Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I begin a frantic climb to the top. The toes of my boots dig into the walls. Loose dirt crumbles. My breaths echo off the walls. I slide my hands up the cable, pulling until my muscles quiver with exertion.

Finally, at the mouth of the pit, I drag myself out. Shaking and gasping for breath, I look around and get the shock of my life. John Tomasetti stands ten feet away, his flashlight in one hand, a sleek Sig Sauer semiautomatic in the other. His eyes burn into mine and then he blinds me with the light.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

My mind scrambles for a lie. My pulse roars like a jet engine on takeoff. I can only imagine how bizarre this must seem to him. I’m covered with dirt and probably look as strung out as a junkie on a three-week binge. Lucky for me I’m pretty fast on my feet. “I’m following up on a lead.” I make a show of brushing dust from my pants. “What are you doing here?”

He ignores my question, his flashlight beam moving from me to the pit. “Lead on what?”

I don’t want him near the pit. I’m not sure how well I covered those bones. I want to slide the grate back into place and get the hell out of there. “An anonymous call about illegal dumping. Guy claiming someone dumped paint and some type of solvent.”

It’s a viable lie. An ordinary person would believe it. But John Tomasetti is no ordinary schmuck. I can tell by his expression he doesn’t believe me.

“Did you find anything?” he asks.

“Not a thing.” I pull the cable from the pit and start toward the Explorer. “Crank call, probably. Teenagers. We get that here.”

“Maybe I’ll have a look for myself.”

“There’s nothing down there but rats.” It strikes me then that it’s no coincidence Tomasetti is here. He didn’t drive by and see my headlights. The son of a bitch followed me.

The realization rattles me further as I slide behind the wheel. Tomasetti circles the pit as I move the Explorer into position. I need to get that grate over the pit before he decides to act on all that suspicion I see in his eyes.

I back the Explorer to the grate and slide out. My hands shake so badly now I can barely get the hook around the undercarriage.

“You nervous about something, Chief?”

“Just cold.”

“You’re in an awful big hurry to cover that hole.”

“I just want to get home.”

He pauses. “Kate, what the fuck are you really doing?”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’m too close to some precipitous edge. Once I go over the brink, I may not be able to drag myself out. “Look, this is the second complaint I’ve taken about dumping here,” I snap. “I didn’t feel like going home, so I’m following up.”

“Is that why you’re shaking?”

I finish with the hook and straighten, meeting his gaze. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold.”

“You’re fucking sweating. Covered with dirt. Look at you. Now what the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I don’t appreciate you following me around, spying on me. Whatever it is you’re doing, I want it to stop. You got it?”

“You’re lying to me and I want to know why.”

I laugh. “You need to talk to someone about all that paranoia, Tomasetti.”

“You didn’t go into that pit because you were following up on a complaint.”

“Like you know.”

Abruptly, he strides toward me, shines the light in my eyes. “You want to know what I know, Chief? I know that someone in this town believes you know who the killer is. I think you’re hiding something.” He thrusts a finger at the pit. “And I know you didn’t go into that goddamn hole because of some anonymous tip.” He circles the boot pit, shining his light into the darkness. “If I go down there, what am I going to find?”

“What do you want from me? Did Detrick tell you to follow me? Or was it the town council? Are you their new lapdog?”

One side of his mouth lifts. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling. “You know better than that.”

“Do I?” I start toward the Explorer. I’m close to pulling this off. All I have to do is slide the grate back into place and leave. I don’t think he’ll go to the trouble of moving it again.

I climb behind the wheel and twist the key. The engine turns over. I reach for the shifter. The next thing I know the door flies open. I gasp when Tomasetti reaches in, turns off the ignition and takes my keys.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jumping out, I make a wild grab for the keys.

He drops them into his pocket. “Let’s just say I’m following up on a hunch.”

“This is ridiculous. Give me my keys. Now.”

Removing the cable from the grate, he tosses one end into the pit.

Panic ignites in my chest. I can’t let him find those bones. “You’re overstepping.”

“Not the first time I’ve been accused of that.”

“I swear to God I’ll have your job for this.”

Taking hold of the cable, he braces his legs against the side and drops into the hole like a rock climber.

“Tomasetti, damn it, stop playing games. I want to leave.”

No answer.

“Damn it! There’s nothing there!” I look around wildly. For a crazy instant I actually consider pulling out the cable and stranding him. Of course, I can’t do that. I’m going to have to deal with this. With what I’ve done. The secrets I’ve covered up all these years.

My entire life flashes before my eyes. My career will be ruined. My parents’ memory, their reputations, will be dragged through the mud right along with the rest of the Amish community. My brother and sister and nephews will suffer. I could find myself facing a grand jury. Worse case scenario, I could be tried and sent to prison for murder . . .

I rush to the pit and look down to see Tomasetti shove a piece of plywood out of the way with his foot. I can see the skull from where I stand. Dizziness descends. I feel sick and terrified. I can’t believe this is happening.

“What the fuck?”

Turning away, I press my hand to my stomach. I can’t cover this up. It’s over. The secrets end here. Nausea seesaws in my gut. I make it ten feet before I throw up. The thud of my knees hitting the ground surprises me. I’ve been knocked unconscious before, but I’ve never fainted. The swirl of confusion tells me I’m close now. Somehow I lose time, seconds or maybe even minutes, because the next thing I know Tomasetti is kneeling beside me.

I jolt when his hand touches my shoulder. I’m embarrassed and humiliated, but I’m not sure I’m finished puking so I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge him. I look down at my gloves in the dirt and I feel like crying.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

I dry heave and spit.

He waits a moment before speaking. “Those remains. Do you know who it is?”

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Daniel Lapp.”

“Who’s Daniel Lapp?”

“An Amish man.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Sixteen years.”

“How did he die?”

“Shotgun blast.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

He pauses. “Who?”

“Me,” I say and the tears come in a rush.

CHAPTER 26

John had experienced a lot of bizarre moments in his years as a cop. He’d even partaken in a few he didn’t like to spend too much time dwelling on. This one took the cake. An admission of murder was the last thing he expected when he followed Kate Burkholder here tonight.

He had pretty good instincts when it came to people. Perhaps to a lesser degree when it came to women, but then who the hell knew. He was too jaded to be shocked by much of anything. Still, this shocked him. Worse, he didn’t know what to do about it.

Setting his hands beneath her shoulders, he helped Kate to her feet. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”

She seemed almost weightless, and for the first time, he realized there wasn’t much to her; most of her bulk was coat and a perception of largeness he attributed to the force of her personality. She hadn’t struck him as a crier. Up until this moment, she’d handled the stress like a pro. She’d been tough and focused despite the ugliness of the case. But he knew the dam was breaking. There was no wailing or theatrics, but the look of misery on her face was so profound John could feel it creeping into his own psyche.

Taking her shoulders, he turned her to him. “Kate, what the hell is going on?”

“Johnston was right,” she choked. “I . . . blew th-the c-case. Because of . . . this.”

He wished he’d never followed her here. He didn’t need this. Didn’t want to deal with it. Wasn’t even sure he cared. His life was complicated enough without throwing a dead body into the mix.

“Pull yourself together,” he snapped.

She met his gaze, jerked her head.

“We need to talk about this.”

“I know.” She wiped frantically at her cheeks, and he wondered how long it took for tears to freeze on skin.

“Is there someplace warm we can go?” he asked.

“The bar. My place.” She shrugged. “Or you could just speed things along and take me right to jail.”

“Your place.” He looked around, wishing he were anywhere but here. “I have a feeling we’re going to need some privacy for this.”

“You have no idea.”

As he handed her the keys, the possibility that she might make a run for it crossed his mind. “You wouldn’t do anything stupid, would you?”

She gave him a sage look. “I’ve already used up my quota for stupid,” she said and started toward the Explorer.

She lived in a modest brick ranch on the edge of town. There was no glowing porch light to welcome her. The driveway had yet to be shoveled. He parked curbside and watched Kate pull into the driveway. She started toward the front door without waiting for him.

The thought that his being here could get the tongues wagging drifted through his mind, but John didn’t have a better idea. Besides, it wasn’t as if the chief of police and the investigating field agent didn’t have anything to talk about while they were in the midst of a serial murder case.

He got out and cut across the yard. She’d left the door open, so he stepped inside and closed it behind him. The living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of furniture. A brown contemporary sofa contrasted nicely with a cream-colored chair. An antique cabinet in need of refinishing held an assortment of vases and bowls. The house smelled faintly of candle wax and coffee.

Kate stood at the coat closet and hung her parka. She wore a navy police uniform that was badly wrinkled from wear, as opposed to a lack of pressing. Bending, she began unlacing her boots with small, competent hands. The uniform wasn’t tight, but he could see enough of her to know she was put together nicely. He guessed her to be about five feet six inches tall. Athletic. Maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds. She was wide at the hip, but it was the kind of wide that made his male interest flare.

Crossing to the closet, he hung his own coat, but his focus was on Kate. Her dark brown hair was tousled, as if she’d gone the entire day without brushing it. Her complexion was splotched from crying and pale against the dark curtain of hair.

Once her boots were off, she went through the living room and disappeared down a hall. John wandered into the kitchen. It was surprisingly homey, with light ash cupboards and a contrasting Corian countertop. A stack of bills lay on the built-in desk. A half-burned candle sat in the center of the small dining room table. A normal kitchen except for the fact that its owner had just confessed to murder . . .