“You call the power company?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Keep them in the vehicle, Skid. Tell them to roll up the windows. Don’t get too close.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call and look down at my phone to see I have six messages and a dozen texts. I reach for calm, force my emotions back. Two of the calls are from dispatch, so I press the speed dial for Lois. “You okay?” I begin.
“I’m good.” But she’s breathless and sounds stressed. “Power’s out everywhere. Pickles started that generator, so we got radio and phones and both are going nuts.” She takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “You heard about Maple Crest?”
“I’m heading that way now,” I tell her. “Any word on casualties?”
“I checked with Pomerene a few minutes ago. They have two critical. One fatality. More coming in and lots of minor injuries.” A hysterical laugh bubbles up from her. “I just took a ten-fifty-four a half a mile south of town.”
The code 10-54 is for loose livestock on the road, a call I always take seriously due to the likelihood of a motor vehicle accident. “Dispatch Pickles.”
“Ten-four.”
“I’m ten-seventy-six Maple Crest.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call and take a deep breath. I look at Tomasetti. Behind him I see the ambulance with the baby inside pull onto the road, sirens blaring. I don’t let myself think about the tiny newborn I’d held in my arms just minutes ago. The one whose warmth I can still discern. The one who, of all of us, is an innocent and deserves to live.
CHAPTER 3
I long for my police radio, as Tomasetti and I head east toward the Maple Crest subdivision. Drizzle floats down from a granite sky, smudging the trees and fields into a gothic, impressionist-style painting. The storm that brought the tornado is already past and heading northeast toward Geauga County, where new tornado warnings have been posted.
I’ve pulled up the weather radar on Tomasetti’s phone. The storm track shows the twister plowed a path from southwest to northeast. Most of the affected area was rural, but I know there are farmhouses and barns at risk. As the storm approached Painters Mill, it veered north and gobbled up half of the mobile home park. It then lifted briefly and touched down a second time on top of the subdivision. The homes are sturdier there—brick and stucco, mostly—and while I anticipate plenty of damage, I don’t think it will be as bad as Willow Bend.
We’ve just turned onto Dogleg Road, when I spot a lone figure ahead, walking toward us on the gravel shoulder.
“What the hell?” Tomasetti pulls over several yards from the man.
He’s wearing trousers and a long-sleeve shirt with one of the sleeves torn off at the shoulder. His clothes are soaked and muddy. As he draws closer I notice the suspenders hanging at his sides. No hat. No jacket. One boot on his left foot; the other is bare. The only indication that he’s Amish is the long beard. Though I’m certain he sees the Tahoe, he doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t acknowledge us. It’s as if he doesn’t even see us.
“Looks like he’s in shock,” Tomasetti says.
“I’m going to make sure he’s all right.” I’ve got the door open before we’ve come to a complete stop. Then I’m out of the truck. Rain soft and cold on my face. I can hear the ducks in the pond on the other side of a falling-down fence. The tinkle of the drizzle against the water’s surface.
I keep my eyes on the man ahead. But I’m aware of Tomasetti sliding from the truck. The slam of his door as he leaves it to follow me.
“Sir?” I call out. “I’m a police officer. Are you all right?”
The man stops and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. His face is streaked with mud. The missing shirtsleeve reveals the pasty flesh of an arm that’s covered with mud and specks of vegetation. His shirt is shredded, pasted to his body by rain and mud. He’s visibly shivering. His beard is clotted with vegetation, flecks of dead grass, and mud.
His eyes peer at me from a pale face smeared with mud. “Ich sayya Gott,” he whispers. I saw God.
“Are you injured?” I stop a couple of feet away. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
He shakes his head. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Samuel Miller.”
Tomasetti comes up beside me. “What are you doing out here all by yourself without a buggy?”
He looks at Tomasetti, then motions in the direction he was walking. “I was delivering straw to Big Joe Beiler’s place. That old mare of his is about to foal.”
I look past him, but there’s no sign of a wagon. Or a horse. “Where’s your wagon?”
“Wind caught it just right. Turned it over. The straw got dumped.”
“Is there anyone else with you?” I ask.
“Just me.”
“Your horse okay?”
“Sellah gaul is goot.” The horse is good. “Spooked. She ran home, like they always do, and left me to walk.” He grins. “Just like a female.”
“I think you should get yourself checked out at the hospital, Mr. Miller,” I tell him. “Maybe you hit your head when the wagon overturned. I’m happy to take you.”
The Amish man thinks about that a moment. “My head is fine. But I’d like to check on my family and make sure they’re all right.”
I touch his arm gently to get him started toward the Tahoe; all the while I look for signs of injury or confusion. “Where’s your farm, Mr. Miller?”
“A mile or so down the road.”
“The worst of the storm missed your house,” I tell him. “I think you’ll find your family just fine.”
“I guess it wasn’t my day to be called to heaven,” he says.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give him a choice about a trip to the ER; I’d take him directly to the hospital despite his objections. Today, however, with Pomerene Hospital undoubtedly flooded with casualties, I decide to comply with his wishes and take him home. I open the door of the Tahoe and he climbs inside.
* * *
It’s 4:30 A.M. by the time Tomasetti and I pull into the driveway of my old house in Painters Mill. We’ve spent twelve hours responding to calls, assisting the injured, searching for the missing, assessing damage, and reporting downed power lines and gas leaks to the proper authorities. The last four hours were spent at the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, helping firefighters with their search-and-rescue efforts. Casualty information has begun to trickle in from the ER departments of Pomerene Hospital as well as Wooster Community Hospital. So far the two hospitals have reported twenty-six injured, with eighteen hospitalized in serious or critical condition. There have been two confirmed fatalities so far: Sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger’s vehicle was flipped by the tornado. He died at the scene. And thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, Juanita Davis, was found dead in her trailer at Willow Bend. She was DOA. All but one of the missing have been accounted for. Twelve-year-old Billy Ray Benson was caught in a flash flood, sucked into a culvert, and washed into Painters Creek. Over thirty volunteers—many of whom had their own homes damaged or destroyed—joined Holmes County Search and Rescue. Because of rough terrain, flooded conditions, and darkness, HCSAR called off the search until first light. I can’t imagine what the boy’s parents are going through tonight.
The damage is shocking, but in light of the loss of life and serious injury, it’s easier to keep in perspective. Homes and businesses can be rebuilt. A life lost is gone forever. The east side of Painters Mill—mainly the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park—was devastated. In the Maple Crest subdivision, nine homes were damaged. Two were leveled, reduced to piles of brick and wood and the broken pieces of people’s lives.
Tomasetti and I are beyond exhaustion. Facing another grueling day that will begin in a few hours, we thought the smart thing to do was to stay here in town and grab showers and a couple hours of sleep.
I unlock the door, and we step into a liv
ing room that’s quiet and cool and smells of a house that’s been shut up for a long time. I put the house on the market a couple of weeks ago. I’ve had several showings but no offers. There’s no food, and in the seven months I’ve lived at the farm with Tomasetti, I’ve moved most of my personal belongings and some of my furniture. But my bed is still here, and I keep some old linens in the hall closet. Since I’ve never had the electricity shut off, we have light and hot water for showers.
“Kate.”
I’m standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. I glance over at Tomasetti, and for the first time I realize I’ve tracked mud across the living room.
“Shoes.” He motions toward my feet, and I notice he had the forethought to leave his at the door.
“Oh.” I try to laugh, but it’s a strained, tight sound. Mud on the rug is the last thing on my mind.
Clumps of it fall from my boots as I cross back to the door and kneel to remove them. “I feel like I need to be out there, doing something.” I have one shoe on, one off, and I shrug. “Anything.”
“I know you do,” he says.
“There are people who don’t have a place to sleep. They don’t have dry clothes. They have nothing to eat or drink.”
He frowns at me. “You’re not going to do anyone much good if you don’t get some sleep.”
I toe off my remaining boot. “You know, Tomasetti, I really hate it when you make more sense than I do.”
“So sue me.” Giving me a reassuring smile, he walks into the kitchen.
As I peel off socks that are wet and brown with mud, I find myself thinking of the infant girl we rescued from the overturned mobile home earlier this afternoon. I’ve thought of her a dozen times throughout the day but never made the time to call and check on her condition.
I hear Tomasetti moving around the kitchen. Water running. Cabinets opening and closing. Pulling out my phone, I go to the sofa and sit, punch in the number of Pomerene Hospital from memory. I’m put on hold several times before I finally reach the ER. In most cases, hospital personnel will not release patient information to non–family members. But because the circumstances are far from ordinary and I’m a public official with a need for statistics, I’m hoping someone will talk to me, at least in general terms.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder. This is Cat Morrow. How can I help you?”
I’ve met Cat on several occasions over the years. I don’t know her well, but we’ve exchanged pleasantries. “An infant girl and her mother were brought in earlier this afternoon,” I tell her. “The baby’s name is Lucy. Last name Kester. I’m wondering if you can tell me how they’re doing.”
“As you can imagine, it’s been a madhouse all day. Let me check.” I hear the click of computer keys on the other end. “Here we go: Paula Kester and her child, Lucy Kester. Looks like mama is fine. Going to be released in the morning.” More computer keys clicking. “And Lucy Kester. Four-month-old female.” A pause, then, “Hmmm. Chief, I’m sorry, but the baby passed away two hours ago.…”
The news impacts me like a power punch to the solar plexus. Vaguely, I’m aware of her speaking. Something about a possible spinal cord injury. All the while the words I was loath to hear echo inside my head.
The baby passed away two hours ago.
“Chief Burkholder? You there?”
I’m gripping my phone so tightly my hand shakes. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure how to feel. Guilty because I wasn’t able to save her. Angry because once again that bitch Fate was unjust to an innocent who didn’t deserve it. Hollowed out because I’m too tired to react to any of it.
“Thanks for the update, Cat. You guys keep up the good work.”
I end the call before she can respond. I sit there staring at my phone, my pulse thudding. “Goddamn it,” I whisper. “Goddamn it.”
Up until now I’d been operating on adrenaline. Doing what needed to be done and not thinking about any of it. Suddenly everything I’ve seen—the horrific injuries, the devastating damage, the senselessness of this random storm and the havoc it has wreaked on so many lives—rushes at me, and like so many times before in my life, I rage at the unfairness of it.
I rise abruptly, but I don’t go to the kitchen. I don’t want Tomasetti to see me like this. I don’t want to share this with him or talk to him or let him know how profoundly I’m disturbed by it. I’m a cop, after all. Good or bad, this is part of the job, and if I’m going to continue being a cop, I’d damn well better handle it. Toughen up. Stop caring so damn much.
I’m midway down the hall, intent on a shower and a few hours of sleep, when Tomasetti’s voice stops me. “Where do you keep the glasses?”
I stop, take an instant to settle my emotions, and turn to him. “Second shelf in the cupboard next to the sink.”
He nods but doesn’t go back into the kitchen to do whatever it was he was doing. He’s holding in his right hand the old bottle of bourbon I keep above the refrigerator. A kitchen towel is slung over his shoulder. He’s staring at me as if he just realized I’m bleeding.
“What is it?” he asks.
Not for the first time I’m reminded that he is my equal, not a man who will be ignored or lied to or misled. “I just called the hospital,” I hear myself say. “To check on the baby from the trailer this afternoon. Tomasetti, she died.”
Grimacing, he looks away, uses his free hand to rub the stubble on his jaw. “Damn. I hate it when it’s the little kids.”
I start to turn, but he strides to me and sets his hand on my arm. “Kate, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
The nurse’s words churn in my brain. Possible spinal cord injury. “She was only four months old. So tiny. Why her? It’s so incredibly unfair.”
“I know.” He motions to the kitchen. “Come sit with me for a moment.”
I muster a smile. “I’m not very good company right now.”
His eyes soften. “I think I can handle it.”
I follow him into the kitchen. We sit across from each other at the table. I wait while he pours two fingers of bourbon into glasses that are slightly dusty. “I hate bourbon,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but it’ll do in a pinch.” He shoves the glass at me.
I pick it up and take two big swallows. The alcohol burns all the way down; the taste makes me shudder. Setting the glass on the table, I twirl it and stare into the amber liquid. “In all the years you’ve been in law enforcement, do you ever wonder if you’re cut out for it?”
“No,” he tells me. “But only because I’m too old and set in my ways to start a new career.”
“Stop making me smile. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to feel sorry for myself in peace for a few minutes.”
He picks up his own glass and sips, watching me over the rim. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Yeah,” I say, injecting a little attitude into the word. “I mean, being a cop is all I’ve know. It’s my identity. Most of the time I love what I do.” I shake my head. “Then something like this happens, and I wonder if there’s something better out there that doesn’t hurt as much.”
He looks down at his glass, swirls the liquid inside. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, Kate, but it’s the cops who care that have it the worst. The cops that feel something. The ones that feel too much sometimes and can’t turn it off. I don’t know if you realize this about yourself, but you fall into that category. You have an inherent inability to disconnect emotionally. Maybe you care a little too much.” His gaze lands on mine. “In case you’re wondering, that’s not a criticism but an observation.”
“I’m glad you clarified that,” I say dryly.
“Look, it’s tough not to get involved. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t feel that way. Some cases get under your skin. You get pissed off. You get your heart torn to bits. It’s happened to all of us at some point, and it doesn’t mean you’re not a good cop.” He tilts his head, makes eye contact with me. “But it’s a tough row to hoe
, Kate. You’re the chief of police in a small town. You have family here. Friends. You care about these people. That’s a lot of responsibility, and you don’t take any of it lightly. Good for the town. Hard as hell for you.”
We fall silent. Around us, the house seems to hold its breath as if in anticipation of our next words, the direction in which the conversation will go. The last thing I want to do is cry. It’s an innately humiliating experience, particularly if it happens in front of someone I respect and admire. Like Tomasetti. But I can feel the exhaustion peeling away the layers of control. The ones that even in the face of heartbreak I can usually clutch together in desperation because there’s something inside me I don’t want him to see.
“She had blue eyes,” I whisper. “She looked at me. This brand-new little person. It’s like … I don’t know … she knew she was in trouble. And she just handed herself over to me. She was counting on me to help her.”
“You did your best. That’s all any of us can do. When it’s not enough, you pick up the pieces and you move on.”
“That’s a good speech, Tomasetti, but sometimes life pulls the rug out from under you. Then what?”
His eyes sharpen on mine. I’m aware of tears on my cheeks, hot and unwelcome. I know I’m overreacting and making a fool of myself. I’m exhausted and overwrought, and had I been a smarter woman, I would have forgone the bourbon and conversation for a shower and bed.
Embarrassed, I rise to leave, but Tomasetti reaches out and stops me. “What are we really talking about here, Kate?”
Something that feels vaguely like panic quivers in my gut. For an instant I consider broaching the subject I’ve been avoiding for a week now. But I’m in no frame of mind. Not tonight.
I glance down where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist and ease away from him. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.”
He releases me but holds me immobile with his eyes. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”
“I know.” I give him the best smile I can muster. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge, Tomasetti.”
“Anytime,” he says.