His cell phone rings. He glances down at it, then sends the call to voice mail. “That was Rasmussen. I’ve got to go.”
The words send a hard rush of panic through me. I know where he’s going—to speak to the kids. Get their final statements. I hate the thought of not being there.
“I want to talk to Salome,” I say.
“Kate…”
“I mean it, John. I need to see her.”
“I don’t have to remind you that you’re on leave.”
“I know it,” I snap. “Damn it, I want to see her. It doesn’t have to be in an official capacity.”
Muttering beneath his breath, he picks up his laptop case and starts toward the living room. “You know that’s not a good idea, don’t you?” he says over his shoulder.
“Since when has that stopped me from anything?”
“Good point.”
“If you don’t take me with you, I’ll go on my own.”
“I know you will.” He growls the words as he goes to the closet, yanks out his trench coat.
“I just want to talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he says, but he hands me my coat.
“All the guys tell me that,” I respond, and we go out the door.
I don’t want to be nervous about seeing Salome, but I am. This will be the first time I’ve spoken with her since Mose’s death. I have no idea how she will respond to me. She witnessed the shooting, after all; she watched me gun down her lover. Though I’m sure she realizes I was defending myself and probably saved her life in the process, hearts are rarely as logical as our intellect. I can’t help but wonder if she blames me.
But I won’t apologize for what I did. If faced with the same choice, I’d do the same thing a second time. I am, however, sorry Mose is dead. I’m sorry I was the one who killed him. More than anything, I want her to know that. I want her to know I care about her and her two young siblings, that I’m here for them. But then, life is full of wishes, most of which are left ungranted.
I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I wish there was a place in my life for these kids. I’d like to watch them grow up. Keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t get into trouble during their
“Are you ready for this?”
I glance over at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice, realize we’re pulling into Adam Slabaugh’s lane. Ahead I see the old white house with its green roof and shutters, like an aging patriarch looking out over his legacy of plowed fields and pastures.
“I’m ready.” My words come too quickly, and I see his mouth tighten. “Do the boys know what happened to Mose?”
“I’m sure they probably know Mose is dead. I don’t know if they were told how it happened.”
I nod, thinking about that. “What if they hate me?”
His gaze lingers on mine. “You saved their lives, Kate. If it wasn’t for you, those two boys wouldn’t be here.” He shrugs.
He’s being logical, of course. But it’s not helping. By the time we park in the gravel area between the barn and the house, my heart is pounding and my palms are wet with sweat.
“Chief Katie!”
Tomasetti and I turn simultaneously and see Ike and Samuel bound from the house, a Border collie and an obese yellow Lab on their heels.
Ike doesn’t slow down before running into me and throwing his arms around my legs. “Daisy’s going to have puppies!” he shouts.
“I was going to tell her!” Samuel complains.
This is not at all what I expected, and several thoughts strike me at once. First and foremost, despite losing their parents and brother in the last days, and nearly dying in that pit themselves, they’re not broken up or crying or even moping around. The next thing that registers is that the boys are genuinely pleased to see me; they don’t hate me. The realization moves me, shakes me up just a little bit.
They no longer look like Amish farm boys. Both are wearing newish-looking jeans, sweatshirts, and coats, and I realize their uncle probably took them shopping at the Walmart in Millersburg.
I set my hand on Ike’s skinny shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”
He looks up at me and grins. Only then do I see the remnants of grief on his sweet face. He looks fragile and sad, but he realizes neither. “Hi.”
When I look down at the two dogs, I’m shocked to find my vision blurred with tears. “Which one is Daisy?” I ask.
“Daisy’s the black-and-white one.” Samuel motions toward the Border collie. “The other one’s a boy dog, and boy dogs can’t have puppies.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Daisy’s really smart!” Ike exclaims. “Uncle Adam said we get to keep all the puppies no matter how many she has. I hope she has a hundred.”
I’m aware of Tomasetti coming around the front of the Tahoe and kneeling to pet the dogs. “Your uncle home?” he asks.
“Uncle Adam’s in the kitchen,” Samuel replies.
“He don’t know how to make pancakes, so we had to go to McDonald’s.”
“Yeah, but we like McDonald’s,” Samuel adds, nodding.
Ike crosses to Tomasetti and looks down at the Border collie. “She likes it when you scratch her like this.”
I laugh outright when he does a spider thing with his little-boy fingers and the dog groans and growls and begins to wriggle. “See? Ain’t she funny?”
“Can I help you?”
I look up to see Adam Slabaugh coming down the sidewalk, shrugging into an insulated jacket. He looks even thinner than the last time I saw him. But his blue eyes are alive this morning, and I know that despite the grief of losing his brothers, sister-in-law, and nephew, the three surviving children have filled him with optimism and hope.
Giving Daisy a final pat, Tomasetti straightens and crosses to Slabaugh, and the two men shake. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
Slabaugh sighs. “I wish it could have happened another way.”
“I understand,” Tomasetti responds.
I join the men and motion toward the two boys, who are a few yards away, playing with the dogs. “How are they?”
Adam grimaces. “Surprisingly good, considering. I didn’t know what to tell them about Mose, so they don’t know yet. They cried themselves to sleep last night, especially little Ike. I walked into their room at bedtime and they both said prayers for their parents. It breaks my heart.”
The picture he paints is incredibly sad, and for a too long moment, I can’t speak because I’m afraid I’m going to cry. Kids need their parents, especially when they’re young. I want to tell him that, but I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.
“I know it’s a cliche,” Tomasetti tells him, “but kids really are amazingly resilient.”
“They’re lucky to have you,” I say. And then I ask the question that’s been tearing me up inside. “How’s Salome?”
He offers a grim look. “She hasn’t stopped crying. Barely speaks to me. Stays in her room. Last night, she woke up screaming.” He shrugs, looking lost. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just hugged her.”
“She’ll probably need some counseling,” Tomasetti offers.
I nod in agreement. “I can call you with some names and numbers,” I add.
