“So Burkholder is here.” The garrote around his neck tightened.
“Why the hell hasn’t she called this in?” Mercer said. “There’s a fucking arrest warrant out for Colorosa.”
“She hasn’t called it in because Colorosa is talking and that fucking Burkholder is listening. As far as we know, she’s already been in touch with another agency and we just haven’t heard. That’s what you call a worst-case scenario.”
Looking worried, Mercer shook his head. “I say we go in first thing in the morning. Do this just like we planned. Reach out to the sheriff’s department beforehand. Let them know we’re going to execute the warrant. Ask for their assistance. That way we don’t get accused of overstepping.”
Bertrand let the statement ride for a moment. Then he set his hands on the wheel, stared straight ahead. “You sure that’s how you want to play this?”
Mercer hefted a humorless laugh. “What else is there?”
“If we do this by the book, Colorosa is going to put us under the microscope, partner. She’s going to name names and she won’t stop there. That bitch will drag us through the mud. She will take us apart piece by piece. Destroy our careers and everything we’ve ever worked for. There go our pensions. Our families will get dragged into it. You want your kids dealing with that? You feel like spending the rest of your life behind bars?”
Mercer stared at him, silent and waiting.
“We can’t bring her in, Ken. You know that, right? We do this by the book and this thing is going to blow up in our faces.”
Mercer didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like he was thinking about throwing up. “What the hell are you suggesting, Damon?”
“I’m telling you there’s only one way to fix this, and I think you know what that is.”
“She’s a cop. One of us. You can’t—”
Bertrand cut him off. “She’s never been one of us. Never been a team player. The only person she cares about is herself.” Hands on the wheel, he shook his head. “I don’t like it, either. In fact, I hate it. But that’s the way it is. It’s us or her, my friend.”
Mercer squirmed in his seat, his breaths elevated, fogging up the passenger-side window enough that he used his hand to wipe away the condensation. “Jesus Christ.”
Bertrand didn’t give him a respite. “Look, we didn’t ask for this. Colorosa turned on us. She made the wrong choice. Whatever happens next is on her.” When Mercer said nothing, he pushed. “We got to clean house, buddy. She needs to go away. Permanently. That’s the only way we can put this nasty chapter to rest and move on.”
The words echoed within the confines of the vehicle. Damning. Final. Terrifying. Not for the first time, Bertrand felt that weird sense of claustrophobia pressing down on him with so much force that he fought the urge to open the window. When Mercer remained silent, he wiped his hands on his trousers, hating it that his palms were wet. “Look, Kenny, if you’re not up to it just say the word.”
Mercer nodded, but with the enthusiasm of a man agreeing to take part in his own execution. “Lengacher has a bunch of kids in there,” he said. “That’s not to mention Burkholder.”
Bertrand took his time responding, choosing his words with care. “We’ll deal with it. No one gets hurt. We’re the good guys, remember?”
Blowing out a breath, Mercer leaned back in the seat, scrubbed his hand over his face. “What’s the plan?”
“We go in. Execute the warrant. Get Burkholder out of the room. Get the family out. Then we do what we need to do.” Bertrand shrugged. “It goes like this: Colorosa is one of us. So we do a cursory pat-down and we miss the pistol she secreted away. In the course of the arrest, she goes for the weapon. She brandishes it. We’ve no choice but to use deadly force. At that point, we plant the throw-down. Fire it. Make sure there’s residue on her hands and clothes. And we are in the clear.”
Mercer looked at him, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Jesus, I don’t like it.”
“No one likes it. But there’s no other way. It’s Colorosa or us. We didn’t sign up for this. That bitch fucked us over.”
As convincing as the argument was, Bertrand fought the quiver of fear that ran the length of his body. He knew all too well there were a hundred things that could go wrong. That there were loose ends. Too many people involved. Too many unknowns.
“You know there will be an investigation,” Mercer said.
“All we have to do is play it cool, keep our heads, and stick to the script. We’ll make it through.” Bertrand looked out the window, watched the snow whisper across the frozen surface of the road. “Even if Colorosa has talked to someone or she’s stashed some so-called evidence somewhere—a video or recording—once that bodycam footage hits, whatever credibility she ever had is gone.”
The two men stared at each other for the span of a few seconds.
“What if Burkholder doesn’t cooperate?” Mercer asked.
“Then we’ll have to convince her.”
Without elaborating, Bertrand put the Subaru in gear, but he didn’t pull forward. They sat in silence, letting all of the words that had passed between them settle.
Then Bertrand asked. “So are you in or what?”
Ken Mercer looked out the window, blew out a breath. “I’m in.”
Bertrand didn’t smile, but he felt it pull at the corners of his mouth. Without another word, he took his foot off the brake and started down the road.
CHAPTER 24
I’m dragged from sleep by the sound of pounding. I sit upright, disoriented, realize I’m on the sofa in Adam Lengacher’s living room. Crepuscular light slants in through the window coverings. I’m wearing my clothes. A headache hovers at my temples.
I’ve just swung my legs to the floor when the window on the front door rattles. Cursing Gina and her bottle of Gentleman Jack, I go to the mudroom, grab my .38 off the shelf, and slide it into the waistband of my jeans. Back in the living room, I grab my cell off the coffee table, squint at the display to see that it’s not yet six thirty A.M.
Another round of knocking, this time accompanied by a singsong male voice. “Er hot sich widder verschofe!” He overslept again, which is the Amish way of poking fun at someone who sleeps too late.
I stride to the door, glance out the window. A middle-aged Amish man, with a full beard and wire-rimmed eyeglasses over small blue eyes, startles at the sight of me. I recognize him from years past, but it takes my sleep-muddled brain a moment to remember his name. I open the door.
His smile falters. “Katie Burkholder?” he says, pressing his hand to his chest.
“Hi … Mr. Yoder.” I stammer his name, keenly aware of how my presence here this early in the morning when I’ve clearly been wakened from sleep might be perceived—and get the tongues wagging.
His barn coat and muck boots are covered with snow. He looks past me as if expecting an equally disheveled Adam to appear behind me.
Oh boy.
“I’m here to see Adam,” Yoder says. “He is home?”
“I believe he is.” I look past him, where big, wet flakes are coming down hard. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.