Sworn to Silence (37 page)

I stumble through the Web site, netting a total of four names. A knock at the door startles me. In the living room, I put my eye to the peephole to see John Tomasetti standing on the porch with his collar turned up against the cold. White specks of snow cover his shoulders. His expression is grim. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

His eyes meet mine, then skim the length of me. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but that glass in your hand gives it away.”

“How much did you have to do with it?” I ask.

“I’m not that big a hypocrite.”

“The timing is just coincidence, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s a newsflash for you,
Agent
Tomasetti. I don’t believe you.”

He frowns, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

“I think the smartest thing you can do is leave.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being smart.”

I give him a withering look.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not the enemy here.”

“You stabbed me in the back.”

“Someone filed a complaint against you. Considering that scene in your office yesterday, I’d say Johnston is a pretty good guess.”

He’s right; Glock told me as much. But it’s not enough to quell my anger. I don’t feel like being reasonable and I don’t know who to trust.

“If I had spilled your secret to the town council,” John says, “you can bet your ass you’d be in some interview room surrounded by a bunch of gnarly cops asking nasty questions about the whereabouts of a missing Amish man.”

I step back and open the door. “Why are you here?”

He enters the foyer and closes the door behind him. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

I look down at my glass. It’s empty. I want to refill it, but I don’t want him
to know my frame of mind has deteriorated to that low point. “You could have used the phone.”

“I’m sorry about the job.”

“Do me a favor and don’t apologize, okay?”

Nodding, he shrugs off his coat. He expects me to take it, but I don’t, so he carries it to the sofa and tosses it over the arm. “You can fight the termination, you know. There’s an appeal process.”

“Probably not worth it.”

He starts toward the kitchen and I realize he’s spotted my laptop and notes. I follow, wishing I’d put things away before letting him in. I don’t want him to know I’m still working the case.

His eyes take in the scene and he frowns. “You’re not one of those obsessive cops who can’t let go, are you?”

“I just like to finish what I start.”

“And maybe I’m a well-adjusted, middle-aged man.” Shaking his head, Tomasetti goes to the cupboard and pulls out a glass.

“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I say.

Holding my gaze, he crosses to me, invading my space slightly, and takes my glass from my hand. At first I think he’s going to take it away. Instead he sets both glasses on the table. I watch, fascinated, as he pours three fingers of vodka into each glass, then passes mine back to me. “So, are you okay, or what?”

“I’d feel better if you kept me in the loop.”

“I’ve got a penchant for breaking the rules, anyway.”

“No one has to know.”

“The truth usually comes out sooner or later.” He raises his glass. “Believe me, I know.”

I clink my glass to his and down the drink. The vodka burns all the way to my stomach. My already fuzzy head goes fuzzier. I look at Tomasetti, really look at him, and a weird quiver of attraction goes through me. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s my best link to this case or if it’s something a hell of a lot more complicated.

He’s not a handsome man. Not in the traditional sense. But the package as a whole is appealing in a dangerous and unconventional way. I could take any one facet of his face and call it ordinary. But when you put all of them
together, there’s nothing ordinary about him. He’s all dark shadows and sharp angles and secrets as taboo as my own.

“I plugged the crime signature data into VICAP,” he says, “but nothing viable has come back.”

“VICAP wasn’t widely used, particularly by small towns, until recently.”

“I know that.”

“So maybe you could broaden the search criteria. I’d like to have a look at what comes back myself.”

“And I thought you let me in because you’re starting to like me.”

“Now you know I have an agenda.”

His laugher is a deep, musical sound and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard it. “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a fragile male ego.”

“Will you do it?”

“We could probably work something out.”

“That kind of answer could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“It could be. But you’re no longer on the payroll.”

My heart rate is up. I feel light-headed. I want to blame both of those things on the vodka, but I’m honest enough with myself to admit it has more to do with the man.

He finishes his drink and starts toward me. He has the most unnerving stare of anyone I’ve ever met. Only when my rear presses against the counter do I realize I’m backing up. That I’m filled with an edgy anticipation that’s part cognitive, part physical. I stop analyzing when he reaches me. Setting his hands on the counter on either side of me, he locks me in.

“What are you doing?” I manage.

“Screwing things up, probably.”

“You’re good at that, right?”

“You have no idea.” Dipping his head, he leans close and presses his mouth to mine. Shock and pleasure vibrate through my body on contact. His lips are firm and warm. I feel his quickened breaths against my cheek. I’m tempted to open and take this to the next level, but some ingrained protective instinct I’ve developed over the years won’t let me. In terms of passion, the kiss doesn’t amount to much. But with regard to impact, I feel as if I’ve just been hit with a burst of machine gun fire.

I don’t remember reaching for him, but my arms find their way around his shoulders. Tension quivers in the hard mass of muscle beneath my hands. He deepens the kiss, his tongue probing, sliding between my lips. I take him in and revel in his taste. I smell the pine and musk scent of his aftershave. Need coils and flexes inside me. I’m keenly aware of the hard length of his penis against my pelvis, and I go wet between my legs.

I’m not totally inexperienced when it comes to intimacy. When I lived in Columbus I had a couple of tepid relationships and one serious, ill-fated affair. But it’s been a while and I’m more than a little rusty. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He slides his hands to the sides of my face. I open my eyes to find him staring at me. His expression is a mix of surprise and perplexity. His calloused palms cradle my cheeks. We’re breathing hard, as if we’ve both just finished a marathon.

He runs his knuckles down my cheek, a touch so feather-soft that I shiver. “That was unexpected,” he says.

“But nice.”

“Better than nice.”

Reaching up, I take his hands from my face, but I can’t stop looking at him. My mouth still tingles from his kiss. “The timing could be better.”

“I’ll have to work on that.”

A knock on the door interrupts the moment. Tomasetti steps quickly back. “Expecting company?”

“No.”

Leaving the kitchen, I cross to the front door and check the peephole. Surprise ripples through me when I see Glock on the porch, his hat pulled low against the wind. My first thought is that they’ve discovered another body. I open the door. “What happened?” I ask, motioning him inside.

“Chief.” Glock’s eyes widen when he spots Tomasetti. “Detrick just made an arrest.”

“What?”
I say. “Who?”

“Jonas Hershberger.”

Disbelief rears inside me. I know Jonas. I went to school with him. Up until the eighth grade, anyway, when the Amish stop going to school. He lives in a
ramshackle pig farm a few miles from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.

“He’s one of the most gentle people I’ve ever known,” I say.

“We’ve got evidence, Chief.”

“What evidence?” Tomasetti chimes in.

“Blood. At Hershberger’s farm.”

“How did the arrest come about?” I ask.

“We were canvassing the area. Detrick saw a suspicious stain. He did a field test for blood, got a positive. He asked for permission to search and Jonas agreed.” Glock shrugs. “One of Detrick’s deputies found a piece of clothing that might have belonged to one of the vics. Detrick has the whole place cordoned off and they’re looking for more. There’s a BCI crime scene tech out there right now. Detrick and the SAC have Hershberger in the interrogation room. It looks like he’s our guy.”

John looks at me. “I’ve got to get down there.”

I desperately want to go with him. That need is an agony that goes beyond physical. I begin to pace, every nerve in my body jumping. I’m aware of Tomasetti pulling on his coat. “Goddamnit,” I mutter.

He crosses to me and sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

I’m too upset to speak, so I nod.

Glock is already out the door. Giving me a final look over his shoulder, Tomasetti follows. I trail them as far as the front porch. I barely feel the cold as I watch both men climb into their vehicles and pull away.

“Damnit,” I whisper.

And I wonder if, after all these years, God has finally seen fit to punish me for what I did. And for what I did not.

Some nights are darker and colder and longer than others. This is one of those nights. It’s only eight
P.M
., but it feels like midnight. I’m hungover and so unsettled I can’t stand being in my own skin. After Tomasetti and Glock left earlier, I had another drink. Not to mention a good old-fashioned cry. But crying and drinking myself into a stupor aren’t my style. I’m more proactive than that. Yet here I am, pacing the house, bawling like some high school girl, doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: feeling sorry for myself.

I should be relieved a suspect has been arrested. I should be elated knowing no more women will die. My career might be in the toilet, but there are worse fates. So why the hell do I feel like someone has just ripped out my guts?

It’s not until I’m in my Mustang and heading toward the Hershberger farm that I identify the core of my disquiet: Jonas is not a viable suspect.

I’ve always made a conscious effort to keep my prejudices and preconceived notions removed from my job. I know, perhaps better than anyone, that the Amish are not perfect. They’re human. They make mistakes. They break rules and traditions. Sometimes they even break the law. Some have strayed from basic Amish values, going so far as to drive cars and use electricity. But not Jonas. I know for a fact he doesn’t drive. Not a vehicle. He doesn’t even use a motorized tractor for his farm. There’s no way in hell he drove that snowmobile.

That’s not to mention the fact that he doesn’t even come close to matching the profile of this killer. I’ve known Jonas most of my life; he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. When I was a kid,
Mamm
and
Datt
bought pork
from the Hershberger family. Once, while
Datt
and Jonas’s father were talking, Jonas took me to the barn to see their new kittens. The mama cat, a pretty little calico, had already birthed four kittens. Jonas was so wrapped up in the new babies, he didn’t notice that the cat was in distress. Lying on her side, she was panting, her pink tongue hanging out. I could see her little body straining to expel another kitten. We didn’t know how to help her, so Jonas ran to his father and begged him to take the cat to the English veterinarian in town. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Jonas cried like a baby. I’d been embarrassed for him and upset that the cat was suffering and would probably die right along with her kittens. I learned later that after the mama cat passed, Jonas bottle-fed the four babies, and they survived.

Such a small thing in the scope of a lifetime. I know people change. I know life can take a toll, and time has a way of turning innocence to cynicism, sweet to bitter, kindness to cruelty. But I also know that most serial murderers are sociopaths from birth. As children, many begin their dark journey with animals. Few are made later in life.

It’s been years since I spoke to Jonas, and I know he’s changed. I’ve heard the rumors. After his wife’s passing five years ago, he became somewhat of an eccentric. He lives alone and has been known to carry on conversations with people who aren’t there, including his dead wife. His farm is run-down. He doesn’t exercise good manure management and the smell is terrible. He keeps to himself, and no one seems to know much about him anymore. That doesn’t keep them from talking.

I want to speak with Jonas, but I know Detrick won’t let me. I settle for the next best thing and drive to his brother’s farm. James Hershberger’s place is almost as decrepit as Jonas’s. I pray I don’t run into law enforcement as I pull into the driveway. The last thing I need is for someone to figure out I’m not as gone as they’d like me to be. A buggy is parked at the rear of the house. A Percheron gelding stands quietly with its rear leg cocked, its coat covered with snow. I park behind the buggy and take the sidewalk to the porch.