“Chief, it’s Glock.”
“How’s the canvassing going?”
“We finished half an hour ago. I wanted to let you know Dick Flatter and his wife remember seeing a truck they didn’t recognize out on Township Road 16 last night.”
Township Road 16 is a dirt track that runs along the north side of the Plank farm. “What kind of truck?”
“He couldn’t recall. Said it was dark in color. Didn’t know the make. He remembered it because he’s pretty sure it doesn’t belong to any of the neighbors.”
“A make would have been nice.”
“That would make our jobs way too easy.” He pauses. “You want me to give BCI a call and ask for a list of dark pickup trucks registered in Holmes and Coshocton counties?”
“I’ll call them.”
“Anything new on your end?”
I tell him about the Mary Plank’s pregnancy.
“That’s a stunner. I mean, she was Amish and pretty young.”
My own past flashes in the periphery of my mind, but I shove it aside. “Unusual, but not unheard of. Get this: she had live sperm inside her body.”
“So we have DNA?”
“Going to take a few days. The BCI lab has to run it through CODIS. If our guy is a past offender, we’ll have a name.”
“If he doesn’t have a record, we’re fucked.”
I look at the journal in my hand. “I was looking around out here and found a journal in the girl’s room.”
“A journal? Like a diary? Whose is it?”
“It’s Mary’s. She’s at that age. You know, wants to write everything down.”
“Never went through that stage.”
“Might be a girl thing.” I sigh. “I’m going to take it home and see if she names a boyfriend.”
“The pregnancy kind of changes things, doesn’t it? Guy doesn’t want a kid, so he offs his girlfriend.”
“I think there’s more to it, Glock. Not enough motive there to slaughter an entire family. And it doesn’t explain the torture.”
“Some things just don’t make sense no matter how you cut it. Maybe this guy’s a psycho. Went berserk.”
I consider asking him for his opinion on the scuff marks in the barn, but realize it’s probably better to sleep on it and brainstorm in the morning when we’re fresh. I sigh. “You heading home?”
“On my way there now.”
“See you in the morning.”
I disconnect and stand there for a moment, listening to the storm. I should be thinking about the case, but as I descend the stairs, it’s John Tomasetti who dominates my thoughts. I should have let Glock call BCI. But I know why I didn’t, and I’m not proud of my motivations.
By the time I reach the living room, I’m dialing his cell phone number. He picks up on the fourth ring, sounding distracted. “It’s Kate.” Pause. “Are you in the middle of something?”
“Nothing you can’t drag me away from. How’s the investigation coming along?”
I recap everything I learned from Doc Coblentz. “One of the neighbors recalls seeing a dark pickup near the Plank farm the night of the murders. I was wondering if you could do me a favor and get me the names of people in Holmes and Coshocton counties who own a dark pickup truck.”
“Worth a shot. Make? Model? Year?”
“I don’t know. I thought we’d start with blue and black.”
“Well, that narrows it down.”
I’m crossing the threshold into the kitchen when outside the window a flash of lightning turns night into day. Shock freezes me in place when I see the silhouette of a person standing outside the back door. Snapping the phone closed, I shine my light on the window. At first I think the BCI technician is returning from a late dinner break. But the instant my light hits the glass, the silhouette darts away.
Shoving the phone into my pocket, I lunge toward the door, yank it open. Thunder cracks like a gunshot as I step outside. Rain slashes down. I see the shadow of my Explorer. The silhouette of the buggy. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see movement to my right. I turn, catch a glimpse of a figure running across the yard.
“Stop!” I call out. “Police! Stop!”
The figure doesn’t stop.
In the next instant, I’m bounding off the porch, sprinting toward him. Rain stings my face. Streaming bullets of water blind me as I run across the side yard. A flicker of lightning illuminates a white rail fence ahead and a cornfield beyond. I see the person go over the fence. In the back of my mind I wonder if the killer has returned to the scene. But why would he do that when my Explorer is parked in plain sight?
I grapple with my lapel mike as I sprint toward the fence. “This is 235! I’m 10-20 at the Plank farm! I’ve got a 10-88! 10-78!”
“Uh . . . roger that.” The new dispatcher. A too long pause. “Um . . . who do I send?”
“Get on the goddamn radio and get someone out here now!” I shout.
“Ten-four.”
I draw my .38. I’m running full out when something tangles at my feet. Wire, I realize, and then I’m falling. I reach out to break my fall, lose the grip on my gun. My hands plunge into mud. I land on my stomach hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I turn over, kick off the wire—a freaking tomato cage—and scramble to my feet. Scooping up my weapon, I lurch into a run.
My breaths come hard and fast as I scale the fence. I can hear the blood roaring in my ears. I shine the Maglite ahead, and see an ocean of corn. I burst into the first row. Mud sucks at my feet as I sprint to the next row. Husks slash at my face as I run down the row, pop into the next, continue on. I run blindly for several minutes, hoping to intercept my quarry. But he’s nowhere in sight.
Finally, I stop, my lungs burning. “Damnit.”
I nearly jump out of my skin when my cell phone beeps. I snatch it up with a cross utterance of my name.
“What the hell happened? I’ve been trying to call—”
“You alone?”
“Backup’s on the way.”
“Kate, goddamnit . . .”
“I’m okay.” I’m out of breath. Too pissed to talk. “I’ve got to go.”
He starts to say something else, but I disconnect. I tell myself it’s because I’m standing in the middle of a cornfield soaked to the skin with an unknown subject in the area. But I’m honest enough to know that at least part of the reason I don’t want to talk to him at this minute is because I need him. Such is the nature of our relationship. The thought of needing anyone scares the hell out of me.
Shining the Maglite in the direction from which I came, I see my muddy tracks being slowly eroded away by the pounding rain. A voice barks over my radio. “This is 289. I’m 10-76 the Plank farm, 10-77 five.”
Glock, I realize and hit my mike. “Ten-fourteen heading west through the cornfield west of the house. See if you can intercept at Hogpath Road.”
“Ten-four.” The mike crackles. “You okay, Chief?”
“That’s affirm.”
By the time I reach the house, I’m dripping wet. The entire front of my uniform is covered with mud. Chunks fall off my boots as I cross to the Explorer. I’m cold and royally ticked off as I yank open the door and grab my rain slicker. I’m shrugging into it when headlights wash over me.
I look up to see T.J. emerge from his cruiser, Maglite in hand. He approaches me at a jog, his expression concerned. “Damn, Chief. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Quickly, I tell him about the journal and seeing the subject at the door. “I gave pursuit. I might have caught him, but I fell, lost him in the cornfield. Glock’s going to try to intercept on Hogpath Road.”
