The horses surge forward and within minutes the truck sits on the road. I get out, remove the tug strap from the rear frame, and move it to the front undercarriage. The hood has become unlatched at some point, likely upon impact with the tree, but there’s no way to secure it. I brush away the excess snow, shove the hood down as much as I can so I can see, and I get back behind the wheel.
“Let’s go!” I call out.
Adam and Sammy lead the horses along the fence, struggling through knee-deep snow, the truck bumping along behind them. At the wheel, I steer around the deeper drifts, keeping the wheels aligned with the track of the horses.
The driver’s-side window is down, and as we head back to the house, Lizzie and Annie chatter. Adam and Sammy stay ahead with the horses, keeping the tug strap taut. Gina sits in the passenger seat next to me, making the occasional comment, but she’s mostly quiet. Her commentary isn’t quite up to her usual standards, her brash front replaced by something I can’t quite identify. Though we’re wholly alone, on a back road that’s unreachable by all accounts, I’ve noticed her looking around, her eyes scanning the tree line to the east, the township road ahead. She’s wearing sunglasses, but they don’t conceal the uneasiness I see on her face.
She’s no shrinking violet in the face of danger. She’s coolheaded and an adrenaline junkie to boot. Today, she’s not simply uneasy, but scared. Once again, I wonder if she’s told me the whole truth. If she’s hiding something I need to know.
* * *
There’s a certain cadence to an Amish home. Voices and life and activity. There’s a set routine. Chores that must be done. A house to be managed. Animals to be cared for. A farm to run. And for the children, fun to be had at every opportunity.
I find myself falling into the routine with an ease that surprises me. While Adam and Sammy muck stalls and feed the livestock, Annie and Lizzie and I clean the mudroom, where the calf made quite a mess, and take a mop to the floor. Even Gina pitches in and tackles the scouring of the sinks and toilets. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her clean and I was her roommate for over five years.
It’s late afternoon by the time Gina and I are alone. The girls have gone to the bedroom they share to read. Adam and Sammy are in the barn, bringing straw down from the loft. I find Gina standing at the sink in the kitchen, looking out the window, a glass of water in her hand. Outside, flurries float down from a sky the color of concrete.
“You were awfully jumpy today when we were towing your truck back to the farm,” I say without preamble.
Humphing, she dumps the water in the sink and proceeds to wash the glass. “Seeing the bullet holes in the back window gave me the damn willies.”
“Is that all?”
She sets down the glass and gives me her full attention. “You got something on your mind, Kate?”
“I’m wondering if you’ve told me the whole story. Or if there’s something else I need to know.”
Rolling her eyes at me, she laughs. “For God’s sake, you’re rocking that cop paranoia again.”
“I guess that’s one of the things that makes me good at what I do.”
When she doesn’t respond, I go to the counter, pull two mugs from the cupboard, and pour coffee into them. “Tomasetti and I are trying to help you. Your keeping secrets isn’t going to cut it.”
“I know.” She walks to the table and sinks into a chair, silent, and stares down at the cup in her hands. “For God’s sake.”
I wait.
“Bertrand and Mercer think I took some cash,” she says after a moment.
“Why do they think that?”
“Because eighty thousand dollars disappeared.” She shrugs. “I was at the scene. Some drug dealer had a bunch of hundred-dollar bills stashed in a safe. There were five of us. They were going to divvy it up, but the cash disappeared. I got blamed.”
I take the chair across from her and slide one of the cups toward her. “Did you take it?”
She humphs. “If I’d taken that kind of cash, you can bet your ass I would not be here.”
I say nothing.
She reaches for the cup, but doesn’t drink, sets it back down, agitated. “So, yeah, I’m worried. These guys have a lot to lose, Kate. I know what they’re capable of. I have a pretty good idea of how far they’ll go to protect themselves.”
“What exactly are you talking about?” I ask.
She laughs, but not before I see the apprehension peek out from beneath the mask she’s so good at keeping in place. “Let me put it this way: If they come here with a warrant and place me under arrest, I will not survive the ordeal. I will be dead inside of twenty-four hours.”
A chill plows across the backs of my shoulders. I don’t want to believe sworn police officers, men who’ve devoted their lives to the department, are capable of murdering one of their own to protect themselves. I hate it that I’m now open to the possibility.
“Veteran detectives don’t go around killing people,” I say. “They sure as hell don’t go around killing cops. Not without bringing down the wrath of those of us who walk the straight and narrow.”
She snorts, but this time her bravado falters. “Oh, they’ll make it look perfectly legitimate. They’ll make it believable. Cover all their bases and no one will be the wiser. And they will come out of it looking like heroes.”
It’s a disturbing scenario. For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure what to think. No LEO wants to believe career cops are involved in a level of corruption that includes extortion and murder. Complicating all of it is the kernel of mistrust I’ve felt for Gina since the moment I laid eyes on her, lying on that cot.
“They are cold-blooded sons of bitches,” she whispers. “I’ve seen it. Firsthand.” She sends me an acrid look. “They’re thieves, rapists, and worse.”
I nod, not sure I want to hear what she’s going to say next, knowing I don’t have a choice. “So tell me what you know.”
Closing her eyes tightly, as if to erase something branded into her mind’s eye, she shakes her head. “It happened during a raid. Bertrand and Mercer arrested a young woman, barely out of her teens. She was pretty. Tough talking. Cussing them. Covered with tats. They cuffed her, put her in their vehicle, and they left the scene. I was busy, working evidence or whatever. I didn’t think too much about it until her mother reported her missing four days later.”
“What happened?”
“No one ever saw her again.”
“You think Bertrand and Mercer…” I struggle with the word pulsing at the back of my brain. “You think they murdered her?”
“There was never a body.” She shrugs. “She was a prostitute. High-risk profession, right? Hey, shit happens. Those kinds of women disappear all the time. Aside from her mom, she didn’t have any family. No one who cared about her. Who’s going to point a finger at a couple of career detectives?”
“Did you ask either of them about it?” I ask.
“They claim they never took her into custody. Every cop there backed them up.” She raises her gaze to mine, and in that instant, I barely recognize her through the cloud of emotions roiling just beneath the surface. “I never turned my back to Mercer or Bertrand again.”