In some ways, Kate had been more of a challenge than Colorosa. Not because she was a player, but because she was young and inexperienced. The first time he’d taken her to bed, he’d half expected her to be a virgin. To his surprise, she wasn’t. He’d slept with half a dozen women since, but he’d never forgotten Kate.
Realizing Bertrand was still waiting for an answer, he shook off the memory and set his mind on the business at hand. “She lives on a farm up in Wooster. Became chief here in Painters Mill shortly after leaving Columbus. Three full-time officers. Two part-timers. No marks against her.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”
“I can’t see a chief of police taking in a fugitive,” Bertrand muttered. “Not without notifying someone.”
Mercer shrugged. “They were tight back in the day.”
“Or maybe Colorosa is talking and Burkholder is listening.”
“Maybe.”
“You call the hospital in Millersburg?”
“Clinics, too. No sign of her. No gunshot wounds treated recently.”
Bertrand nodded. “We need to pull out all the stops on Colorosa.”
“Everything’s in the works.” Mercer turned down the heat, knowing that the sweat he’d broken beneath his coat had nothing to do with the temperature.
“Let’s check the motel first.”
CHAPTER 19
We’re on our third game of checkers when I hear the mudroom door slam. The scuffle of boots sounds on the floor as Adam and Sammy come in from outside. As usual, the boy is talking excitedly, unfazed by the cold or that they spent the last hour using a heavy pickax to pound through several inches of pond ice so the cattle in the pasture can drink.
The boy rushes into the kitchen. His cheeks glow red. Black felt hat cocked back. Blond hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. Knitted scarf wrapped crookedly around his neck. “Katie, we have to get wood now. Datt says we’re going to take a load over to Amos Yoder. He said we can go ice skating after we get the wood chopped!”
Lizzie and Annie exchange looks and get to their feet, telling me the announcement is being taken very seriously. “Can we come, too, Datt?” asks Lizzie.
Adam steps through the doorway and takes in the scene. Beneath the stoic expression, I see his eyes soften at the sight of Gina and me sitting with the girls.
He addresses his daughter. “Do you think those skinny little arms of yours can swing the ax?” he asks.
Lizzie squeals. “Mine can!”
Annie breaks into laughter. “My muscles are big, too, Datt.”
“In that case, let’s go chop some wood,” he tells them. “I think Mr. Yoder is going to appreciate it.”
“I’ll get the snow shovel!” Sammy exclaims.
“Samuel, I think you should put a couple pieces of wood in the stove and get yourself warmed up first.”
Looking deflated because he’s been relegated to warming up, Sammy lowers his head and trudges toward the mudroom.
Annie goes to him, sets her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll get the wood chip and your skates.”
Gina gives them a puzzled look. “Wood chip?”
“The hockey puck,” I clarify.
“I thought the Amish were nonviolent,” Gina says.
The children toss her puzzled looks.
“Last time I went to a hockey game, there was more punching than playing,” she explains.
Sammy looks at his father. “They fight?”
Adam ruffles the boy’s hair. “Just for show,” he tells his son.
I look at Gina. “You’d better bring some extra padding just in case.”
Half an hour later, the five of us are bundled up and walking a narrow trail through the woods east of the house, boots crunching through deep snow. The greenbelt runs parallel with Painters Creek. In summer, the area is lush with old-growth trees and thick with brush, blackberry and raspberry. Today, it’s a monochrome world of gray-black trunks and tangled skeletal brush, all of it laden with snow.
The girls walk slightly ahead. They’re clad in black capes, knitted scarves and mittens, and winter bonnets. Their plain white leather skates are tied together and hanging at their sides. Sammy wears a black winter coat, a scarf, and a ski cap to keep his ears warm. He’s forged ahead, his skates draped over his shoulder. He’s dragging an old-fashioned sled behind him. A bundle of kindling and split logs rides the sleigh, telling me Adam’s planning to build a fire so the children—and the rest of us—can warm our hands and feet.
At the rear, Gina, Adam, and I tromp through knee-deep snow. It’s bitterly cold, the wind bearing a bite that nips at the bare skin of our faces. Adam carries a snow shovel for clearing the ice and a large ax for cutting wood. I lug the pickax he’ll use to test the thickness of the ice.
Around us, the woods are stunningly beautiful and hushed, as if the world we’ve entered is holding its breath in anticipation of our arrival. Several inches of snow have collected on the tree branches, weighing down the boughs of the firs. With every gust of wind, flurries shower down. In the distance, the woeful call of a bald eagle adds another layer of enchantment to an already magical moment.
The girls stop and look up, listening. Sammy slows, raising his eyes to the treetops. The eagle calls out again, a long, shrill call that’s part mournful, part alarm.
“You hear that?” Adam says quietly.
“Awdlah,” Sammy whispers. Eagle.
“Looking for a mouse,” Lizzie whispers.
We start walking again, cognizant of our surroundings. “Weatherman is calling for more snow tonight,” I say to no one in particular. “A couple of inches.”
“Just what we need.” Adam slants a look toward Gina. “You’re getting your problems worked out?”
“We’re getting to the bottom of it,” she says.
The two of them hold gazes for a beat too long. Interest flashes in Adam’s eyes, its intensity matching the I-dare-you glint in Gina’s. Annoyed, I shake my head. “Another day or two and we’ll be out of your hair,” I tell him.
Neither of them has anything to say about that.
I spoke with Tomasetti earlier. He left before dawn to make his meeting with Denny McNinch in Columbus. He encountered some problems on the rural roads, but once he reached the interstate, it was clear sailing, though only one lane was open. If the lull in the weather holds, I suspect by tomorrow Gina and I will be driving to Columbus, where she’ll be interviewed by detectives with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, someone from the district attorney’s office, and, likely, BCI. At some point, she’ll be arrested and booked into the county jail. Tomasetti and I will have some explaining to do. It’s not going to be pleasant for any of us.
The creek is a wide body of water, about forty feet across here in the lowest part of the floodplain. The surface is frozen solid, covered with snow, and scoured by the wind in places. To my left, where the creek narrows, I hear the rush of water beneath the ice as it runs fast over rock. On the opposite side of the creek, the trunk of a long-dead tree juts from the bank, reaching several feet into the air. In the summertime, it’s likely the perfect place for somersaults and diving. A fifty-gallon drum that’s been cut in half lies on its side several feet from the bank. Someone has shot holes in the base, and the rim is covered with soot, telling me it’s been used to burn kindling and wood for warming cold hands and feet.