“You never loved him. He was a means to an end.”
“I did. I loved him. I would have married him!”
But I see the lie and push harder. “Did you think you and Mose were going to just ride into the sunset? After murdering three people?”
“We were going to live here … and take care of our brothers—”
“Your brothers hate you, Salome.”
“No, they don’t!” she screams.
“In fact, they chose me over you. Me. A stranger. And now they’re going to testify against you. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison—”
“You fucking bitch! I wish I’d killed you, too!”
The next thing I know, she’s across the table, coming at me with claws and teeth. An instant too late, I push back, but she’s already got me. Her nails sear down my face. Her left hand fists in my hair. As if in slow motion, I see Tomasetti rounding the table, rushing at us. Adam Slabaugh makes a wild grab for his niece as she goes over the tabletop. Thornsberry reels back, his mouth opening and closing like that of a beached catfish.
And then I’m falling backward in my chair, with Salome on top of me, like a cougar intent on mauling its prey.
CHAPTER 21
My chair goes over backward and I slam into the floor so hard, my head bounces off the tile. Stars fly before my eyes. I try to kick away the chair and get my legs under me, but my feet are tangled in the rungs. Before I can move, Salome is on top of me, hair flying, nails slashing at my face.
“You bitch!” She lands a blow to my left cheekbone, sending another scatter of stars to my eyes. “You ruined everything!”
When I look into her eyes, I see a total disconnect from reality. Animalistic screeches tear from her throat. “Why couldn’t you just go away! I wish you were dead! Dead!”
Vaguely, I’m aware of movement all around me—chairs scudding across the floor, the shuffle of feet. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Tomasetti kicking aside the chair. “Get off her!”
I hear the attorney’s ineffective “Hey!”
Salome’s fingernails rake across my left temple, dangerously close to my eye. “I hate you! I fucking hate you!”
I raise my hands to shove her away, but she’s too close. I can’t get any leverage. My training kicks in. I bring my elbow up hard, striking her beneath the chin. I hear her teeth click together. Her head snaps back. Stiff-armed, I jam the heel of my hand against her chest as hard as I can. A strangled scream tears from her throat as she reels back. I hear her head strike the table. Twisting, I wriggle out from beneath her, roll, bring up my feet to mule-kick her away.
Before I can, Tomasetti yanks her back. She twists and goes after him like a wild animal. He curses. Her attorney’s shouting in a tinny, alarmed voice. All of it is punctuated by Salome’s strangled screams. “She’s lying! I hate her! She killed Mose!” Her eyes are wild when they find mine. “Murderer!”
As abruptly as the ruckus began, the room goes silent and still. I use the fallen chair to get to my feet. I’m aware of the blood roaring in my ears, the drumbeat thud of my heart, the burn of a cut on my face. A few feet away, Tomasetti has Salome bent over, face against the table, while he cuffs her hands behind her back. A visibly shaken Adam Slabaugh stands to my right, shaking, breathing as if he just ran the Boston Marathon.
Tomasetti pulls Salome back from the table by the scruff of her neck and looks at me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re bleeding.” Slabaugh pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the table and hands them to me.
“Thanks.” I blot at the burning sensation at my left temple, and the tissue comes away red.
“She’s obviously going to need psychiatric evaluation.”
All heads turn toward Colin Thornsberry, Salome’s attorney. He looks like he just survived a tornado—barely—and I wonder if this is his first brush with a violent offender. He’s looking at Salome as if he doesn’t want to get too close.
The door swings open and I see Glock standing there at the ready. His eyes sweep the room, lingering on me a moment and then going to Salome and Tomasetti. “Everything okay in here?” he asks.
“It is now,” I say, and start toward the door.
There’s a universal truth in law enforcement. It’s one I’ve struggled with for years and probably will for more years to come. Some cases turn out badly no matter how good the police work. Even though you make the arrest, get the bad guy off the street, and make the world a safer place, there is no justice done. The end result can be as sad and troubling as the crime itself.
In the case of the Slabaugh family, two Amish parents are still dead, along with an uncle who was trying to help. Two little boys will grow up without their mother and father and siblings. A seventeen-year-old boy is dead. And a fifteen-year-old Amish girl is probably going to prison, where an innocent baby will be born into a system that is far from perfect.
Justice took a pass on this one. I have no choice but to move on to the next, and hope for a better outcome. At least I have my hope. If that ever wanes, then I know it’s time for me to hang up my law-enforcement hat.
McNarie’s Bar is the last place I should be on a night like this, when I’m disheartened and thinking about things like a lack of justice and the end of hope. It’s not exactly the kind of mind-set that’s conducive to responsible drinking. I haven’t forgotten about Tomasetti’s warning to be careful with the booze. He doesn’t broach a subject like that without serious forethought. Maybe I’ll heed his advice, maybe not.
I’m into my second tonic and lime when movement at the door catches my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti and Rasmussen enter. The men saunter to the booth. Tomasetti slides in next to me. Rasmussen takes the seat across from us. I know they just came from the police station; there’s a certain kind of energy that comes with the end of a big case, especially one like this. They’ve gotten Salome handed off to the appropriate juvenile authorities and the immediate paperwork taken care of. For the first time in the course of my career, I’m glad I wasn’t there.
“I think I owe you an apology,” Rasmussen says without preamble.
I make eye contact with him. He’s talking about our exchange at the station. “You mean for telling me I was too emotionally involved in the case and that I was wrong about Salome?”
“That would be it.” He offers a white-flag smile, and I can actually see him swallowing his pride. “I was wrong about the girl, and I came down on you pretty hard. I was out of line.”
The words quash my earlier ire, leaving me feeling strangely deflated, and I reluctantly decide I like him again. “I wasn’t one hundred percent certain myself,” I admit.
Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen. “Are you saying the two boys didn’t confide and tell you they overheard Salome and Mose discussing the murders?”
“They told me Salome had put them in the pit and promised to come back for them.” I sigh, wondering if I’m going to have to defend my actions. “The rest was guesswork.”
“You didn’t have Mose’s prints on the ball,” Tomasetti says.
I shake my head.
“Big risk.”
“Calculated risk,” I reply. “But one I had to take because I felt she was a danger to the two boys.”
Rasmussen whistles. “Damn, Chief, that’s good.”
Tomasetti isn’t so easily pleased. “Could have backfired if Salome had stuck to her story.”
“I was counting on her losing her cool.”
Tomasetti looks at the sheriff. “In case you haven’t noticed, Kate’s good at provoking people.”