He breaks the kiss, pulls back, and looks down at me as if I’ve done something to awe him. “If it’s not too much to ask, could you forgo the getting shot?”
“I’ll do my best. Up my game if I can.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep you around for a while.”
Loving the warm and solid feel of him against me, I touch the side of his face, brush my fingertips over his mouth. “How long exactly?”
“A couple of lifetimes.” He grins. “For starters.”
“I think that’s the plan.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, he steps aside and opens the door of the Tahoe. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER 29
Being placed on administrative leave after an officer-involved shooting is a uniquely terrible position for a police officer. For a span of time—usually days, but sometimes weeks—you’re ousted from a job that is a huge part of your life. You no longer have interaction with coworkers who are more like family. You have too much time to think about what happened and relive every horrifying moment. Worst of all, you spend that time second-guessing your every decision, your every move.
I understand the protocol. I’m a firm believer that all critical incidents should be thoroughly investigated by an outside, independent agency. None of that makes it any easier to get through.
It’s dawn when I let myself into the chicken house at the farm, wire basket in hand to gather eggs. Four of our hens are still in their nesting boxes. The rest are pecking around on the ground. From where I’m standing, I see at least five eggs that were laid overnight.
“You girls have been busy,” I say.
The hens cluck in annoyance as I shoo them through the door and into the yard so they can free-range the rest of the day. And, of course, so I can gather eggs without getting my hand pecked.
I’m thinking about the wedding tomorrow morning, trying not to worry about all the things I didn’t get done. On another level, I’m also thinking about Mona, considering calling her when my cell phone jangles from the back pocket of my jeans. Setting down the basket, I tug it out, and look at the display. I don’t recognize the number, but I hit the Talk button and answer with, “Burkholder.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
It takes me a moment to identify the voice as belonging to Mandi Yoder, the young woman who, according to bartender Jimmie Baines, was assaulted by Aden Karn in the parking lot of the Brass Rail Saloon.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“I’m ready to talk.”
A pause ensues. I get the impression she’s wishing she hadn’t called. That she’s still on the fence about telling her story. I want to encourage her, but I know if I push too hard, she’ll hang up and the opportunity will be lost.
“I’m listening,” I say after a moment.
“Aden Karn was a bad dude,” she tells me.
Around me, everything goes silent; my every sense is laser focused on the voice on the other end. “Tell me what happened.”
The silence goes on for so long that I think she’s hung up on me. Then she whispers, “I’ve been to the gas station. I went there one night with Karn. There were a bunch of guys there. We … it was a nightmare.”
I hold the phone against my ear, close my eyes against a burst of emotion as the final piece of the puzzle falls into place. The one that will tie up the loose ends and ensure every guilty party is held accountable.
“Do you have any names?” I ask.
“All of them.”
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Would you be willing to talk to Sheriff Rasmussen about what happened?”
“I was hoping to talk to you…”
“I’m on administrative leave,” I tell her.
“I dunno,” she says quickly. “Maybe I should just—”
“Mandi, Mike Rasmussen is a good man. He’s honest. Fair-minded.”
“Will you be there?”
“If I can.” I wait a beat. “I’ll set everything up. Later today?”
Another sigh hisses over the line. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
She hangs up without replying.
CHAPTER 30
My mamm had a lot of sayings about a lot of things, including weddings. One of her favorites went something like, En die ehe kann sei gmacht in Himmel avvah mann is verantwortlich fa da hochzich, which in English translates to: A marriage may be made in heaven, but man is responsible for the wedding. As a kid, I didn’t understand the meaning of the idiom. This morning, I’ve never understood those words more fully or had more appreciation for them.
I’m in the passenger seat of the Tahoe, trying not to fidget as Tomasetti takes it up the gravel lane toward the house where I grew up. He’s wearing a nice black suit this morning. White shirt. Skinny black tie. It’s as Plain as he gets. I’m wearing the dress my grandmother made. After the alterations and a little back-and-forth, I have to admit, it’s perfect. Black shoes with low heels. Not Amish, but not quite English. Like me.
“The Amish turned out in force,” Tomasetti murmurs.
A tremor of nerves moves through me at the sight of dozens of black buggies lined up in neat rows in the paddock Jacob opened up for parking. It’s the same paddock our parents used when worship was held here at the farm when I was a kid. Several vehicles are parked in the gravel area near the house. I see Glock’s cruiser. Doc Coblentz’s Escalade. A Holmes County Sheriff’s Department SUV. Three more vehicles belonging to my dispatchers. The sight of Mona’s Ford Escape conjures a heartfelt smile.
“I suspect this may be one of the most unconventional weddings most of them have ever attended,” I say.
“I’m sure they expect nothing less,” Tomasetti says.
Though some of the Amish may sing a hymn or two, there will be no sermon this morning. The ceremony will be delivered by a Mennonite minister and will last only a few minutes. Lunch and the socializing that follows, however, will likely last several hours, which explains the presence of the two young hostlers. They’re Amish boys of about twelve or thirteen who are charged with unharnessing the buggy horses, putting them into one of the lower paddocks, and supplying them with hay and water.
As we make the final turn, I realize the farm where I grew up has been transformed. Dozens of tables and chairs have been set up in the side yard—picnic tables, worktables, card tables, and chairs of every size and variety. Vaguely, I recall telling my sister I wanted to have the reception outside, weather permitting, and she came through—Amish-style. A woman in a blue dress sets vases of celery on the tables. Another is carrying a tray of pies to what looks like a dessert table. Two more women are setting up a beverage station—a cooler for water, plastic glasses, coffee, and pitchers of iced tea. It’s a spectacle of organized chaos and once again I’m reminded of my mamm’s words.
A marriage may be made in heaven, but man is responsible for the wedding.
I was absent for most of the preparations. Tied up with the Karn and Rossberger cases, and not for the first time the enormity of the effort that went into all of this hits home. The meaning of that takes my breath away and I struggle to find my voice. “This is undoubtedly one of the most hands-off weddings in the history of womankind,” I hear myself say.