Something in his voice sends a prickly sensation across the back of my neck. “You know him?”
A brief hesitation and then, “I know of him.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means I can’t talk about it.”
I’m ever cognizant that there are certain topics that, due to his position with BCI, Tomasetti isn’t at liberty to discuss. I would never ask him to cross that line. I’m okay with those kinds of boundaries and I’ve no problem honoring them. Though Painters Mill falls within his region, confidentiality has never been an issue. Until now.
“Tomasetti, what am I supposed to do with that?”
A too-long beat of silence ensues and then he makes a sound of frustration. “Let me look into a couple of things.”
“And in the interim?”
“See if you can get that damn pseudo-vet out there to look at her gunshot wound.”
I start to say something else, but he hangs up on me.
* * *
What should have been a ten-minute drive ends up taking nearly an hour. By the time I make the turn into the lane of Joe Weaver’s “clinic” I’m sweating beneath my coat. I can’t stop thinking about my exchange with Tomasetti. The mention of Frank Monaghan changed the tone of our conversation and added a tension that wasn’t there before. All of it gives credence to Gina’s claim that not everything is as it should be within the Columbus Division of Police.
I power the Explorer through a series of drifts, fishtail sideways as I roll up to the hangar-size Quonset hut. Joe Weaver comes to the door as I tromp through deep snow. I reach a small, covered porch and he ushers me inside.
“There is an emergency?” He looks past me to the Explorer, wondering if I’ve got a sick dog or cat lying on the front seat in need of treatment. If only the situation were that simple.
“No emergency,” I tell him as I stomp snow from my boots.
He’s wearing insulated coveralls that are unzipped enough that I can see the front of his blue work shirt and suspenders. He’s in what I guess to be his late thirties, with longish brown hair and the typical beard of a married Amish man.
The Quonset hut is warm and smells of hay and molasses with the tang of woodsmoke from a potbellied stove in the corner. The sound of the wind and the pop of burning wood fill the silence as Joe pushes the door closed.
“I was just over at Adam Lengacher’s place,” I begin.
“Everything okay over there?” he asks, still trying to figure out why I’m here.
The last thing I want to do is involve someone in a situation that could have moral or legal implications. But with emergency services shut down and the weather deteriorating by the minute, I’ve run out of options. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds to know that even if Gina’s injury is minor, if left untreated it could become life-threatening.
“Joe, I’ve got an unusual situation and I need your help.”
Concern suffuses his expression. “Of course. What is it?”
Leaving out details he’s better off not knowing—not to keep him in the dark, but to protect him from any problems that might arise—I lay out the basics of Gina’s situation. “She’s a police officer and she’s involved in—” I grapple for the right words. “—a sensitive situation. There was an incident last night. Joe, she’s been shot.”
His eyes narrow. “How bad is it?”
“All I know is that it’s a shoulder wound. There’s some bleeding, but it’s not profuse. I think she was probably hypothermic when Adam found her.”
“How long ago was she shot?”
“Ten hours, give or take.”
“Is the bullet still inside her?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Gunshot wounds are very serious, Chief Burkholder.”
“I know. Joe, I’d never ask you to become involved in a situation like this if there was another way. But emergency services aren’t running because of the storm. And I don’t believe I can get her to the hospital myself.”
He gazes at me intently. In the depths of his eyes, I see the bloom of knowledge. “Doctors are required by law to report those kinds of wounds.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
I nod. “You are not obligated to help.”
“She is a criminal?” he asks.
“She’s a police officer,” I say. “But she … made some bad choices and now she’s wanted by the police. I’m trying to help her do the right thing.”
His eyes slide to the window, where wind-driven snow assaults the glass. “If infection sets in, she will have a serious problem.”
I nod. “If you decide to help … Joe, there will likely be an investigation. A lot of questions. I want you to know that going in.”
He stares at me, his expression troubled. For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse. A choice I will not hold against him. Instead, he gives a single, decisive nod. “Let me get my bag.”
CHAPTER 5
The drive back to the Lengacher farm is a harrowing ordeal. Drifts reaching as high as the bumper bog down the Explorer several times, but I manage to bust through and keep going. If current weather conditions continue, roads will likely become impassable overnight—a reality that sends a thread of anxiety through my midsection. If Gina’s gunshot wound is life-threatening, we’ll be left to deal with it without a doctor, because the window for me to get her to the hospital in Millersburg has closed.
I drive up the lane too fast, the Explorer bucking over massive drifts, snow exploding over the hood. Beside me, Joe Weaver clutches the door handle. “You’ve done this before, no?”
“A time or two.” The rear tires fishtail when I make the turn toward the house. “Wouldn’t have made it without the four-wheel drive and chains.”
The Amish man grins. “And then Adam would have to get Big Jimmy to pull you out.”
“Right.”
I park as close to the house as I can manage and throw open my door. Joe does the same. Wind lashes us as we trudge to the back porch. Snow pelts my face like a sandblaster as I yank open the door.
Adam meets us in the mudroom. “I was starting to get worried.”
“She’s a good driver, no?” Winking at me, Joe extends his hand, and the two men shake.
Adam tips his head, his eyes falling to the bag at Joe’s side. “That she is.”
“How is Gina?” I ask.
“Sleeping.”
The two men exchange looks, their expressions thoughtful and uneasy. Adam motions toward the kitchen. “This way,” he says.
We don’t take the time to remove our coats or boots. Adam leads us through the kitchen, where the two girls are sitting at the table, playing a game of checkers, curious eyes tracking us.
Sammy joins us in the living room. “Annie made Gina another cup of tea but she fell asleep and it got cold,” he proclaims. “Should we wake her so she can drink some tea, Datt?”
Adam sets his hand on the boy’s head as we enter the hall that will take us to the sewing room. “Not now.”
We find Gina lying on the cot, the quilts pulled up over her shoulders, watching us, her expression wary. Her gaze flicks from me to Adam to Joe Weaver and finally to the bag at his side. “Who are you?”