“What’s the address?”
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to make the drive. The roads are nearly impassable.”
“I’ll make it.”
Groaning, I give him the address. “Tomasetti, I could be wrong about Gina. I mean, we were friends. But I’ve been around long enough to know … people change.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got pretty good instincts.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Maybe not when it comes to her. We were close once.”
“Look, even if she’s not been completely straight with you, we’ve uncovered enough to conclude there’s something else going on at the Columbus Division of Police. Let’s keep digging. See where it takes us.”
“You realize we’re basically harboring a fugitive from justice.”
“Let me worry about that.” He sighs. “Look, I’m on my way. Do me a favor and don’t tell Colorosa about Cysco. Let’s see how she handles some asshole from BCI coming in and dumping a load of bad news in her lap.”
CHAPTER 8
I’m standing at the front window, watching snow pile up on the sill, trying not to worry about Tomasetti making the drive, when I hear the whine of an engine. At first, I think the sound is Adam using some piece of equipment—a generator or snowblower—but then I catch a glimpse of a headlight and realize there’s a vehicle coming up the lane.
I’m wondering how the driver got past my Explorer when I see that it’s not a car or truck, but a snowmobile. A moment later a figure emerges from the white wall of snow. A man clad in a safety-orange and black snowsuit and helmet. I recognize the way he moves and feel a smile emerge as I open the door.
“You look like a well-dressed abominable snowman,” I say as Tomasetti takes the steps to the porch.
“That’s what all the lady Bumbles tell me.” Grinning at his usage of the cartoon character’s name, he unfastens the helmet and slips it from his head. “Been a long time since I drove a snow machine. Just about took out a mailbox on the corner.”
“Mailbox would have bested you.” I step back and he comes through the door.
“You underestimate the thickness of my skull.” Tomasetti enters the living room and works off his gloves.
The insulated suit is encrusted with snow. He looks down at his boots, at the snow that’s fallen onto the braided rug.
“There’s a mudroom,” I tell him.
“Lead the way.”
He follows me through the living room and kitchen and into a narrow space where half a dozen pairs of boots line the wall. Above, hooks set into the wall hold coats and scarves.
“There’s a woodstove in the corner.” I motion toward the old potbellied stove. “You can hang up that suit and it should dry pretty fast.”
He unzips the suit, steps out of it, and hangs it on the hook nearest the stove. I take in the sight of him as he toes off the boots. Faded jeans. Henley waffle-weave shirt covered with a flannel shirt. Dark, direct gaze already on mine.
“Where’s Colorosa?” he asks.
“Sleeping.” I motion toward the kitchen. “Have a seat. Adam made coffee. I’ll go get her.”
I enter the darkened sewing room to find Gina sleeping soundly. In light of her injured shoulder, the last thing I want to do is wake her, but I don’t have a choice.
“Gina.” I go to her, set my hand on her arm, and shake her gently. “Hey.”
She startles abruptly, springs to a sitting position, cries out in pain, and falls back onto the cot. “You scared the shit out of me,” she snaps.
“Get dressed. We need to talk.”
She stares at me, her breathing elevated; then she nods. I watch as she gingerly rolls from the cot and sits up. She’s wearing the same turtleneck and jeans. Dark hair a tangled mass about her shoulders. Socks on her feet, boots tucked beneath the cot.
I look around, spot the flannel shirt she’d been wearing on the back of a chair, and hand it to her. “It’s cold.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” She slips it on slowly, wincing with each movement of her shoulder. “How long was I out?”
“A couple of hours. How are you feeling?”
“Like a snowplow ran over me.”
Before leaving, Joe Weaver fashioned a homemade sling for her arm. She reaches for it, fumbles to get it over her head, so I cross to her and help her slip her arm into it.
“Amish vet knows his stuff. I don’t think I thanked him, after.”
“I did,” I tell her.
She reaches for the knitted beanie on the table, pulls it onto her head. Jams her feet into her boots. “This house,” she says. “These people. Their clothes. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a time warp.”
“In some ways, you have.” I think about it a moment. “I don’t want them involved in this. The only reason you’re here now is because I can’t get you anywhere else at the moment.”
She nods. “As long as I don’t have to wear a damn bonnet, the Pilgrims and I will get along just fine.”
She follows me down the hall and into the kitchen. Tomasetti is standing at the sink, looking out the window. He turns when we enter the room, his expression impassive.
Gina eyes him suspiciously as she crosses to him, shakes his hand. “You must be John Tomasetti.”
Introductions are made and then she asks, “Kate filled you in?”
“She relayed to me the story you told her,” he returns evenly.
Moving with the sluggishness of a centenarian, she goes to the table, pulls out a chair, and gingerly lowers herself into it. Her face is pasty and pale, her lips are dry, her hands are not quite steady.
The three of us are alone in the house. Adam and the children went to the barn twenty minutes ago to check on a cow that’s about to calve. A single propane floor lamp in the corner casts minimal light, so I go to it and crank up the mantle. The room brightens marginally. I pour coffee into two mugs, hand one to Gina, and take the chair adjacent to her.
Facing us, Tomasetti leans against the counter, his eyes on Gina, and crosses his arms. “You know there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“I figured that out when they busted down my door at three A.M.” Using her left hand, she sips coffee. “So, what’s the warrant for?”
Tomasetti doesn’t respond, doesn’t look away from her. “You’ve got one chance to tell me what led up to this,” he tells her. “This is it. I need the truth. All of it. Do you understand?”
“I want immunity,” she says.
He laughs nastily. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“I need some kind of guarantee.”
“You’re not going to get it from me,” he says with heat. “We’re all you’ve got. We are your best hope. At this point, I’d say we’re your only hope.” He glances at his watch. “If you’d rather take your chances with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, I will accommodate you. I will put you on that snowmobile and take you myself. Right now. Are we clear?”
She slants me a where-the-hell-did-you-find-this-guy glower, then looks down at the tabletop. Over the next minutes, she relays the same story she told me earlier.