Page 66 of Shamed

Before she could retort, he raised his foot, brought it down hard, and the night swallowed the day.

CHAPTER 16

Sixty-five hours missing

I wake a little before seven A.M. to two inches of snow and a sunrise of monochrome gray. By eight A.M. I’m back on the road. I swing by a small grocery store, grab a cup of coffee, and an extra for Sadie Stutzman along with a dozen blueberry muffins; then I take the county road south toward the river. I’m not above plying a potential witness with food and caffeine.

I drive past the same properties as yesterday. Something about the snow makes them look not quite so dilapidated. Muddy tire tracks mar the driveway of the Stutzman place. As I pull up to the house and shut down the engine, I wonder who’s already been here so early. She doesn’t seem like the kind of individual who gets a lot of visitors.

Grabbing the cardboard tray containing the coffee and muffins, I wade through snow and mud and take the steps to the front porch. A dusting of snow on the concrete reveals footprints. None are clear, but judging from the size, they belong to a male and they haven’t been there long.

I move the storm door aside and knock. “Sadie?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

I wait a full minute. There’s no sound from inside and no one comes to the door. Undeterred, I head around to the rear in case she’s up early and working on her earthen levee project. The horse whinnies at me from its pen. Waiting for hay, I think, and I wonder why it hasn’t yet been fed. I glance toward the mound of earth Sadie was working on yesterday, but the snow hasn’t been disturbed. I take the steps to the tiny porch to knock. A thread of worry goes through me when I find the door open a few inches.

“Sadie? Hey, it’s Kate Burkholder. Is everything all right?”

No answer.

I stand there, holding the cardboard tray, thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway, the footprints on the porch, debating. I call out her name again, but no one answers.

“Damn it.” Setting the tray on the concrete, I push open the door. The interior is dimly lit and so quiet I can hear the wind whistling through the eaves. The smell of something burning and overripe bananas float on cold air.

“Sadie?”

I step into the kitchen. It’s small. Lots of clutter. Something sizzles to my right. There’s a low-burning blue flame beneath an old-fashioned teapot. The water has boiled over. The source of the smell. Evidently, it’s been burning for some time. I twist off the gas.

The house is a boxy structure with narrow doors and low ceilings that lend a slightly claustrophobic ambience. I pass through the kitchen, pause in the doorway that opens to the living room. Like the rest of the house it’s a small, messy space. Lanterns, paperback books, bundles of yarn, and various knitting projects are scattered atop a rustic coffee table. An orange and green afghan that looks as if it’s been mauled by a pride of cats is draped over a sofa the color of pea soup. A hook rug covers threadbare carpeting. There’s a darkened hallway to my left.

“Sadie?”

Shadows fill the room, so I go to the front window and open the curtains. Dim light seeps in. I glance into the hallway to my left. The thread of worry I’d felt earlier augments into an adrenaline punch when I see the Amish woman lying on the floor, a small heap, unmoving.

“Oh, no.”

I go to her and kneel. She’s sprawled on her right side with her left arm above her head. Wearing the same dress as yesterday. A mug lying on its side. Urine has soaked into her skirt and puddled on the floor. Something dark smeared on her kapp. I know she’s dead even before I see her face. Cloudy eyes open and staring. Mouth sagging. Darkish tongue hanging out between hit-or-miss teeth.

“Oh, Sadie.” I press my fingers to her carotid artery, but there’s no pulse. A chill coils at the base of my spine when I realize her flesh isn’t yet cold to the touch.

I have no way of knowing what I’ve walked into. Sadie was an elderly woman, a stroke victim, and well into her eighties. She could have fallen during the night and broken a hip. She could have had another stroke or a heart attack. Any number of things could have happened. But I can’t stop thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway. The footprints on the front porch.

Rising, I step back, slide my .38 from the holster. The hallway is dark; with my other hand I tug the mini Maglite from my jacket pocket. No movement in the bedroom or bathroom beyond. In the periphery of the beam, the old woman’s flesh is colorless. Her lips dry and nearly purple. The smear on her kapp snags my attention. Blood, I realize. A dribble of it runs from her ear to the crease of skin at her throat. Something not right about her face.…

I shift the light. Horror burgeons when I realize one side of her skull has been crushed.

“Shit. Shit.”

Every sense attuned to my surroundings, I back away, retrace my steps. The floor creaks behind me. I spin, catch a glimpse of the rocking chair an instant before it crashes into me. The curved slat strikes my temple. Pain sears across my scalp. The armrest slams against my left shoulder. The force sends me to my knees. My .38 clatters to the floor.

A jet engine of adrenaline roars through me. A dozen thoughts register at once. My attacker is male. Tall. Heavily built. Beard.

I dive for the .38. An instant before I reach it, a hand slams down on my shoulder. Fingers dig into muscle and skin, yank me backward with such force that I spin, land on my back. He comes down on top of me, straddles my midsection, draws back to punch me.

I bring up both knees, drive them against his spine. He rocks forward, unfazed, but it buys me an instant. I ram the heel of my hand into his face. The cartilage in his nose crunches. His head snaps back.

His fist careens off my left cheekbone. Stars scatter in my peripheral vision. Pain zings. I’m at a huge disadvantage, weight and strength and position. We’re in the hall, hemmed in by the narrow space. I do the only thing I can and bring up my right leg, hook it over his head, my heel against his throat, and send him backward. He growls like an animal. He’s off balance now, halfway off me. I bring up my other leg and stomp his chest. The force drives him back. Not for long. He lunges at me, throws a wild punch.

“I’m a cop!” I scream. “I am armed! Get the fuck off me!”