Page 80 of Outsider

“If they know where I am, why didn’t they just knock on the door, whip out their bogus warrant, and arrest me?”

Why, indeed? It’s a valid question. One that’s been scraping at the back of my brain since I heard about the mysterious vehicle parked in front of the farm. In light of the storm and the road conditions, it’s unlikely two detectives would travel all the way from Columbus to execute an arrest warrant and then drive away without making said arrest. Chances are, they’ll wait until the roads are open, they’ll contact County or me, and then make the trip.

But if that’s the case, who was parked on the road in front of Adam’s house with the headlights out at two o’clock in the morning?

“Unless they sent someone,” Gina whispers.

“What do you mean?” I ask the question, but I already know where she’s going, and it adds a distinctly sinister element to an already menacing situation.

She stares at me, her lips parted, the wheels of thought in her eyes working. “They know some very bad people, Kate. Dangerous people who owe them favors. Dregs of the earth who have no compunction about killing a cop.”

I rub my hand across the place on the back of my neck where the hairs stand on end, find the skin damp with sweat despite the gooseflesh on my arms. It’s bad enough to believe that a police department, an institution I believe in with my whole heart—a department I’d once been part of—runs rampant with corruption. It’s inconceivable to believe that sworn police officers could be capable of executing one of their own.

I stare at her, aware that my pulse is up. A question I don’t want to speak aloud beats at the back of my brain. “You think they would hire some thug to hunt you down and kill you?” I ask.

“I think they’re capable of doing exactly that.” She buttresses the words with a hefty dose of bluster. “Remember, I’m the cop who can put them in prison for the rest of their lives. I’d say they’re pretty motivated to do whatever it takes to get me out of the picture. They know all the right people, and they don’t even have to get their hands dirty.”

I look out the window, watch the falling snow, wondering if the bad weather has given us a false sense of security. That we’re tucked away and safe when we’re anything but.

“We need to keep our eyes open,” I tell her.

“That is the understatement of the year,” she mutters.

Neither of us laughs.

“I’ll see about having one of my officers park in front of the farm. Or at least drive by when they can. Keep an eye on things.”

“Then again, we could be wrong about all this,” Gina adds with a forced nonchalance. “Come on. There’s two feet of snow on the ground. Everyone and their uncle is snowbound. No one knows I’m here. Maybe all this closed-quarters crap has made us paranoid.”

That I can see past the faux bravado does nothing to assuage the knot of dread that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

CHAPTER 25

My grandmother lived with us for a while when I was a kid. It was wintertime and I was just young enough that I didn’t realize she was sick. In typical Amish fashion, she never complained about the pain; she never let on that her time left on this earth was short. What I remember most about Grossmammi is that she loved to read to us. On those days when it was too cold to work or play outside for long, my siblings, Jacob and Sarah, and I would gather around the woodstove and listen to her singsong voice. Sometimes she read to us from Martyr’s Mirror. What I really enjoyed were the stories.

I remember vividly a tale about a young Swiss Mennonite woman whose family migrated to America. Her name was Anna and she stayed behind to wait for her husband to return from the city, at which time they would make the trip across the Atlantic to join her family in Pennsylvania. It was a time of horrific persecution for the Anabaptists. Anna survived the long alpine winter in the Bavarian Alps, but by the time her husband arrived in spring she’d gone mad with Foehnkrankenheit, a mysterious psychosis caused by the fierce foehn winds.

I never forgot Anna’s tragic story or my grossmammi’s description of winds strong enough to cause insanity. This morning, troubled and listening to the incessant wind tear at the house, I’m reminded of Foehnkrankenheit.

I’m nursing my third cup of coffee when a hard rap on the front door breaks the silence. The .38 is still tucked into the waistband of my jeans, so I head toward the living room. Gina stands at the mouth of the hall.

“Go to the kitchen,” I tell her. “Keep your eyes on the back door.”

“Yep.” Eyeing the front door as she passes it, she heads to the back of the house.

I’m midway to the door when I recognize the silhouette through the glass. I find John Tomasetti standing on the porch, wearing the now-familiar snowsuit, his helmet at his side.

“Where’s your cell?” he asks.

“Charging in the Explorer.”

“Colorosa?” The tone of his voice, the dark look in his eyes, alerts me that this is not a friendly visit.

“Kitchen.” Stepping back, I usher him inside. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you checked your cell for news?”

“Not since last night.”