It killed me to stay behind. More than anything, I needed to see this through. This is my case. My town. It was my goddamn bullet that killed Mose. I wanted to finish this. Too bad, Kate.
Of course, none of that matters, because when a cop is on leave, he’s basically no longer a cop. He’s a civilian and is treated as such. The only thing Tomasetti asked of me before he left was that I lay off the booze. I figured we both knew he should have taken the bottle with him. Thank God he didn’t, because the demons came knocking the instant he closed the door.
It’s almost 10:00 P.M. now. The pain in my shoulder is back, so I took three aspirin from a bottle that expired two months ago. So far, it’s not helping, but then maybe I deserve to hurt tonight. I’ve showered and put on a ratty pair of sweats and a T-shirt from my academy days. I turned on the TV, turned it back off. Did the same with the radio. I wish I could do it with my mind. Turn it off, crank down the volume, unplug the damn thing. I’m wired, but exhausted. I can’t sit. Can’t stand. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. It’s like my skin is too tight. My mind is wound like a top and at any moment it’s going to spiral out of control.
For the first time in a long time, I wish I could cry. It’s as if the tears are stuck in my throat and they’re slowly choking me. At the same time, the fist lodged in my chest is twisting my heart and lungs into knots, until I can’t draw a breath. Even though the temperature hovers around freezing outside, I throw open the kitchen window and stand by the sink, sucking in great mouthfuls of air. I need Tomasetti, but I won’t call him. I swore long ago the one thing I would never be is the clinging-vine female.
On a brighter note, in the last couple of hours every member of my small police force has called at least once: Glock, Mona, Lois, Pickles, T. J., even Skid, who doesn’t have a compassionate bone in his body. We ended up talking about the weather. They’re my officers, but they’re also my friends. My family. They believe me when I tell them I’m all right. I say it so often, I almost believe it myself. Then that fist inside me tightens and I realize I’m about as okay as a dog that’s just been run over by a bus.
By midnight, my resistance wears down, and I go to the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the bottle of Absolut. The intellectual side of my brain knows alcohol won’t help. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s going to make everything worse. But some nights are simply too dark to face without the sustenance of booze.
Snagging a glass from the cabinet, I set it on the counter and pour. Cold air spills in through the open window. That reminds me I can still breathe, and I’m comforted by that. I barely taste the vodka when I drink, so I pour again.
After the second shot, I take my tumbler and the bottle to the living room. Settling onto the sofa, I top off my glass. I’m a woman on a mission, bound for oblivion, and by God I’m going to get there. I tip the bottle, fill the glass halfway, and take a long pull. Pour and drink. Pour and drink.
But when I close my eyes, I’m back on that dirt road. Mose is in the truck. Silver rain slashes in the beam of the single headlight. I’m aware of the gun in my hand, the roar of the engine in my ears. Salome’s screams echoing in my head.
You could have let him go, a little voice says. You could have let him run.
“Kate.”
The sound of Tomasetti’s voice yanks me back to the present. I open my eyes. He’s standing above me, his expression concerned. That’s when I realize I’m lying on the floor, with absolutely no idea how I got here. I see my glass a few feet away, lying on its side in a puddle of vodka.
The first thought that registers is that I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to know I’ve been drinking. I struggle to a sitting position and the room dips violently right and then left.
He kneels beside me. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
“S’okay.”
“Sure it is.” He sets his hand on my back. “Are you all right?”
“I’m good,” I reply, but my words are slurred.
“How did you get on the floor?”
“Uh … no idea.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
Grasping my biceps, he rises and pulls me to my feet. The room does a single sickening spin and then tilts left. My quadriceps feel weak. I’m nauseous, and my head pounds like some bad rock song.
“I told you to lay off the booze,” he says, but there’s no reprimand in his voice.
“It was pretty good advice.”
“Easy to give when you’re on the outside looking in, I guess.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Putting his arm around me, he helps me into the bathroom. He flips up the seat on the commode. I slide to my knees and throw up twice. I set my hands on the floor, but my arms are shaking. A flash of heat rushes over me and a cold sweat breaks out on my neck and face. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” he replies softly. “I shouldn’t have left you.”
That brings me back to the reason behind all this misery. Thinking of Mose and Salome, I struggle to my feet. “Did you talk to Salome?”
Tomasetti helps me to the sink and lets me lean against him while I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. “Rasmussen and I took her statement.”
Leaning heavily against the sink, I turn to him, ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Did Mose kill the parents?”
His gaze searches mine, then he nods. “She thinks he might’ve done it.”
Even through the haze of my drunkenness, the news hits me like a punch. I didn’t want Mose to be guilty of that. It’s not how I want to remember him. “That must have been awful for her.”
Tomasetti nods. “She’s pretty broken up.”
“How are Ike and Samuel?”
“They’re going to be fine.” When I continue to stare at him, he sighs, knowing I want more. “The doctor at the emergency room says they were both suffering from hypothermia.”
“Hypothermia?”
“Evidently, they’d been in the manure pit for quite some time when we found them.”
“But how did they survive the methane gas?”
“Well, we drained the pit after the parents were found. Whoever pushed the boys in refilled it with water, in the hope they’d either suffocate or drown. But because of the added water, the muck was diluted and the methane wasn’t as concentrated.”
For the first time, I remember seeing the child’s ball floating on the surface. “They clung to the ball,” I murmur.
He nods. “Salome thought Mose might try to harm the boys, so she tossed the ball into the pit.”
“She saved their lives.”
“Looks that way.”
I nod, trying to digest the cold-bloodedness of Mose’s actions. “My God, Tomasetti, he tried to kill his little brothers.”
“Yeah.”
“Is Salome substantiating that?”
“She didn’t actually witness it, but she was obviously concerned about her brothers’ well-being.”
“How is she?”
“Sedated. But she’s going to be okay.”
All I can do is shake my head.
“Get this,” he says. “The day we found Mose beaten?”
“What about it?”
“It never happened. Mose gave Salome a buggy whip and forced her to mark him up.” She used a shoe on his face so she wouldn’t leave marks on her knuckles.
Recalling the extent of Mose’s injuries, I shudder. “Why?”
“Who knows. Maybe he’d heard about the hate crimes and decided he might be able to divert our attention from the Slabaugh murders. Make himself look like a victim. Garner our collective sympathies.”
“Jesus,” I say, reeling. “It almost worked.”