According to the Lake County sheriff’s office, a local Amish man shot and killed his wife this afternoon and then turned the gun on himself. The sheriff’s office isn’t releasing details, but according to reports, a number of hostages were being held in an underground room. The hostages, several of whom have been missing for quite some time, are recovering at a hospital in Cleveland. No names have been released. . . .
Tomasetti sets down his mug and walks over to the jukebox, digs change from his pocket, and makes a selection. A few seconds later, Red Rider’s “Lunatic Fringe” rattles from the speakers, drowning out the newscaster’s voice.
Neither of us wants to talk about the case. But it’s part of the decompression process. I sense the weight of it between us.
Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I heard from the CSU earlier,” he tells me. “They found more remains. Bones. In the hog pens.”
The hog pens. The meaning behind the words creep over me like a snake slithering around my neck. “Have any of them been identified?”
“I don’t know if the lab will be able to extract DNA from the bones. We’re going through cold missing-person cases, but I think identification is going to take a while.”
I nod, thinking about the Masts, what might have driven them to commit such horrific deeds. “We talked to them, Tomasetti. Why the hell didn’t we know something was wrong with them?”
“Insanity isn’t always obvious.”
“How did it get to this point?”
He shrugs. “Taking into consideration everything we know, I suspect it started when their daughter committed suicide.”
“They snapped,” I say, venturing a guess. “Went off the deep end.”
“Or maybe they were just a couple of fucking lunatics. Fed off of each other.”
Bitterness resonates in his voice, and for the first time I grasp fully the ironies of the case. This is about kids, our most precious resource, and the way we treat them. How out of touch parents—even good parents—can be. But this case is mostly about the lost ones who fall through the cracks, both Amish and English. Some of the children were loved; some were ignored. Others were looked upon by their parents or society with a sort of detached disdain.
I look at Tomasetti and wonder how he has fared. So many times I’ve tried to imagine him with a wife he loved and two little girls he doted on. It’s a difficult image to capture. I suspect he’s a different man now than he was before.
“I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you to deal with a case like this,” I say after a moment.
He looks down at his coffee, but not before I see the walls go up, and I realize even after three years, the deaths of his wife and children is the one topic he won’t breach.
“Tomasetti?
He looks at me. “Yeah?”
“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”
His expression softens. “I know.”
The sound of a train whistle drowns out the final notes of “Lunatic Fringe.” The liquor bottles above the bar rattle as a train passes. The tabletop shakes, and I feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.
Across from me, Tomasetti slouches in the booth, staring at his coffee, his face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s a battle-scarred face, though it bears not a single mark. I want to heal him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if he’ll let me.
“I got a room,” Tomasetti says. “The old hotel by the river.”
“The Petry,” I say slowly. “I noticed it when we drove past.”
“I figured we could both use some downtime.”
Even after so long, it unsettles me that I want him with such intensity. That I’m vulnerable to him in that way. That I’m vulnerable to my own needs and that we’re sitting here as if any of it makes sense.
I reach across the table and take his hand. Surprise flashes on his face when I tug him toward me. I lean across the table and touch my mouth to his. His lips are firm and warm against mine, and my only conscious thought is that I want more. I smell coffee and the fading redolence of aftershave, and something profound stirs inside me.
Not for the first time, I wonder where our relationship will take us. I wonder if two people with as much baggage as we have can get past it, make a go of something good. I wonder if our demons will allow it. And I wonder how long this precarious happiness will last.
After a moment, I break the kiss and move back slightly. But I don’t let go of him and our faces remain close. “You make me happy,” I tell him.
He stares at me as if I’m some puzzle that’s unexpectedly baffled him. It would be just like him to spout off something flippant or crude. But he doesn’t, and his silence leaves me stammering.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“That kiss helped a lot.”
“Maybe this relationship stuff isn’t as complicated as we thought.”
His mouth curves. “You’re complicated. I’m screwed up. That’s probably a bad combination.”
I start to pull away, but his hand tightens on mine. Pulling me close, he kisses me hard on the mouth. It’s completely inappropriate for a public place, but it feels good, and I’m too caught up in it to stop. After a moment, he pulls back and contemplates me. It’s as if he can see all of those jumpy places inside me—the ones I spend so much time trying to hide, especially from him.
I try to tug my hand from his, but he doesn’t let me. He’s so close, I feel the warmth of his breath against my face. His dark eyes are level on mine, and for an instant it’s as if there’s nothing between us. Not my secrets. Not his baggage.
That’s when the reality of what I’ve let happen strikes me. The realization staggers me. Terrifies me. A rise of panic is like a steel clamp around both lungs. I feel my mouth open, but I don’t dare utter the words. But I feel the tangled mess of them piled up in my chest.
I wonder if the truth is pasted all over my face. I wonder if he can see it in my eyes, in the way my hand is tight and wet within his.
“Tomasetti . . .” I begin, but I run out of breath and my voice trails off.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”
CHAPTER 26
No matter where I travel, how long I’ve been gone, whether it’s for business or plea sure or something in between, there’s something special about coming home. It’s midmorning by the time I pull into my parking space at the Painters Mill police station and shut down the engine. For a moment, I sit there, taking in the facade of the building—the ugly red brick and the circa 1970s glass door. I see my office window with its cracked pane and bent miniblinds, and a few leaves from the ficus tree I’ve been nursing back to health sticking through.
It’s not the visual that grants me such a powerful sense of homecoming, but knowing what lies beyond those doors—and my utter certainty that I’m part of it. Lois’s Cadillac is parked a few spaces down and, as usual, I can tell her husband spent much of the weekend detailing it. Glock’s car sits a few feet away, waxed and lined up within the parking stripes with military precision. Mona’s still here—four hours after the end of her shift—and not for the first time I wonder if she’s got a life outside her job. There’s no sign of Pickles or Skid, but I know they’re on their way. T.J. has already gone for the day, but I’ll see him tomorrow. That’s something else I can count on.
Tomasetti was gone when I woke at just after seven this morning. There was no note. No good-bye. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he slipped out the door without waking me. He’s good at that, leaving without so much as a kiss.