Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

“We don’t have the manpower to stake this place out more than a few days,” I say. “If he doesn’t show tonight, I’ll call BCI or the sheriff’s office and request assistance.”

“Good plan.”

I end the call and sigh. In the kitchen, I find another lantern on the counter, light it, turn up the wick. I want it light in here. Crossing to the sink, I open the curtains. Lightning flickers above the trees to the north. A cool breeze wafts in, and I smell rain. The storm would be perfect cover for a home invasion. I go to the living room and pull open the curtains. I want him to see me. An Amish woman staying up late to mend trousers and socks or maybe work on a quilt. Her family is already in bed for the night. The doors are unlocked. They are the perfect victims.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m waiting. Come on in and get me.”

It had been about forty years since Tomasetti had a temper tantrum, but he felt one coming on now. He wanted to break something. Preferably, Kate Burkholder’s pretty neck. Goddamn woman cop. What the hell was she thinking trying to pull off a dangerous sting with nothing more than a couple of cops to back her up?

But Tomasetti already knew the answer. He’d spelled it out for her over the phone. This wasn’t about justice. It was about retribution. He ought to know. Two and a half years ago he’d killed a man in the name of revenge. Then he’d taken it a step further and framed a career criminal—a second man who’d been involved with the murders of John’s family—for the crime. Tomasetti hadn’t felt a goddamn thing but satisfaction.

Yes, John Tomasetti was a master on the subject of payback. He’d destroyed his career. Nearly finished off what was left of his life. All in the name of retribution under the guise of justice. What a goddamn joke.

He’d been pacing the house for an hour now, but it wasn’t helping. The place was a dump. Empty. Like nobody lived there. That’s how he felt inside. No one’s home. No one who cared, anyway. The problem was, Tomasetti was beginning to care, and that was one place he didn’t want to be.

He looked down at the tumbler in front of him and a wave of self-loathing swept through him. Picking up the glass, he hurled it into the sink as hard as he could. Glass shattered. Shards scattered like pieces of ice. He could smell the whiskey from where he stood. He could still taste the sour tang of it in his mouth. Feel the warm buzz of it running through his brain.

He shouldn’t even consider driving down to Painters Mill in his current state. He’d been drinking, enough so that he shouldn’t be driving. He shouldn’t get anywhere near Kate. But it wasn’t the fear of doing physical violence to her that gave him pause. Tomasetti didn’t like where his head was when it came to her. He didn’t want to care for her. He didn’t want to care about anyone. He was just getting to the point where he could get through the day without thinking about Nancy and the girls. He could go the entire night without thinking about putting a bullet in his head. And now his feelings for Kate were jeopardizing all of it.

For the first time in a long time, Tomasetti’s feelings for someone else were overriding his hatred for himself. But he knew the kinds of terrible things that could happen to the people he cared about. There was no way in hell he ever wanted to go through the horror of losing someone he cared for ever again. It was easier not to give a damn.

Kate hadn’t left him a choice.

“Goddamn you, Kate.”

Yanking open the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it and drank it down without stopping. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t exactly sober. He wasn’t impaired, but that wouldn’t keep him from getting a DUI if some trooper pulled him over, decided to give him a breath test. Tomasetti was over the limit in more ways than one.

Cursing, he snagged another bottle of water from the fridge, grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for the door.

It’s three A.M., and the house is so quiet I can hear the oil sizzling on the lantern wicks. The wind hisses and sighs through the window above the sink. I sit at the kitchen table with two pair of trousers and an open sewing basket in front of me. I’ve made several passes in front of the windows, making myself visible. From all appearances I’m the only family member awake. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for half my life. Or so says Tomasetti.

I’ve tried hard to maintain my edge. But my focus has shifted to him a dozen times in the last few hours. I don’t like the way we left things. I don’t like the things we said to each other. There was too much emotion. Maybe even a little bit of truth. I’m not sure which is worse.

Rising, I carry a pair of trousers through the living room, passing close to the window, and walk into the bathroom. There, I sit on the side of the tub and hit my radio.

“You guys there?”

“If these sons of bitches don’t show tonight, I swear to Christ I’m wearing a gas mask tomorrow,” Skid says.

With the loneliness of the house pressing down on me, I’m unduly glad for his particular brand of humor. “T.J.?”

“Gonna storm, Chief. I’ve got the radio on and they’ve got warnings out.”

“Keep your eyes open. They might try to use the rain as cover.”

“Bring it on,” Skid says.

“I’m going to douse the lights. But I’ll be in the kitchen. Just so you know.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

Picking up the trousers, I leave the bathroom. The thunder is closer now, a low rumble that rattles the glass in the windows. The air is thick with humidity and the wet-earth smell of rain. I walk the house, turning down the wicks in each lantern as I pass. In the upstairs bedroom, I extinguish the last lantern when the first fat drops of rain hit the windows on the west side of the house.

I can feel the energy of the storm now. That sharp zing in the air, the anticipation of violence. I feel a similar anticipation running through my veins. Predator hunting predator. I’m ready for him.

The cloud cover obliterates any moonlight and the house is incredibly dark. I wish for a flashlight as I descend the stairs. But even blind and deaf, I feel as if my other senses are heightened. Even with the thunder and the drone of the rain, I would know if someone were in the house.

I’m reassured by the .38 in my pocket, the backup .22 sheathed at my thigh, the knife in my boot. I’ve branded the location of each weapon into my brain. When the time comes, reaching for the right one will be second nature, pure instinct, no hesitation. Pausing at the front door, I check the knob. Unlocked, the way I want it. I peek out the window. Lightning flickers, illuminating the white rail fence and the cherry tree beyond the porch. The rain is coming down in torrents. The branches of the trees sway in the wind, spindly fingers clawing at the night sky.

The rain will affect visibility. If someone were to approach the house on foot, Skid and T.J. may not see them. They wouldn’t be able to alert me. But I’m not unduly alarmed. The killer is expecting an Amish family, not an armed cop.

Leaving the living room, I head toward the kitchen, keeping an eye on the windows. I’ve already decided that if someone were to enter the house, they’ll probably do it via the kitchen door. It’s the point of entry farthest from the bedrooms. Not visible from the road. And there’s plenty of glass to break if needed. Tonight, that won’t be necessary because I’ve left the door unlocked. . . .

I decide to spend the night there, at the table, where I have a decent view of both the rear and front doors. If I’m going to get ambushed, I want to see him coming.

I enter the kitchen. Cool, wet air brushes against my legs. The hairs at my nape prickle. Lightning flashes, illuminating the silhouette of a man, standing just inside the door. Adrenaline blasts through me. I reach for the .38. Hand in my pocket, fingers closing around the wood stock. Gun coming up. Finger on the trigger.