Pray for Silence

and beyond on the Plank case. It was a tough one.” I sigh, surprised when my breath shudders. “You did a good job. We got them.”

Pickles unwraps a toothpick and sticks it between his teeth. “McNarie says he’s got a bottle of Absolut with your name on it when you’re ready.”

I smile, but for some reason his mention of McNarie’s Bar only makes me think of Tomasetti. He returned to Columbus yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since. I wonder where he is this morning. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. If he misses me as much as I miss him.

“You’re looking kind of pale, Chief,” T.J. says after a moment. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“I’m heading that way now.” I send him a smile, but it doesn’t feel real. I’m aware of their stares, and I realize they’re worried about me.

“See you guys in a couple of days.” I start toward the door.

T.J. rushes forward and pushes it open for me. “Get some rest, Chief.”

“I’ll do that,” I say and start toward the Explorer.

The graabhof is located on the township road west of Painters Mill. The last time I was here was for the Plank funerals. It was raining and crowded with mourners. I cited the tourist for illegal parking and met Aaron Plank for the first time. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Today, the graveyard is deserted and unbearably lonely. I park in the gravel driveway and shut down the engine. An arthritic-looking bois d’arc tree stands next to the gate like some ancient, battered sentry. Pain thuds dully in my arm as I open the door and get out. I know better than to mix Vicodin and vodka, but I lift the flask from my coat pocket anyway, and take a long pull of Absolut.

Drizzle floats down from a Teflon sky as I push open the gate and pass through. There have been several vandalism incidents here at the old cemetery, but the gate is never locked. I wonder if the Amish will ever learn.

A dozen rows of small headstones run in neat lines, parallel with the fence. The headstones are uniform in size. Some are older than others, faded by time and eroded by the elements; in an Amish cemetery, all the dead are equal. Most have a simple cross etched into their facades. Lower is the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death. Some Amish bury their dead according to the order of death with little or no regard to family connections. In this cemetery, however, the dead are buried with their family members. In the case of the Planks, it wouldn’t have mattered since they were all killed on the same night.

The graves are easy to find. Mounded and shiny from the rain, the freshly turned earth hasn’t yet settled. The headstones are stark and white. Nothing gaudy for the Amish. They die as they have lived. Plainly.

I walk among the graves, reading each of the seven names. I never met any of the Plank family members, but I feel as if I know them. Envisioning them the way they might have been in life comes easily. Little Amos in the throes of his terrible twos, all giggles and temper tantrums. Ten-year-old David was a prankster, a sixty-two-pound package of mischief. Mark, fourteen years old and already taking on the responsibilities of a man. Annie, sixteen and full of dreams for a future with a husband and children. Lastly, I think of Mary. The lost one. The troubled one. The one most like me. The one I’ve identified with throughout this case. The one whose death touched me so deeply.

Reaching beneath my coat, I pull out the faceless doll I’d found on her bed the night I discovered her journal. I know it’s going to get ruined, but it doesn’t matter. I think Mary would want it here. Kneeling, I prop the doll against the gravestone. It’s an incredibly sad sight. The faceless doll sitting against that smooth jut of concrete, getting wet. The doll that will never be hugged. Never be loved.

I know it’s stupid, but that makes me think of the child I had once carried inside my body. I went years without thinking of what I did. I never second-guessed my decision, never regretted it. I sure as hell never let myself imagine what might have been. Today, for the first time in seventeen years, I do. It’s a strange thought, but had I not opted to get an abortion after the rape, I would have a sixteen-year-old child.

Only then do I realize I’m crying. Open sobs that echo off the headstones and the bare branches of the bois d’arc tree. Rising, I pull the flask from my coat pocket and take another swig. The hiss of tires on wet pavement draws my attention. I look toward the gate to see Tomasetti’s black Tahoe turn into the cemetery. I watch as he parks beside my Explorer and gets out.

All I can think is that I don’t want him to see me like this. Quickly, I wipe my eyes, drop the flask into my pocket and watch him approach. He wears a charcoal-colored trench coat. London Fog. Beneath the coat, I see a crisp blue shirt and a gray paisley tie. Hermes. His strides are long and purposeful. His eyes are intent on me.

“For the chief of police, you’re a damn hard woman to find.” He reaches me and stops. “You didn’t answer your cell.”

“I’m off duty.”

He nods, looks over at the graves. He grimaces upon seeing the doll, then he turns his attention back to me. “You okay?”

For a split second, I think I am. I’m going to make some snide remark about his city-slicker clothes and give him hell for disturbing me during a private moment. Or maybe I’ll rub it in a little that my high-risk sting paid off. I’ll make fun of Skid’s partially shaved head. Brag about getting the sons of bitches responsible for the murders of this family. Instead, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears.

For a moment, the only sounds come from the patter of rain against the ground. The caw of a crow as it lifts from a twisted branch of the bois d’arc tree. And the sound of my sobs. Saying nothing, Tomasetti keeps his distance, waits me out.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a moment. “I’m a mess.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” I use my right sleeve to wipe my face. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’ve seen you naked.”

Choking out a laugh, I raise my head and look at him. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.”

I blow out a sigh, try to settle myself. “I thought I’d feel better when this was over.”

“Give yourself some time.” He sighs. “You’ve been through a lot, Kate.”

“I wanted to do more for them.”

“You did your job. You gave them justice.”

“I got justice for myself, too.”

“You shot a murderer in the line of duty,” he returns evenly.

“I shot him when he was down.”

“He had a weapon. You didn’t have a choice.” Tomasetti’s eyes sharpen on mine. “Guilt can do a number on you if you let it.”

He’s right, of course. The use of lethal force is a heavy burden for a cop to carry around. Even now, I feel the weight of it on my shoulders. But not in the way he thinks.

“I don’t feel bad about killing Barbereaux,” I say after a moment.

“Tell me you don’t see his face when you close your eyes at night.” He frowns. “Tell me that’s not why you’re hitting the booze.”

“The only reason I feel bad is because pulling that trigger felt so damn good. What kind of person does that make me?”

“That makes you a cop that had to make a tough decision. That’s all. No more. No less. End of story.”

I can’t hold his gaze, so I look out over the sea of headstones. “There were too goddamn many parallels, Tomasetti.”

“I know.”

“She was young and troubled and Amish. She was pregnant.” I run my hands over my face, surprised because I’m crying again.

“She was naive, Kate. You were never that naive.”

“I guess the moral of the story is you can’t go back.”

The rain is coming down in earnest now. His hair is wet. The shoulders of his coat are wet. I can feel water soaking through my own coat. “There’s not enough good in this world,” I say quietly.

“There’s more good than bad. You just have to look for it. When you find it, you have to hang on tight.”