“You came down pretty hard on Mose tonight,” I say.
“He deserved it.”
“You lost your temper with a kid. That’s not like you.”
“That’s exactly like me.” He tips the bottle and takes a drink. “I wanted to knock his fucking block off.”
“Maybe I’m not the only one who has some emotional stake in this case.”
Something flashes in his eyes, some dark emotion I can’t quite identify. A warning, telling me not to go there. “My kids were girls,” he says after a moment. “Younger, but still…”
The statement shocks me. In all the months I’ve known Tomasetti, he’s never broached the subject of his family. What little I know, I’ve had to pry out of him. It happened back when he was with the Cleveland Division of Police. There was a home invasion. His wife and two young daughters were raped, murdered, and then burned when the house was torched—all this the result of a career criminal seeking revenge. I know Tomasetti spent some time in a psychiatric hospital, but he got through it. He holds his emotional cards close to his chest. Keeps the rest of it locked down tight, off-limits even to those he trusts.
What happened to his family is always in the backwaters of my mind. Only now do I realize that dealing with these Amish kids has brought that part of his past to the forefront, too. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I know that. I didn’t mean to dredge—”
“You didn’t,” he says easily. “It’s bound to come up from time to time.”
I don’t know what to say. Copping out, I take another drink of beer, look down at the bottle in my hands.
“Donna would have been eleven this year. Kelly would have been ten.” He shrugs. “When I saw Mose in the loft with Salome, I wanted to take his head off.”
“You were a father.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “It seems like a lifetime ago. But I still think about it. What it was like. What happened to them. I still miss them every day.”
“I can’t imagine how hard that was.”
He shifts in the booth, and I know he’s ready to move on to another subject. Any other subject. “So how is Salome going to fare as far as the Amish? I mean being pregnant and unmarried. That’s got to be frowned upon.”
“Fornication is a pretty serious offense,” I tell him. “But the Amish won’t turn her away. That’s not to say it’ll be easy for her. Salome will have to confess her mistake while kneeling before the congregation.” I shrug. “Of course, there will be gossip. There always is. But the Amish will support her and her baby.”
“That’s something,” he says.
“Sometimes I think that’s the best we can hope for.”
CHAPTER 13
The blast of the phone yanks me from the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Even before I’m fully awake, I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti lying next to me, his body warm and solid against mine. He doesn’t move, but I know he’s awake. We’re both light sleepers. Disoriented, I look around, shove the hair from my eyes. The face of the alarm clock tells me it’s just after 3:00 A.M. We’ve been asleep less than an hour.
I grab the phone. “Yeah,” I croak.
“Chief, sorry to wake you, but I got a ten-seventy out at the Hartzler place.”
That’s the code for a fire. I sit up. “Anyone hurt?”
“Ed Hartzler is missing.”
“Shit.” I fumble for my robe, shrug into it. “Fire department en route?”
“I called them straight away.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.”
Dropping the phone into its cradle, I rush to the closet, fling open the door, yank the light cord.
“What is it?”
I turn and see Tomasetti’s silhouette. In the dim light slanting into the room from the closet, I see him walking toward me. A small thrill races down my spine when I realize he’s still naked. We’ve been together like this a dozen times now, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing him without his clothes.
Stupidly, I avert my gaze, turn back to the closet. “Fire,” I say.
He comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Bending, he kisses me on the neck. “Does the chief of police show up for every fire?”
I turn toward him, still intent on getting to the scene. But before I realize what I’m going to do, I lean into him, press my mouth to his. As if of their own accord, my arms go around his neck. He kisses me back, and my head begins to spin. God, I think, and pull away. “It’s an Amish farm.” Still stunned from the kiss, I blink at him. “We’ve got one missing.”
In an instant, he transforms from aroused male to cop. “Goddamn it.” He’s already rushing to the chair next to the bed where he draped his clothes.
We dress at a frantic pace, yanking on slacks and buttoning shirts, watching each other, wishing we’d had more time.
“You thinking the same thing I am?” I ask as I throw on my parka and head for the door.
“Yup.” Tomasetti grabs his trench coat on the way out. “Let’s hope we’re wrong.”
Ed Hartzler’s farm is located on Painters Creek Road. It’s one of the larger Amish farms in the area, spanning nearly a hundred acres of rolling hills, impenetrable forest, and a good part of the creek.
To keep any potential gossip to a manageable level, Tomasetti and I take separate vehicles. He follows me in his Tahoe. I drive well over the speed limit, but he doesn’t have a problem keeping up.
I see the orange glow of the fire from a mile away, and I know it’s bad. By the time I turn into the long gravel lane of the Hartzler place, I can see the flames shooting fifty feet into the air. The stink of smoke is thick, like wet ash in my mouth. Midway down the lane, three wild-eyed horses gallop past my vehicle.
Two fire trucks are in position and three firefighters hose the blaze. A buggy and two ambulances are parked haphazardly in the driveway a bit farther back from the barn. Several members of the Hartzler family, some of the children not much older than five or six years, have formed a chain and are passing buckets of water from the well to a smaller outbuilding to keep it from catching fire, as well.
I park out of the way, about thirty yards from the barn, but even from that distance I can feel the heat. The steady roar of the flames mingles with the rumble of the diesel engines of the fire trucks, forming a deafening chorus. I’m aware of Tomasetti parking behind me, but I don’t wait for him. I approach the nearest firefighter, who’s manning the water pump.
“Anyone hurt?” I ask.
“We still haven’t located Ed Hartzler. Family’s pretty upset.”
The fire crashes like a giant beast on a rampage. Timbers sizzle and crack. The flames are both hideous and beautiful as they consume the one hundred-year-old structure. “Do you guys need anything?”
“We’re good, Chief,” he says. “Coshocton County’s on the way.”
I leave him to his work. I stop next to Tomasetti, who’s standing a few feet back, and tell him about Hartzler.”
“Hope he’s not in there.”
“The barn is going to be a total loss.”
We turn to look at the human chain. The Hartzler family, still clad in pajamas and nightshirts, try desperately to save what looks like a chicken house. But with a fire this size, their efforts may be futile; nothing can save the structure if the fire chooses to devour it. I only hope Ed Hartzler isn’t inside the barn, because there’s no way anyone could survive.
I start toward the family. I see a dozen faces, all of them red with tears and sweat and the cold. There are children and teenagers, a skinny old man, and a pregnant woman. I’ve met Ed and his wife, Sarah, several times over the years. Twenty years ago, I went to school with Sarah. They have a big, extended family, including at least one set of grandparents. As I take in their frightened faces, all I can think is that this isn’t going to end well.