Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(65)

“Miriam?”

Gasping, she spun, saw her husband silhouetted against the door, still wearing his coat. She rushed to him, went through the door, closed it behind her. “Someone shot through the window,” she said.

“What?” His eyes widened. “When?”

“Just now.”

Even in the dim light of the gas lamp, she saw his face pale. “The children—”

Not waiting for him to finish, Miriam hurried to the next room. Her legs went weak with relief when she found her two sons sleeping and completely unaware.

Ivan met her in the hall, his eyes frightened and large. “The girls are fine,” he said. “Sleeping.”

“It’s him,” she whispered. “He’s come for us.”

Ivan stared at her, saying nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew, just as she did.

“Lock the doors and windows.” He started toward the stairs.

Miriam choked out a sob, set her hand over her mouth. “Go to the phone,” she whispered. “Call Chief Burkholder.”



* * *



I’m on my way home for a shower and a few hours of sleep when the call comes in. I’m expecting Tomasetti; uneasiness ripples through me when I recognize the number of the prepaid cell I left with the Helmuths.

“Chief Burkholder!” Ivan. I can tell by the breathless cadence of his voice that something’s happened.

“Someone shot into the house,” he says. “We need you to come.”

“Is anyone hurt?” I ask.

“No, but we’re afraid. The children!”

“I’m on my way,” I tell him. “Stay inside. Stay away from the windows.”

I make a U-turn. The engine groans as I crank the speedometer to sixty and blow back through town. I call Skid. “I got shots fired at the Helmuth place.”

“Holy shit. Chief, I’m there. Goat Head Road. Didn’t see a damn thing.”

“I’m ten-seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m en route. “Drive the block. I’ll meet you.”

“Roger that.”

I pick up my radio. “I’ve got a ten-forty-three-A,” I say, giving the ten code for shots fired. I recite the address. “Ten-seven-six. Expedite.”

It takes me three minutes to reach the Helmuth farm. I barrel up the lane fast, slide to a halt a few yards from the back door, and I hit the ground running. Ivan stands on the porch, a lantern thrust in front of him.

“Get inside,” I tell him as I take the steps two at a time to the porch.

He leads me through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Lantern light reveals terror on their faces. I spot the hole in the refrigerator door before Ivan can point it out.

While a stray shot is always dangerous, in Painters Mill most often it’s from a hunter. In light of recent events, I don’t believe that’s the case this time.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

“Less than five minutes. There’s a hole in the front window.” Miriam is already striding that way.

Ivan and I follow. The window covering is open about a foot. Sure enough, a bullet hole big enough for me to put my finger through stares back at me. The surrounding glass is cracked, but not broken, typical of a gunshot.

I check the angle, realize it could have come from someone sitting in a vehicle on the road in front of the house. Or more likely the woods across the road.

“Where were you when this happened?” I ask.

“Kitchen table,” Miriam replies.

“I was walking in from the barn,” Ivan says.

“Were the curtains open?”

“Yes,” Miriam tells me.

Which means the shooter likely saw her, but she couldn’t see him.

“Stay away from the windows.” I start toward the kitchen. “Do not go outside until I give you the go-ahead. Do not turn on any more lanterns. I’ll be back.”

I go out the back door, slide into the Explorer, and pick up my radio mic. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”

“Township Road 14. Went around the block. I got nothing.”

“Looks like someone shot through the front window. Drive around to the back of the property. You see anyone, make the stop. I got the front.”

“Roger that.”

I zip down the lane, too fast, eyes left and right, and head east on the county road. Amish country is dark as sin at night. No porch lights or streetlamps. Just acres of fields separated by greenbelts thick with trees and the occasional stream.

The woods across the road are an ocean of impenetrable blackness. I stop in front of the Helmuth farmhouse, which puts me a hundred yards away, and I get out. Around me, the night is dead quiet. No movement. No hiss of tires or rumble of an engine. The only sounds come from the sigh of the wind through the trees and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. All the while I’m keenly aware that there’s likely someone nearby with a rifle, intent on doing harm.

My replacement .38 presses reassuringly against my hip as I look toward the house and the window through which the bullet passed. I think about the angle to the kitchen. If the projectile went into the refrigerator, the shooter likely stood exactly where I’m standing now or else just beyond in the woods.

I turn, scan the darkened forest on the other side of the fence. The vague outline of the Schattenbaum farm down the road. I speak into my lapel mike. “County?”