The sound of Sammy’s cries shakes me. Sweet Sammy, whose voice never ceases to fill the empty spaces around us. His body shakes violently. His legs and arms vibrate against the ground as if gripped by a palsy.
“It … b-burns, Datt,” he says.
Gina goes to her knees beside them, her coat already off. Once the boy is free of his coat, she thrusts hers at Adam. “Put it on him.”
Adam drapes her coat over the boy’s wet shirt and suspenders. “You’re going to be all right,” he says tightly.
“We need to get him to the house,” I tell Adam. “Get him dry.”
“Ja.” Nodding, the Amish man scoops the boy into his arms and breaks into a lumbering run toward the house.
Both girls have begun to cry, so I go to them, put my hand on Annie’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell them. “He’s just cold. Come on. We’re going to need to get inside, too, so we can put some more wood in the stove.”
CHAPTER 20
Damon Bertrand detested wholesome little towns with their steepled churches and bow-tie merchants. He’d grown up in a town just like it—less the Amish and tourists—where farming was the mainstay, the cows outnumbered the people, and the best job a man could hope for—if he wasn’t a farmer, anyway—was shift work down at the auto-parts factory in the next town. The day he left for college he swore he’d never go back.
There was one motel in Painters Mill and it was a dump replete with 1980s décor, a breakfast buffet with a commercial-size waffle iron that was invariably surrounded by kids, and carpeting that smelled of sweaty feet and dog piss. He and Mercer had checked in upon their arrival and then headed to town.
Not for the first time since they had embarked on this most unpleasant of tasks, he found himself thinking about retirement. Florida was looking better by the minute. With or without his wife. His kids were practically grown and had become strangers to him in the last few years. He doubted they’d miss him. Who was he kidding? They probably wouldn’t even realize he was gone. No, he thought darkly, as they idled down Main Street, there wasn’t a single person, place, or thing he’d miss about Ohio.
Bertrand fingered the steering wheel and looked out at the bleak winter landscape. The one good thing about a small town was that it would be easier to find someone. Folks were friendly, helpful, and unsuspecting. And Colorosa was the kind of woman people remembered. Not because she was beautiful or flashy or some nonsense like that. No, Gina Colorosa was memorable because she possessed a larger-than-life personality, a big laugh, and she never shied away from the limelight. Women generally hated her. Men loved her, maybe a little too much. Gina just loved Gina; she looked out for number one—and fuck the lot of them.
The sun had made a short-lived appearance earlier, but a bank of clouds roiled on the northern horizon. According to the weather service, the area was in for another round of snow this afternoon. Hopefully, he and Mercer would get a line on Colorosa quickly. If she’d stopped for gas or gone into a pharmacy for first-aid supplies, or stopped for food—surely someone would remember.
As challenging as finding her might prove to be, it wasn’t the most difficult task they faced. Making contact with her in just the right way was going to require finesse. She wasn’t some dumb criminal or rookie cop. Not by a long shot. Gina Colorosa was wise to the ways of the world, as street savvy as any hustler, and a survivor—with nine lives to boot. She was unpredictable. When the time came, she wouldn’t go down easy.
During the long hours on the road, Bertrand had considered several approaches. Initially, he figured once he and Mercer made contact, they’d convince her that they had covered her misdeeds, assure her they’d taken care of her problems back in Columbus. In fact, they’d arrested some schmuck for the crime of which she’d been accused. All she had to do was return with them so they could divvy up the eighty thousand she’d stolen from them, and she could resume her life just like before. It would likely be a hard sell. But sometimes people heard what they wanted to hear, especially when they were desperate. Even smart people. If Colorosa saw an easy out, she might jump at it.
The biggest problem they faced was that she’d met up with Burkholder, spilled her guts—and Burkholder believed enough to look into it, or pass the information along to some other agency, like BCI or FBI. If that was the case, he and Mercer could still go the official route: drop in on Burkholder, present the warrant, and demand custody. He might have to touch base with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department beforehand and ask for “assistance,” since he and Mercer were out of their jurisdiction. Still, it could be done—and it could still work.
One question continued to nag. If Colorosa was with Burkholder, why hadn’t the chief been in contact with the Columbus Division of Police? Even if Colorosa had convinced her old friend that she’d been framed and corruption ran amok inside the department, Burkholder should have acted in some official capacity. If she had, he would’ve heard. Was it possible Burkholder wasn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thought and was aiding and abetting a fugitive? Or had she been in contact with another agency, and he and Mercer simply hadn’t heard? Bertrand didn’t see how the latter was possible with the number of serious crimes they’d piled on Colorosa. Still, the thought put a steel rod of fear right through the marrow of his spine. If Burkholder had sparked an investigation and involved another law enforcement agency, the situation would go from bad to a clusterfuck.
The more Bertrand thought about making the arrest and hauling Colorosa back to Columbus to face charges, the more the endeavor seemed like a bad idea. There were other options that didn’t include the possibility of Colorosa running her mouth to anyone who might listen. The problem was, he didn’t know if Mercer was ready to take this operation to the next level. Did he have the balls to do what needed to be done? Could he trust him if the shit hit the fan?
By one P.M., Bertrand and Mercer had stopped at over a dozen places, including all six B and Bs, the local greasy spoon, the pharmacy, four service stations, and the fast-food joint on the edge of town. Each time, Bertrand had produced the photo of his “sweet but troubled niece,” who was “confused and self-destructive” and missing. He’d promised his sister he’d find her and bring her home. Predictably, the story garnered sympathy and cooperation. Midwesterners were a decent and gullible bunch. Everyone he’d spoken with had been virtuously concerned; they’d looked long and hard at the photo, wringing their hands because they knew what it was like to have “family problems.” Most didn’t ask too many questions; Midwesterners weren’t nosy, and most were polite to a fault.
The problem was no one had seen her.
“We’re wasting our time,” Bertrand said as they drove through the parking lot of the farm store on the edge of town, looking for the tan F-150. “We’re not going to find her like this.”
Mercer scanned the snow-covered street as they exited and headed back toward town. “She had to have stopped for gas. There’s another service station to the south, a few miles out of town. Let’s try it.”
“She’s with Burkholder,” Bertrand growled.