was parked on the road in front of Adam’s house with the headlights out at two o’clock in the morning?
“Unless they sent someone,” Gina whispers.
“What do you mean?” I ask the question, but I already know where she’s going, and it adds a distinctly sinister element to an already menacing situation.
She stares at me, her lips parted, the wheels of thought in her eyes working. “They know some very bad people, Kate. Dangerous people who owe them favors. Dregs of the earth who have no compunction about killing a cop.”
I rub my hand across the place on the back of my neck where the hairs stand on end, find the skin damp with sweat despite the gooseflesh on my arms. It’s bad enough to believe that a police department, an institution I believe in with my whole heart—a department I’d once been part of—runs rampant with corruption. It’s inconceivable to believe that sworn police officers could be capable of executing one of their own.
I stare at her, aware that my pulse is up. A question I don’t want to speak aloud beats at the back of my brain. “You think they would hire some thug to hunt you down and kill you?” I ask.
“I think they’re capable of doing exactly that.” She buttresses the words with a hefty dose of bluster. “Remember, I’m the cop who can put them in prison for the rest of their lives. I’d say they’re pretty motivated to do whatever it takes to get me out of the picture. They know all the right people, and they don’t even have to get their hands dirty.”
I look out the window, watch the falling snow, wondering if the bad weather has given us a false sense of security. That we’re tucked away and safe when we’re anything but.
“We need to keep our eyes open,” I tell her.
“That is the understatement of the year,” she mutters.
Neither of us laughs.
“I’ll see about having one of my officers park in front of the farm. Or at least drive by when they can. Keep an eye on things.”
“Then again, we could be wrong about all this,” Gina adds with a forced nonchalance. “Come on. There’s two feet of snow on the ground. Everyone and their uncle is snowbound. No one knows I’m here. Maybe all this closed-quarters crap has made us paranoid.”
That I can see past the faux bravado does nothing to assuage the knot of dread that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.