Among the Wicked by Linda Castillo

Author:Linda Castillo
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, United States, Women Sleuths, Police Procedurals, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 1250061571
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2016-07-12T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

My encounter with Schrock haunts me through the night. When I’m not tossing and turning, I’m dreaming of being trapped inside that house with him, unable to escape, and when I reach for my sidearm it’s not there …

I had every intention of calling Tomasetti to let him know what happened, but I couldn’t make myself pick up the phone. I know that’s not fair. Nor is it honest. He’s a strong man and I’m not giving him the credit he deserves. But telling him about a dangerous incident when I’m so far away didn’t feel like the right thing to do. I’m ever cognizant of the anguish he endured after the deaths of his wife and children. He doesn’t speak of it, but there are still nights when his demons come calling. Nights when he wakes in a cold sweat, shaking and choking back panic. I don’t want to add to that.

I rise at dawn, take a hot shower, careful to leave my cell and .38 sitting on the edge of the tub. At nine, I pack my sewing supplies in a canvas bag and head into town.

Though it’s a workday, downtown Roaring Springs is deserted. A leaden sky presses down with the weight of some massive boulder. As I make my way along Main Street, with its vacant storefronts and cracked sidewalks, a plastic bag catches in a whirlwind at the entrance to an alley. The scene is postapocalyptic and leaves me feeling isolated and alone.

There are two cars and a pickup truck parked outside The Dutch Kitchen. I lean the scooter bike against a parking meter at the curb and head inside for coffee and hopefully some conversation with Mary Gingerich.

A skinny man with shoulder-length hair and a scruffy beard nurses a cup of coffee at the counter. Two women dressed in jeans and sweatshirts are having breakfast in one of the booths. I feel their eyes on me as I start toward the counter. I don’t miss their not-so-covert comments about my clothes as I pass, and I try not to shake my head. I’ve just taken a seat on a stool when Mary comes through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen.

“Looks like we might be in for some snow later,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Instead of responding, she turns her back, plunges her hands into soapy water and begins to wash coffee cups. “We get that a lot this time of year.”

The sense that something is off—that something has changed since we last spoke—strikes me immediately. When Mary and I initially met, she was welcoming and friendly and open. Yesterday, and now this morning, she won’t so much as look me in the eye.

“And Wei bischt du heit?” I ask. How are you today?

“Busy.” She turns to me, her expression cool and unsmiling. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?

“Just coffee,” I tell her.

She sets a steaming cup in front of me, but she doesn’t linger. Something cold scrapes up my back when I notice the bruise below her left eye.

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