I bolt upright, my breaths coming fast. For an instant, I’m back in that warehouse. The dream scampers back into its hole, but the pain lingers. I’m not sure what woke me. Not the dream. My heart is pounding. The back of my neck is sticky with sweat. My hands aren’t quite steady.
Around me, the air is cold and pitch black and for a moment I don’t remember where I am. Then I hear the rustle of wind outside the window, the scrape of branches against the glass. The hiss of the woodstove in the corner, and everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours comes flooding back.
I’m on the sofa in the living room of Adam Lengacher’s farmhouse. I relax back into my pillow, staring into the darkness, listening. Whatever sound jerked me awake doesn’t come again. I reach for my cell on the coffee table, check the time. Almost one A.M.
“Great,” I mutter, knowing sleep will not come again.
Moonlight slants in through the windows, diluted light dancing on the floor, telling me the snow has stopped. I wonder if Gina is awake, too, dreading the day ahead, bothered by the unknowns, and everything she faces in the coming weeks. I’m thinking about checking on her, seeing if she wants some company, when a sound from the front porch gives me pause. Something moving around outside. A raccoon raiding the bird feeder the girls hung on the eave? A deer nibbling the seed strewn about on the ground? Another part of my brain lands on a darker possibility.
I sit up, swivel, set my feet on the floor. I’m reaching for the Maglite I keep next to the sofa when the door explodes inward, swings wide, bangs against the wall. The sound is a thunderclap. Glass shatters, tinkling onto the plank floor. In an instant, I’m on my feet, bringing up the Maglite. Simultaneously, I’m blinded by dual beams.
“Police! We’ve got a warrant! Get your hands up! Police Department!”
Two men rush inside, shadow figures moving fast, feet heavy on the floor. It’s too dark to make out details, but I see the silhouette of a shotgun. Flashlights. I feel a burst of cold air on my feet. One of the men comes at me, reaching.
I step back, bring up the Maglite, tap his hand away with it, and I blind him with the beam. “I’m a police officer!” I shout. “Show me your ID! I’m a cop!”
My mind flits to my .38 in the mudroom. I glance that way, consider making a run for it. The sound of the shotgun being racked stops me cold.
“Police! Do not move.” The man keeps coming, swiftly, aggressive, shotgun leveled on my chest. “Get your hands up! Keep them where I can see them.”
I raise my hands to shoulder height, train the beam of the Maglite on his face. Recognition jolts me and it’s followed by a kick of disbelief. Ken Mercer. “What do you want?” I ask, backing up, keeping the coffee table between us. “Why are you here? Show me your IDs.”
He raises his hands to shield his eyes. “Cut that fucking light.”
“Get that shotgun off me,” I snap back.
A thousand thoughts hit my brain at once. Are these men friend or foe? Is this a legitimate raid? Is the warrant official? Sanctioned by a judge? Or is this the scenario Gina warned me about? Is everyone in this house in danger of being gunned down like a herd of deer?
“Where’s Colorosa?” comes a gruff male voice.
I glance right, see a second man approach. Large frame. Moving quickly. Pistol in his hand. Pumped up and high on adrenaline.
“Show me the warrant,” I say. “Show me your IDs.”
They lower their Maglites. I do the same. I can’t stop looking at the shotgun, which is still leveled at my chest. For a moment, the only sound is the rise and fall of our breaths, the drumbeat of my heart against my ribs.
“Somebody turn on a fucking light,” one of the men growls.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Gina heard the commotion. I wonder how she’ll handle this. If she’ll acquiesce. She doesn’t have a firearm; I’ve kept hers unloaded and locked up in the Explorer. Facing two armed men—one of whom is as of yet unidentified—I wonder if that decision was solid.
“There’s a propane lamp in the corner,” I tell them.
“Turn it on. Do it slowly. Don’t do anything stupid.”
The familiarity of the voice clicks, stirs a distant memory. I’ve heard it before. Damon Bertrand, I realize, and a mushroom cloud of fear erupts in my chest.
I go to the lamp, strike a match. I spot my cell on the table next to the sofa, reach for it.
“Put it down,” Bertrand snaps.
“I’m a cop,” I say.
“Now.”
I do as I’m told. Turning my attention back to the lamp, I twist the key to turn on the gas, and set the match to the mantle. The dim glow of light fills the room. I turn to see Damon Bertrand standing a few feet away. Trooper hat. Heavy parka and boots. Blue polymer Glock steady in his hand. He was a detective back when I’d worked for the Columbus Division of Police. I’d only met him a few times. He’s older and heavier, but the same.
Next to him, Ken Mercer stares at me as if I’m some sort of apparition. He was a patrol officer way back when. I went out with him a few times. Slept with him. Looking at him, even now I feel the sharp pang of regret. The shotgun in his hands is trained on me, center mass.
Remembrance glints in his eyes. “It’s been a while,” he says.
My heart pounds pure adrenaline. Fear crawling beneath my skin. I feel my hands and legs shaking. My breaths coming too fast. Muscles jumping. I can’t stop thinking about Adam and the children upstairs. I know he’s awake by now. I don’t dare look in that direction.
“Get that shotgun off me,” I snarl. “What’s this about?”
“We’ve got a warrant for Gina Colorosa,” Bertrand tells me. “Where is she?”
“She’s in my custody,” I tell him.
The two men exchange glances; then Mercer turns away and enters the hall. I hear his booted feet against the floor, heavy stride, opening doors. The bathroom. The sewing room. At any moment, I fear I’m going to hear a gunshot or else he’s about to drag Gina out here.
“This would have been a lot easier if you’d just called my office,” I say to Bertrand.
“Apparently, there’s some question about your loyalties.”
“You got your information wrong.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, Bertrand steps past me and picks up my cell. He drops it to the floor, watches it bounce once, then crushes it beneath his boot.
I don’t react. “You guys are a long way from home.”
“So is Colorosa,” he says.
“I need to see that warrant,” I tell him.
He unzips his coat and retrieves several folded sheets of paper. Stepping closer, he passes them to me.
I scan the document, seeking anything that’s amiss. I flip to the second page, my eyes hitting the highlights, the sections I’m familiar with. It’s signed by a sitting judge in Franklin County. What the hell?
Mercer emerges from the hall, shotgun at his side. “Window’s open,” he says. “Either she’s upstairs or she booked.” He starts toward the stairs.
There’s no way I can let him go up there. “This is my arrest,” I say forcefully. “Colorosa is my charge. I’m the one who will be transporting her.” I pause, struggling for calm, take a moment to shore up my voice. “You didn’t get the memo?”
One side of Bertrand’s mouth curves. “Warrant trumps your memo.” Leaning closer, he plucks it from my hand.
“Where the hell is she?” Mercer snaps.
“She was in the sewing room down the hall,” I tell him.
“That bitch ran,” he says nastily.
A quick skitter of relief in my gut. Chances are, she heard them coming and went out the window. A silent laugh flares inside me. I hope she gives them a run for their money.
“We need to go get her,” Mercer says.
Bertrand looks at me. “Is she armed?”
“Of course she’s not armed,” I retort. “She’s under arrest.”
His eyes glitter. “What about you?”
“I’m a cop and you need to back the hell off.” I let my eye slide to the stairs. “This is a private residence with children. My sidearm—as well as Colorosa’s—are locked in the glove box of my city-issue Explorer—which is stuck in the snow, by the way. The weather is the only reason she hasn’t already been booked in.” I put some attitude into my voice to cover the lies. While Gina’s Sig Sauer is, indeed, locked in the Explorer, my .38 lies on the top shelf of the mudroom cabinet.
“Katie?”
The three of us swivel to see Adam coming down the stairs. Behind him, Sammy and Lizzie crouch at the landing, holding the rails like jail bars, staring down at us, their faces curious and frightened.
“Everything’s okay,” I tell him, hoping he sees the truth in my eyes. “These men are police. They’re going to help me find Gina and then we’re going to take her to Columbus. Adam, I need you to go back upstairs. Stay with the children. Du sinn in kfoah,” I add quickly. You are in danger.
Bertrand is already across the room, pointing at the Amish man. “Come on down here and talk to us, buddy.”
Relief skitters through me when Adam looks back at the children. “Bleiva,” he tells them. Stay put. He descends the stairs, his eyes moving from Bertrand to Mercer to me. He approaches us with caution, taking in the broken panes of the front door. The glass on the floor.
His eyes skate to Bertrand. “If you’d knocked, I would have let you in.”
“Sorry about the door. We were just following procedure. We’ll get it fixed for you.” Bertrand hands Adam the warrant. “This is an arrest warrant for Gina Colorosa. We have permission to search your house, outbuildings, and property. It would help if you just told us where she is.”
At well over six feet, Adam is taller than both men. He’s well-muscled and in good physical condition. Watching Mercer take his measure, I wonder if they realize the Amish man is a pacifist. That even if threatened, he would not defend himself or his home.
I edge closer to Adam, look down at the warrant. The knowledge that it is an official document signed by a sitting judge doesn’t alleviate the uneasiness pummeling the back of my brain. I don’t trust these men. If my gut is correct, I suspect they’re going to take Gina back to Columbus on a trumped-up charge. If something happens to her in the course of the arrest or the trip, all the better.
I look at Bertrand. “You ran off my prisoner,” I tell him.
The detective stares back at me, watchdog eyes, weighing my words, my demeanor, judging me. Trying to figure out how much of a problem I’m going to be.
“We need to find Colorosa,” Mercer says.
“I agree,” I say.
Bertrand laser-focuses on me. “You didn’t tell anyone you had her in custody. Why is that?”
I meet his gaze, hold it. “I called BCI within ten minutes of taking her into custody. Not my problem that no one called you.” I motion with my eyes to Mercer. “We need to find her. She’s cuffed,” I lie. “She can’t have gotten far.”
Bertrand looks at Mercer, then motions with his eyes to Adam. “Cuff him. Let’s search the house.”
I start to protest, but realize I’m more likely to win their trust if I don’t. “Mr. Lengacher is not a threat,” I say.
Mercer passes the shotgun to Bertrand, then removes zip ties from his belt and approaches Adam. “We’re going to detain you, sir. For your safety and ours. Just stay calm and do as I say.” A line directly from the procedure playbook.
“Datt!” I look toward the stairs to see Sammy fly down them, taking two at a time. The two girls are behind him, nightgowns billowing at their feet as they descend. “Datt!”
The children reach the base of the stairs. Stocking feet sliding on the wood floor, Sammy pivots, runs to his father.
“Samuel.” Adam barely has time to brace when the boy flings himself into his father’s arms. The Amish man wraps his arms around his son. The girls crowd in next to their brother. Annie has begun to cry, her face pink, her cheeks wet.
“They’re not a threat,” I tell the two men. “You’ve no cause to cuff anyone.”
Mercer and Bertrand ignore us. The Amish man doesn’t resist as Mercer reaches for his arm, turns him around. He places the loop of the zip tie around Adam’s right wrist, pulls both arms behind his back, and yanks the plastic taut.
Mercer pats down Adam, finding nothing, then motions toward the sofa. “Sit down and do not move.”
Sammy takes in the scene, his expression frightened and confused. “Datt?”
“It’s all right,” Adam tells his son. But he’s watching the men with caution, distrust and trepidation etched into his every feature as he lowers himself onto the sofa.
Bertrand hands the shotgun back to Mercer. “As long as you do as you’re told, everything will be fine,” he says to the children and Adam. “Just stay calm and be quiet.”
Mercer trots to the kitchen, shotgun across his chest, looks around quickly. He ducks into the mudroom, his head swiveling left and right. He then goes to the stairs and takes them two at a time to the top. We fall silent. Tension hums. The ceiling above us creaks, Mercer running from room to room, looking for Gina.
Bertrand studies Adam for a moment, then asks, “Where’s Colorosa?”
The Amish man looks back at him. “The sewing room. There is a bed.”
“She’s not there.”
Adam’s brows go up. “Then I do not know.”
Bertrand takes in the children. “Do any of you know where Gina is?” he asks.
The girls, standing between their datt’s knees, shake their heads, not making eye contact. Sammy sits at his father’s side, looking at Bertrand as if the detective is some wild animal that’s found its way into their home.
Good boy.
“You probably scared her and made her run away,” Sammy says in a trembling voice.
Bertrand smiles at the boy. “Where would she go if she wanted to run away?”
Sammy looks from his datt to me, not sure what to say.
Before he can answer, I jump in. “We’re wasting time,” I say. “She gets away or succumbs to the cold, and this is on you.”
Mercer clatters down the stairs, looking at us over the banister. “No one there.”
“You check the attic?”
“That’s affirm.”
Grimacing, Bertrand removes zip ties from his pocket. “I hate to do this, Chief Burkholder. For the record, you are not under arrest, but you are being detained until we get everything figured out.”
My heart begins to pound. “Do not go that route,” I snap. “You’ve no cause.”
“You’ve been aiding and abetting a felon,” Bertrand responds. “At the very least, you have some explaining to do. For now, I need to make sure everyone stays safe.”
“I’m your best hope of finding her,” I tell him. “I know this farm and the surrounding area.”
Bertrand reaches for my arm. “Turn around. You know the drill.”
I pivot away from him. He makes a grab for me, but I’m faster and he misses. I throw myself into a run toward the mudroom. I envision my .38 in the cabinet. Top shelf. Speed loader next to it. My coat on a hook. Boots against the wall. I’ve gone two steps when Mercer comes at me from behind. Full-body tackle. He rams his shoulder into the small of my back. His arms go around my hips; he throws his weight against me. I go down fast, hard enough to bruise bone, no time to break my fall. My cheek strikes the floor, dazing me. I try to roll onto my back, get my feet up to kick him. But he’s too strong. Too heavy. Fast for his size.
“Get off me!” I scream.
He thrusts a knee into my spine, puts his weight into it. “Stop resisting.”
I’m facedown on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe. Mercer’s knee grinding into my back, pain radiating down my spine. I hear the children crying openly now. Then his hands are on my arms. Zip ties looped around my wrists and yanked tight enough to cut off the blood supply. Another layer of dread settles in my gut when strong arms grasp my ankles and secure them together.
The next thing I know I’m yanked to my feet. Mercer turns me around and shoves me onto the sofa. Feet bound, I fall unceremoniously onto the cushions. Breathing hard. Helpless and angry now. Nothing I can do about any of it.
Removing another zip tie from beneath his coat, he kneels at Adam’s feet and secures the Amish man’s ankles together. When he’s finished, he gets to his feet, jabs a finger in Sammy’s face. “If you untie them, I’ll come back for you. I’ll kill your dad. Your sisters. Then I’ll kill you.” He hefts the shotgun, stopping just short of pointing it at the boy. “You got me, you fucking little pussy?”
Sammy stares at the man, his mouth open and quivering, and he swallows hard. “Ja.”
I stare at Mercer, fury humming in my blood. Next to me, Adam sits unmoving, saying nothing, taking it in, but I don’t miss the anger simmering in his eyes. Sammy snuggles close to his father. Crying, Annie and Lizzie have climbed onto the sofa on the other side of him, their legs curled, expressions frightened.
“Fire!” Bertrand shouts abruptly.
I glance over to see him striding toward the kitchen, eyes on the window. “Bitch set the shed on fire.”
From where I’m sitting, I can’t see the shed, but a smidgen of hope blooms in my chest.
“Shit.” Mercer darts to the kitchen doorway, looks out. “Let’s go.”
Without another word the two men rush through the kitchen and out the back door.