Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

Terror sits like a cold stone in my chest. Nausea seesaws in my gut. The rape will be bad, but I know it’s not the worst thing that will happen to me tonight. I try to think like a cop. I need to go on the offensive. Find his vulnerable point. But at this moment, I feel as if I’m fourteen years old again and paralyzed with terror.

Stuffing the condom wrapper into his shirt pocket, he kneels in front of me. He’s going to hit me again; I see it in his eyes. Wild thoughts rampage my brain. A thousand screams of outrage clog my throat. His pants sag at his ankles. A vulnerability. My legs are free. My quads are the strongest muscles I have. I have an instant to react.

I draw both legs back and kick him in the chest as hard as I can. An animalistic bellow bursts from his mouth. He reels backward, lands hard on his backside. His back strikes the kerosene heater, knocking it over. Hope flares inside me when kerosene and flames spill onto the hardwood floor.

Then I’m on my feet. I kick his coat into the flames. Two yards away, Detrick jumps to his feet. His face is a mask of fury as he yanks up his pants. His eyes flick from me to the fire. A hysterical laugh bubbles up when I realize he doesn’t know which is the bigger threat.

He lunges at me. I turn to run. I try to recall where I last saw the Kimber. On the floor? The mantel? No time to find it. I streak to the front door, turn, twist the knob with my bound hands.

A scream tears from my throat when his hands slam down on my shoulders. He yanks me back, throws me to the ground. All I can think is that I should have hurled myself through the window.

I kick at him wildly, legs pumping, not aiming. I land several blows. He screams a curse. Punches at my legs with his fists. But the pain doesn’t register. If I stop kicking, I’m going to die.

I fight like I’ve never fought before. Vaguely, I’m aware of the fire a few feet away. I smell smoke and kerosene. His coat burns next to the heater. The floor is catching, flames leaping three feet into the air. Hope soars at the thought of a passerby noticing the light.

All hope evaporates when he comes down on top of me. The first blow glances off my chin. I try to twist, roll away. But his weight crushes me. I kick with my right leg, but the angle is bad. A second blow slams into my left temple. My head bounces against the floor. White light explodes behind my eyes. He hits me again and I hear my cheekbone crack. Pain zings up my sinuses. Darkness crowds my vision, and I struggle to stay conscious.

Stay conscious! Fight him!

My brain chants the words like a mantra. I try to head-butt him, but he’s ready this time. Hissing a curse, he drives his fist into my solar plexus. The breath rushes from my lungs. I hear myself retch. I try to suck in a breath, but my lungs seize.

The next thing I know his hand is around my throat. He’s incredibly strong. I open my mouth for air, but my airway is crushed. Panic descends in a rush. I buck and writhe beneath him. Stars fly in my peripheral vision. I feel my tongue protrude. My eyes bulge. I wonder if this is what it’s like to die.

Dark fingers encroach on my vision. Vaguely, I’m aware of him speaking, but I don’t understand. Consciousness ebbs. All I can think is that I want to live. I want to live! And then the darkness reaches out and pulls me into the abyss.

John would have missed the house if it hadn’t been for the yellow glow in the window. At first he thought he was imagining things. That maybe the dash lights were playing tricks on him. Then he saw it again. A flicker of yellow through the seemingly impenetrable wall of snow.

Headlights? Flashlight? Or fire?

Cutting the headlights, he stopped the Tahoe in the middle of the road. He tugged the Sig from his shoulder holster, pulled back the slide to chamber a bullet. Snow and wind bombarded him when he opened the door. Visibility was down to a few yards. He fought his way toward the house. Thirty feet in, he caught another glimpse of light. He nearly ran into the vehicle sitting in the driveway. Detrick’s Suburban, he realized. Immediately behind it, Kate’s Mustang was attached with some type of tow mechanism.

John slid his cell phone from his coat and dialed Glock. “I found them.” He could barely hear his voice above the scream of the wind. “The abandoned house near Killdeer.”

“I’m on my way.”

John dropped the phone into his pocket. He had no idea what to expect inside. But he had two things going for him. First, he knew Detrick kept his victims alive for quite some time. Second, the storm was the perfect cover.

CHAPTER 36

The first thing I’m aware of is that I can breathe. My mouth sags open. My tongue feels like a dry sock, but I suck in air by the mouthful. I smell smoke and kerosene. I’m laying on my back, my arms locked beneath me. I hear the wind outside, tearing around the house, a beast on a rampage.

I open my eyes to find Detrick over me. I see blood beneath his nose. The dark stain of it on his shirt. Everything that happened rushes back. The fight. The fire.

I raise my head and see that the fire is out. I feel the cold floor beneath my backside, and I realize my panties are gone. Detrick stands a few feet away. He’s removed his slacks, completely this time.

“Scream for me, Kate.” Crossing to me, he kneels and comes down on top of me. “Scream for me.”

I do the only thing I can manage and spit.

He stiffens, then his tongue snakes out and licks the spittle from the side of his mouth. I stare into his awful face. A face etched with unfathomable cruelty. I can’t believe my life is going to end this way. I can’t accept that. I won’t. The will to live rages inside me. Too powerful to be snuffed out. Too hot to be cooled. All I can think is that I’m not going to let him do this.

But hope is quickly dwindling. That precious lifeline has been severed. I’m alone in a raging sea with no chance of rescue.

Closing my eyes, I throw my head back and scream.

Blinded by snow and wind, John felt his way to the rear of the house. Twice he lost his footing and fell, but he never let go of the Sig or lost his sense of direction. The wind tore at his clothes as he went around to the back. He saw a porch, the screen flapping like laundry in the wind. Keeping low, he ascended the concrete steps and approached the door.

Dim light floated through the grimy glass. John peered inside, saw a dilapidated kitchen. He twisted the knob and the door creaked open. Praying Detrick didn’t hear him, he crept inside.

Kate’s scream raised the hairs at the back of his neck. His heart rate spiked. John had seen a lot of terrible things in his years as a cop. He’d seen the inhumanity man can inflict; he’d seen his own family murdered. Still, the anguish echoing in that scream went through him like a switchblade.

He sidled through the kitchen. Pressing his back to the wall, he peered into the next room. Dim light from a heater illuminated Detrick kneeling over Kate. He was nude from the waist down. John couldn’t see her face, just a partial silhouette as she lay on the floor.

A second scream rent the air. Gun leading the way, John rounded the corner. Detrick must have sensed his presence, because he turned his head. His eyes widened. He jumped to his feet, looked wildly around.

“Get your hands where I can see them!” John shouted.

Detrick lunged toward the mantel.

Kate raised her head. “Gun!” she screamed.

John fired twice. Center mass. The first shot hit Detrick in the side just below his armpit. His body went rigid, then he went to his knees. The second shot penetrated his right cheek, snapping his head around as if he’d been punched. He fell on his side and lay still.

John didn’t remember holstering his weapon or crossing to Kate. He saw her shattered expression. Bare legs covered with specks of blood. Hurt, he thought, but alive.

A sob tore from her mouth when he knelt beside her. “I’m here,” he rasped. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“He was going to kill me,” she choked.

“I know, honey. I know. It’s over. You’re okay.”

She was bare from the waist down. He didn’t let himself think about what might have happened as he worked his coat from his shoulders and covered her. All that mattered was that she was alive. He hadn’t been too late. Not this time.

“How bad are you hurt?” he asked.

She was sobbing now, shaking uncontrollably, unable to speak.

John wanted to pump another round into Detrick. “I’m going to untie your hands, okay?”

Gently, he helped her sit up. He used his pocketknife to cut the cloth binding her wrists. When they were free, he took her hands between his and rubbed. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

“Kate, did he . . .”

Tears streamed from her eyes when she looked at him. “No.”

Relief struck a hard blow. John could feel his own emotions winding up. “Come here,” he whispered.

She reached for him.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” he said.

“Promise me,” she whispered.

“I promise.” When he wrapped his arms around her, she broke into a thousand pieces.

CHAPTER 37

Snow glitters beneath a brilliant January sky. Around me, the citizens of Painters Mill emerge from their homes and businesses like cautious animals after a long hibernation. Sidewalks are shoveled and windshields are scraped. A big John Deere tractor clears snow from the traffic circle. I can smell the doughnuts from the Butterhorn Bakery down the street.

Three cars are parked in the spaces in front of the police department. I recognize all of them. My reserved spot is empty, as if they’re expecting me. I pull in and shut down the engine. It’s the first time I’ve been back since being reinstated as chief of police. I’m unduly pleased to be here. But that’s not to say I don’t have mixed emotions about what I face inside.

Two days have passed since the terrible ordeal I went through with Nathan Detrick in that farmhouse. I’ve relived every horror a thousand times since. But I know it could have been worse. I know I’m lucky to be alive.

Nathan Detrick survived his gunshot wounds. He was transferred to a Columbus Hospital yesterday where he underwent surgery and as of this morning was listed in stable condition. The doctors say he’s going to make it. I should take some consolation in the fact that he’ll live to see his trial and prison. But I don’t think the world is a better place with him in it.

The FBI and BCI have started looking into cold cases, beginning with the Tanana River Murders in Alaska. I spoke to the SAC this morning, a veteran agent by the name of Dave Davis, who will also be checking similar crimes and missing persons reports for the time period when Detrick was a police officer in Dayton. No one knows if it’s true, but so far Detrick has confessed to having killed as many as thirty women in the last twenty-five years.

Aside from some deep bruises and lacerations, I was given a clean bill of health by the emergency room resident at Pomerene Hospital. It’s the other, not-so-visible injuries that are still giving me problems. The flashbacks are bad. The nightmares are worse. The doctor assured me they are a normal psychological response to the kind of trauma I went through. He recommended a therapist in Millersburg and assured me the nightmares would fade with time. I hope he’s right.

John Tomasetti stayed with me that first day. I spent most of the time sedated and fighting sleep. He fixed soup and coffee, refused to give me vodka when I asked for it, and talked to me when I needed it. When I tried to thank him for saving my life, he told me I was just experiencing a case of hero worship and it would probably wear off in a few days. I have no idea where our relationship will go from here. One thing I do know for certain is that I will always consider him a friend.

I reach the front door of the police station and hesitate. I’m not inordinately vain, but the bruises on my face and neck are bad. I did my best to cover them, but I’m pretty inept when it comes to makeup. All that jazz in a jar can only do so much. My lip needed three stitches and is swollen to twice its normal size. I try not to think about that as I open the door and step inside.

Mona mans the dispatch station, the headset over her ears, her eyes on the computer monitor in front of her. She looks up when the bell on the door jingles and offers me a big smile. “Chief!”

“I didn’t actually catch you working, did I?” I ask.

Flushing, she rises, comes around the desk. “Homework, actually. Sorry.” I try not to wince when she throws her arms around me. “Boy, are we glad to see you. Welcome back.”

“Media been around?” I ask.

“Took a couple of calls this morning. Most of them are calling for an interview with you. I’ve been telling them you’re not allowed to talk about the case.”

“Keep up the good work.”

I look over her shoulder to see Glock emerge from his cubicle. He’s not big on smiles, but I see the grin in his eyes as he approaches. “How you feeling, Chief?”

“Better,” I manage.

Pickles surfaces from behind Glock. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. No pun on the word sore, Chief.”

“Don’t make me smile,” I say. “Pulls my stitches.”

“Not gonna be easy, seein’ how everyone’s so damn glad to have you back,” Pickles says.

I shake both men’s hands and then Mona’s. “It’s good to be back.”

The familiarity is balm for my soul and I take a moment to soak it in, hoping my emotions don’t choose this moment to betray me.

“We heard about what happened at the farmhouse,” Glock says.

“If you need anything,” Mona adds quickly.

“Just let us know,” Pickles finishes for her.

I smile at them. “Just don’t treat me like I’m some kind of invalid, okay?”

“Hell no.” Pickles laughs. “Sure as hell ain’t going to do that.”

Glock finally breaches the subject no one wanted to raise. “So how did you know to look at Detrick?”

“I didn’t, at first. One thing I was utterly certain of was that Jonas Hershberger wasn’t the killer.”

“How did you know it wasn’t him?” Mona asks.

“Kittens.”

“Kittens?”

I tell them about the litter Jonas saved when we were kids. “I think most sociopaths are born, not made. Very few are created by life events.”

“Detrick matched Tomasetti’s profile to a T,” Pickles says.

“There’s some wisdom in there somewhere,” I reply.

“If it hadn’t been for you—” Mona begins, but I cut her off.

“Don’t give me too much credit, okay?” I think of Daniel Lapp’s remains in the grain elevator. “I don’t deserve it.”

I’m saved from having to explain when the switchboard beeps. Mona rushes toward her desk to take the call, and I head toward my office. I flip on the light, and I’m surprised to see that my desktop is neat. The last time I was here, it was covered with papers from the Slaughterhouse Killer file. I realize Mona or Lois must have tidied it up for me.