the day.
For the thousandth time John wished it had been him instead of his family. He would have given his own life a thousand times over to save them. But that was another quirky thing about Fate; she never bargained, and she never gave second chances.
Back at the bar, he ordered another double and watched some weird game show he didn’t understand on the TV above the bar. He drank the beer and tried not to think about anything but the alcohol running like nitro through his veins. The Xanax just starting to kick in . . .
“John.”
The familiarity of the voice yanked him from his mental fog. Turning, he was surprised to see Denny McNinch beside him, looking like he’d just come from a funeral.
“Nice suit.”
“Nordstrom’s,” Denny said. “Had ’em on sale.”
Around him, the room dipped and curved, but John maintained eye contact, hoping he didn’t look as fucked up as he felt. “I’d ask if this is a social call, but judging from the look on your face, it isn’t.”
“It’s not.” The bartender set a beer on the bar and Denny took a long drink.
“You here to fire me or what?”
“Worse.”
John couldn’t help it; he laughed.
Denny reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid the RFA on the bar. “Rummel wants you on it.”
“You’re kidding?” John slid the RFA closer and skimmed the particulars.
DESCRIPTION OF CRIME:
Possible serial murder. Local law enforcement overwhelmed.
LOCATION:
Painters Mill, Ohio.
CONTACT:
Janine Fourman, town councilwoman. Norm Johnston. Mayor Auggie Brock.
“Not exactly my area of expertise,” John said.
“Like you have an area of expertise these days.”
“I’m pretty good at fucking up.”
Denny raised his glass. “That doesn’t count.”
John squinted at the form, unable to believe they were assigning him a case. He wasn’t exactly in the running for agent of the year. “Why me?”
“Maybe you drew the short straw.”
They both knew Rummel never did anything without a reason. He was a man with an agenda, and that agenda never served anyone but himself.
Denny shrugged. “Maybe he thinks it’s time you got off your ass and earned your keep.”
“Or maybe that sneaky little fucker wants to watch me unravel.”
“So prove him wrong. You were a cop. You’ve got the mojo.”
Even through the lavender haze of inebriation, John noticed the other man’s misery, and he thought he knew why. Denny might be just another figurehead in an ocean of figureheads. But he was a straight shooter. Something wasn’t right about this, and they both knew it.
“You could retire,” Denny offered.
John folded the RFA and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I’ll take the case.”
“You sure?”
John nodded. “Just do one thing for me, will you?”
“You got it.”
“Tell Rummel he can kiss my ass.”
Laughing, Denny picked up his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
CHAPTER 11
Midnight descends with the cold stealth of a nocturnal predator. Freezing and discouraged, I pack our tools into the rear of the Explorer. In five hours time, we dug eight holes at various positions, but found no trace of human remains. I’m left not knowing if the man I shot survived to haunt this town again, or if we were simply unable to find the grave.
Jacob and I don’t speak during the drive to his farm. He offers no apology for his inability to find the remains—or his accusation—but I don’t expect one. I want to ask him to help me again tomorrow, but I don’t. Finding Lapp’s body is on my shoulders and mine alone.
The case is almost twenty-four hours old. I’ve raced against the clock all day, but accomplished little. My back and shoulders ache from the physical exertion of digging. The confrontation with my brother has drained the last traces of optimism from my psyche. Still, the need to hunt down this killer consumes me.
After dropping Jacob, I head for home. Around me, Painters Mill sleeps with the sweet innocence of a child. The shops are closed, their pretty storefronts dark and locked down tight. An expectant hush has fallen over the town. I think of Amanda Horner’s death, and I cannot reconcile such utter brutality with this postcard-perfect place I’ve come to love.
I stop the Explorer in front of my house, but I don’t turn in. I should call it a night and get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be even longer than today. But though my body is beyond exhaustion, my mind is wound tight. If Daniel Lapp survived all those years ago, where would he go for help?
In a time of need, an Amish man would turn to family.
Cutting the wheel, I hit the gas and head out of town. I know better than to approach Benjamin Lapp at this hour. Cops have protocol and rules of conduct they are bound to follow, one of them being you don’t knock on doors at one o’clock in the morning. But if anyone knows the whereabouts of Daniel Lapp, it’s his brother. Because he’s Amish, I feel reasonably certain he won’t run screaming “police brutality” to the town council in the morning.
East of town I turn onto Miller-Grove Road. The Lapp place is midway to the dead end and down a long and winding lane. Unlike most Amish farms, this one is unkempt. The moon illuminates a barn with a swayback roof. Grass as high as a man’s hips pokes out through the snow. I park adjacent to the workshop, remove my Mag-Lite and head toward the front door.
I don’t feel as if I’m in danger, but I thumb the snap off my holster. A cop can never be too cautious, even among pacifists. I open the storm door, knock loudly and wait. When that doesn’t rouse Lapp, I use the flashlight against the wood. The sound is thunderous in the stark silence.
A few minutes later, a yellow light flickers inside. I step back and aside, my hand resting on my .38. The door swings open. Holding a lantern, Benjamin Lapp squints at me as if I just beamed down from another planet.
“Katie Burkholder?”
Even in the dim light, the likeness of the two brothers gives me pause. A chill chases gooseflesh down my arms. I see light blue eyes. Brown hair shorn into a jagged cut. The same thin mouth and jutting chin. A flash of memory almost sends me back a step, but I will away the slow rise of revulsion.
“I need to ask you some questions, Benjamin.”
Because he is unmarried, Benjamin is clean-shaven. He wears trousers with suspenders hanging down and a shirt that’s only partially tucked. Wool socks cover his feet.
“Is there a problem? It is very late.”
I shove my badge at him. He stares at it as if he’s suddenly lost his ability to read. “This won’t wait.”
He blinks at me. “What is this about?”
