I raise my hands to shoulder height, train the beam of the Maglite on his face. Recognition jolts me and it’s followed by a kick of disbelief. Ken Mercer. “What do you want?” I ask, backing up, keeping the coffee table between us. “Why are you here? Show me your IDs.”
He raises his hands to shield his eyes. “Cut that fucking light.”
“Get that shotgun off me,” I snap back.
A thousand thoughts hit my brain at once. Are these men friend or foe? Is this a legitimate raid? Is the warrant official? Sanctioned by a judge? Or is this the scenario Gina warned me about? Is everyone in this house in danger of being gunned down like a herd of deer?
“Where’s Colorosa?” comes a gruff male voice.
I glance right, see a second man approach. Large frame. Moving quickly. Pistol in his hand. Pumped up and high on adrenaline.
“Show me the warrant,” I say. “Show me your IDs.”
They lower their Maglites. I do the same. I can’t stop looking at the shotgun, which is still leveled at my chest. For a moment, the only sound is the rise and fall of our breaths, the drumbeat of my heart against my ribs.
“Somebody turn on a fucking light,” one of the men growls.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Gina heard the commotion. I wonder how she’ll handle this. If she’ll acquiesce. She doesn’t have a firearm; I’ve kept hers unloaded and locked up in the Explorer. Facing two armed men—one of whom is as of yet unidentified—I wonder if that decision was solid.
“There’s a propane lamp in the corner,” I tell them.
“Turn it on. Do it slowly. Don’t do anything stupid.”
The familiarity of the voice clicks, stirs a distant memory. I’ve heard it before. Damon Bertrand, I realize, and a mushroom cloud of fear erupts in my chest.
I go to the lamp, strike a match. I spot my cell on the table next to the sofa, reach for it.
“Put it down,” Bertrand snaps.
“I’m a cop,” I say.
“Now.”
I do as I’m told. Turning my attention back to the lamp, I twist the key to turn on the gas, and set the match to the mantle. The dim glow of light fills the room. I turn to see Damon Bertrand standing a few feet away. Trooper hat. Heavy parka and boots. Blue polymer Glock steady in his hand. He was a detective back when I’d worked for the Columbus Division of Police. I’d only met him a few times. He’s older and heavier, but the same.
Next to him, Ken Mercer stares at me as if I’m some sort of apparition. He was a patrol officer way back when. I went out with him a few times. Slept with him. Looking at him, even now I feel the sharp pang of regret. The shotgun in his hands is trained on me, center mass.
Remembrance glints in his eyes. “It’s been a while,” he says.
My heart pounds pure adrenaline. Fear crawling beneath my skin. I feel my hands and legs shaking. My breaths coming too fast. Muscles jumping. I can’t stop thinking about Adam and the children upstairs. I know he’s awake by now. I don’t dare look in that direction.
“Get that shotgun off me,” I snarl. “What’s this about?”
“We’ve got a warrant for Gina Colorosa,” Bertrand tells me. “Where is she?”
“She’s in my custody,” I tell him.
The two men exchange glances; then Mercer turns away and enters the hall. I hear his booted feet against the floor, heavy stride, opening doors. The bathroom. The sewing room. At any moment, I fear I’m going to hear a gunshot or else he’s about to drag Gina out here.
“This would have been a lot easier if you’d just called my office,” I say to Bertrand.
“Apparently, there’s some question about your loyalties.”
“You got your information wrong.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, Bertrand steps past me and picks up my cell. He drops it to the floor, watches it bounce once, then crushes it beneath his boot.
I don’t react. “You guys are a long way from home.”
“So is Colorosa,” he says.
“I need to see that warrant,” I tell him.
He unzips his coat and retrieves several folded sheets of paper. Stepping closer, he passes them to me.
I scan the document, seeking anything that’s amiss. I flip to the second page, my eyes hitting the highlights, the sections I’m familiar with. It’s signed by a sitting judge in Franklin County. What the hell?
Mercer emerges from the hall, shotgun at his side. “Window’s open,” he says. “Either she’s upstairs or she booked.” He starts toward the stairs.
There’s no way I can let him go up there. “This is my arrest,” I say forcefully. “Colorosa is my charge. I’m the one who will be transporting her.” I pause, struggling for calm, take a moment to shore up my voice. “You didn’t get the memo?”
One side of Bertrand’s mouth curves. “Warrant trumps your memo.” Leaning closer, he plucks it from my hand.
“Where the hell is she?” Mercer snaps.
“She was in the sewing room down the hall,” I tell him.
“That bitch ran,” he says nastily.
A quick skitter of relief in my gut. Chances are, she heard them coming and went out the window. A silent laugh flares inside me. I hope she gives them a run for their money.
“We need to go get her,” Mercer says.
Bertrand looks at me. “Is she armed?”
“Of course she’s not armed,” I retort. “She’s under arrest.”
His eyes glitter. “What about you?”
“I’m a cop and you need to back the hell off.” I let my eye slide to the stairs. “This is a private residence with children. My sidearm—as well as Colorosa’s—are locked in the glove box of my city-issue Explorer—which is stuck in the snow, by the way. The weather is the only reason she hasn’t already been booked in.” I put some attitude into my voice to cover the lies. While Gina’s Sig Sauer is, indeed, locked in the Explorer, my .38 lies on the top shelf of the mudroom cabinet.
“Katie?”
The three of us swivel to see Adam coming down the stairs. Behind him, Sammy and Lizzie crouch at the landing, holding the rails like jail bars, staring down at us, their faces curious and frightened.
“Everything’s okay,” I tell him, hoping he sees the truth in my eyes. “These men are police. They’re going to help me find Gina and then we’re going to take her to Columbus. Adam, I need you to go back upstairs. Stay with the children. Du sinn in kfoah,” I add quickly. You are in danger.
Bertrand is already across the room, pointing at the Amish man. “Come on down here and talk to us, buddy.”
Relief skitters through me when Adam looks back at the children. “Bleiva,” he tells them. Stay put. He descends the stairs, his eyes moving from Bertrand to Mercer to me. He approaches us with caution, taking in the broken panes of the front door. The glass on the floor.
His eyes skate to Bertrand. “If you’d knocked, I would have let you in.”
“Sorry about the door. We were just following procedure. We’ll get it fixed for you.” Bertrand hands Adam the warrant. “This is an arrest warrant for Gina Colorosa. We have permission to search your house, outbuildings, and property. It would help if you just told us where she is.”