Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 1

Gone Missing: A Thriller.

Number IV of Kate Burkholder.

Linda Castillo.

I have been lucky enough to tour with several of the books in the Kate Burkholder series and I must say it has been one of the highlights of my career. I'd like to dedicate this book to the booksellers, librarians, reviewers, readers, and bloggers who have attended my events, bought the books, written reviews, blogged about the books, and written me to share your thoughts. I very much appreciate each and every one of you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

A writer spends months on end writing a book, but there are many other behind-the-scenes individuals whose efforts, talent, dedication, and heart go into the publishing of it. I'd like to acknowledge a few of the people who helped bring this book to fruition. First and foremost, I wish to thank my editor, Charlie Spicer, for sharing so much of his talent, being such a great listener, and always urging me to go that extra mile. I'd like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, whose brilliance never ceases to amaze me. I've learned much from you. Many thanks to my editor in the UK, Trisha Jackson, for always making the books better. I'd also like to thank the entire team at St. Martin's Press for their continued support, confidence in me and in this series, for working so tirelessly to get the books into the hands of readers-and for making it fun! Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Shear. Matthew Baldacci. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. There are many more individuals who contributed much, but remain unnamed due to s.p.a.ce constraints. I'm incredibly lucky to write for such a dynamic publishing house.

I'd also like to thank my critique group for all of those Wednesday night marathons when I kept you up late. Jennifer Archer. Anita Howard. Marcy McKay. April Redmon.

Heartfelt thanks to fellow authors, Ellie James and Catherine Spangler, for the years of friendship and support. You gals rock!

Last, but not least, I'd like to thank the love of my life, Ernest, for his unconditional love and support through all the ups and downs of cohabitating with a full-time writer.

PROLOGUE.

Becca had always known her life would end in tragedy. As a child, she couldn't speak to her certainty of her fate or explain how she could foresee such a thing. She believed in providence, and it came as no surprise when she realized she would also die young.

When she was seven years old, she asked her mamm about death. Her mother told her that when people die, they go to live with G.o.d. The answer pleased Becca immensely. It gave her great comfort, knowing what she did about her destiny. After that day, not once did she fear the closeness or inevitability of her mortality.

Now, eight years later, as she stood on the frozen sh.o.r.e of Mohawk Lake and stared across the vast expanse of ice, her mother's words calmed the fear that had been building inside her for days. Dusk had fallen, and the lake was a monochrome world in which sky and horizon blended to a gray smear, one barely discernible from the other. A dozen or more ice-fishing shanties dotted the lake's surface. Yellow light glowed in one of the windows. But the others were dark, telling her the Englischer fishermen had gone home for the day.

The wind scored Becca's skin through the covering of her wool coat as she stepped onto the ice. Blowing snow whispered across the jagged plane and stung her face like sand. The hem of her dress was frozen and stiff and sc.r.a.ped against her bare calves. She'd been walking for quite some time and could no longer feel her hands or feet. But those petty discomforts didn't matter. Soon she'd be home, and she didn't have much farther to go.

Becca loved this lake. Summer or winter-it didn't matter. When she was a little girl, her datt bought her and her brother ice skates and they'd spent many a winter afternoon playing hockey. By spring, she could skate faster than any of her Amish friends, even faster than her older brother. He hadn't liked being shown up by a girl. But her datt would laugh and clap his hands and tell her she could fly. His praise, such a rarity, always made her feel special. Like she mattered and her achievements, regardless of how small, were important.

The lake became her special place, her hideaway from the rest of the world, away from her troubles. It was the place where she learned to dream. No one could catch her when she was on the ice. No one could touch her. No one could hurt her.

Only he had.

When Becca was nine years old, her brother found her sitting on the stump, lacing her skates. He'd knocked her down and ground her face into the snow, and then he took her right there on the frozen bank. And from that day forward, Becca knew she was doomed.

Later, when her mamm asked about the cut on her cheek, Becca told her what her brother had done. It wasn't the first time and, as always, Mamm blamed Becca. You should have fought harder. You should have prayed more. You should be more forgiving. She ended the conversation by asking Becca to confess her sins to the bishop.

The memory brought tears to Becca's eyes. How could her brother's actions be her fault? Had she somehow tempted him? Was there something wrong with her? Was G.o.d punishing her for being unable to forgive? Or was this simply her lot in life?

Snow crunched beneath her shoes as she made her way across the ice. Becca was nearly to the center of the lake when she stumbled over a fissure and went to her hands and knees. The cold bit into her skin with the intensity of a thousand blades. She knew it was stupid, but she began to cry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to be scared, and she hadn't expected to feel so alone.

A little voice reminded her it wasn't too late to turn back. Her warm bed in her little attic bedroom waited for her at home. Mamm and Datt didn't have to know she'd ventured out. But Becca knew there were other things waiting for her at home. Bad things that had been happening to her since she was three years old, when her brother had slipped his hand into her panties and told her not to cry.

Becca knew what she was about to do was a sin. But she also knew G.o.d would forgive her. She knew He would welcome her to heaven with open arms and love her unconditionally for all of eternity. How could that be wrong?

Rising, she looked around to get her bearings. Behind her, the trees near the sh.o.r.e were barely visible. Farther out, the silhouette of an ice-fishing shanty shimmered like a mirage in the fading light. Brushing snow from her coat, she started toward the structure. Constructed of wood with a single window and tin chimney, the shanty reminded her of a tall, skinny doghouse. She knew sometimes English fishermen spent the night on the lake. But there was no telltale glow of lantern light. No ribbon of smoke rising from the chimney. This one was vacant. It would do.

Becca slogged through a deep drift and stumbled toward the front of the shanty. A padlock hung from the hasp, but it wasn't engaged. Shaking with cold, she shoved open the door. The interior was dark and hushed. The air smelled of kerosene and fish. Out of the wind, it was so quiet that she could hear the ice creaking beneath her feet.

Her breaths puffing out in clouds of white vapor, she pulled out the candle and matches she'd brought from home and lit the wick. The light revealed a small interior with plywood walls and a shelf covered with fish blood and a smattering of silver scales. A lantern sat on the shelf. A coil of rope hung on the wall.

Becca crossed to the shelf and set the candle next to the lantern. Turning, she surveyed the floor. Someone had covered the fishing hole with a square of plywood. Bending, she dragged the wood aside. The hole was about fourteen inches in diameter and crusted over with new ice.

She looked around for something with which to break it, but there wasn't much in the way of tools. A broken concrete block. A plastic box of fishhooks. Empty beer cans. Then she spotted the hand auger in the corner. Kneeling, she picked it up and used it to break the thin crust.

When the hole was open, Becca crossed to the bench, lifted the rope from its hook, and uncoiled it. It was about twelve feet long and frayed on both ends. Her hands shook as she tied one end of it around her waist. She didn't let herself think as she secured the other end to the concrete block.

Kneeling next to the hole in the ice, Becca bowed her head and silently recited the Lord's Prayer. She asked G.o.d to take care of her mamm and datt. She asked Him to ease their grief in the coming days. She asked Him to forgive her brother for what he'd done to her most of her life. Finally, she asked G.o.d to forgive her for the sin she was about to commit. She closed her eyes and prayed harder than she'd ever prayed in her life, hoping it was enough.

When she was finished, Becca rose, picked up the rope, and lowered the concrete block into the hole, watching it disappear into the black depths. She thought of the journey before her and her chest swelled-not with fear, but with the utter certainty that soon all would be right.

Standing at the edge of the hole, she closed her eyes, stepped forward, and plunged into the water.

CHAPTER 1.

My mamm once told me that some places are too beautiful for anything bad to happen. When I was a kid, I believed those words with all of my young heart. I lived my life in a state of ignorant bliss, oblivious to the evils that lurked like frothy-mouthed predators outside the imaginary gates of our small Amish community. The English world with its mysterious and forbidden charms seemed like a million miles away from our perfect little corner of the earth. I had no way of knowing that some predators come from within and beauty has absolutely nothing to do with the crimes men commit.

Ohio's Amish country is a mosaic of quaint farms, rolling hills dissected by razor-straight rows of corn, lush hardwood forests, and pastures so green that you'd swear you had stepped into a Bill Coleman photograph. This morning, with the sun punching through the final vestiges of fog and the dew sparkling like quicksilver on the tall gra.s.s of a hay field, I think of my mamm's words and I understand how she could believe them.

But I'm a cop now and not easily swayed by appearances, no matter how convincing the facade. My name is Kate Burkholder and I've been the police chief of Painters Mill for about three years now. I was born here to Amish parents in a one-hundred-year-old farmhouse set on sixty acres of northeastern Ohio's rich, glaciated soil. I grew up Plain-no electricity, no motorized vehicles. Up until the age of fourteen, I was a typical Amish girl-innocent, G.o.d-loving, content in the way most Amish children are. My future, my very destiny, had been preordained by my gender and the religion bestowed upon me by my parents. All of that changed on a postcard-perfect summer day much like this one when fate introduced me to the dark side of human nature. I learned at a formative age that even on perfect, sunny days, bad things happen.

I try not to let my view of the world affect the way I do my job. Most of the time, I succeed. Sometimes I feel all that cynicism pressing in, coloring my perceptions, perhaps unfairly. But far too often, my general distrust of mankind serves me well.

I'm idling down Hogpath Road in my city-issue Explorer with my window down and a to-go cup of coffee between my knees. I've just come off the graveyard shift, having covered for one of my officers while he visited his folks in Michigan. I'm tired, but it's a good tired. The kind that comes with the end of an uneventful shift. No speeders. No domestic disputes. No loose livestock wreaking havoc on the highway. When you've been a cop for any length of time, you learn to appreciate the small things.

I'm thinking about a hot shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, when my radio crackles. "Chief? You there?"

I reach for the mike. "What's up, Mona?"

Mona Kurtz is my third-shift dispatcher. She's been part of my small police department from day one, and despite her Lady Gaga-esque wardrobe and decidedly uncoplike manner, she's a good fit. A night owl by nature, she keeps things interesting when the shift is slow-which is usually the case-but when the situation calls for it, she's all business and a true benefit to the department.

"I just took a nine one one for some kind of disturbance," she tells me.

"What's the twenty?"

"Covered bridge."

Images of drunk and disorderly teenagers flash in my mind's eye and I groan inwardly. The Tuscarawas Bridge is a favorite hangout for some of the local youths to "chill." As of late, some of that so-called chilling has deteriorated to other unsavory activities, like underage drinking, fighting, and drug use-and I'm sure that's just the tip of the iceberg. A week ago, one of my officers busted the mayor's seventeen-year-old son with an ounce of weed and a meth pipe. The mayor hasn't spoken to me since. But I know the conversation is coming. Probably in the form of a request I won't be able to grant.

I glance at the clock on my dash and restrain a sigh. Eight A.M. "They're starting early."

"Or staying late."

"Who called it in?"

"Randy Trask was on his way to work and said there was some kind of ruckus."

Muttering beneath my breath, I swing right, hang a U-turn in the middle of the road, and hit the accelerator. "Is Trask still there?"

"He left, Chief. Had to get to work."

I sigh. "I'm ten-seventy-six."

"Roger that."

The Tuscarawas covered bridge is a Painters Mill icon and of substantial historical significance. It was built in 1868, fell to ruin during the Depression, and was refurbished at the expense of the taxpayers and a donation from the Painters Mill Historical Society in 1981. Constructed of wood and painted barn red, it spans 125 feet across Painters Creek. The bridge is a tourist attraction and has been the topic of many a town council meeting, mainly due to the fact that a few local graffiti artistes have declared it fair game-and my department has yet to catch a single one. It's located on a little-used asphalt road that cuts through bottomland that's p.r.o.ne to flooding in the spring. The surrounding woods are dense with century-old hardwood trees and a summer's growth of underbrush-the perfect locale for a mult.i.tude of illicit activities.

It takes me five minutes to reach the bridge. I slow as I approach its yawning red mouth. To my right, I can just make out a footpath cut into the forest, and I know there have been plenty of people hoofing it down to the creek bank to fish or swim or whatever the h.e.l.l it is they do there.

A jacked-up Chevy Nova with wide tires and a spoiler at the rear is parked on the gravel turnout, its oxidized paint glinting dully in the morning sun. Next to it, an ancient Bonneville with a patchwork of Bondo on the front quarter panel squats on the shoulder like some armored dinosaur. The driver's side door is open and the coa.r.s.e echo of techno-rock booms out so loudly, my windows vibrate. I see two more cars parked on the other side of the bridge. I peer ahead and see, cloaked in the shadows of the covered bridge, the silhouettes of a couple of dozen young people grouped into a tight circle.

I pulse my siren a couple of times to get their attention. Some look my way. Others are so embroiled in whatever's going on, they don't even notice. Or maybe they don't care.

I park behind the Nova, shut down the engine, and hail Mona. "I'm ten-twenty-three."

"What's going on out there, Chief?"

"I'd lay odds on a fight." I've just opened my door, when a scream echoes from within the bridge. "s.h.i.t," I mutter. "Is Glock there yet?"

"Just walked in."

"Get him out here, will you?"

"Ten-four."

Racking the mike, I slip out of the car and hit the ground running. Several of the teens look up and scatter as I approach, and I catch a glimpse of two people on the ground, locked in battle. The agitated crowd throbs around them, shouting, egging them on, as if they've bet their life savings on some b.l.o.o.d.y dogfight.

"Police!" I shout, my boots crisp against the wood planks. "Back off ! Break it up! Right now!"

Faces turn my way. Some are familiar; most are not. I see flashes of surprise in young eyes alight with something a little too close to bloodl.u.s.t. Cruelty in its most primal form. Pack mentality, I realize, and that disturbs me almost as much as the fight.

I thrust myself into the crowd, using my forearms to move people aside. "Step away! Now!"

A teenage boy with slumped shoulders and a raw-looking outbreak of acne on his cheeks glances at me and takes a step back. Another boy is so caught up in the fight, he doesn't notice my approach and repeatedly jabs the air with his fist, chanting, "Beat that b.i.t.c.h!" A black-haired girl wearing a purple halter top that's far too small for her bustline lands a kick at one of the fighters. "Break her face, you f.u.c.kin' ho!"

I elbow past two boys not much bigger than I am, and I get my first un.o.bstructed look at the epicenter of the chaos. Two teenage girls are going at it with the no-holds-barred frenzy of veteran barroom brawlers. Hands grapple with clothes and hair. Nails slash at faces. I hear animalistic grunts, the sound of ripping fabric, and the wet-meat slap of fists connecting with flesh.

"Get off me, b.i.t.c.h!"

I bend, slam my hands down on the shoulders of the girl on top. "Police," I say. "Stop fighting."

She's a big-boned girl and outweighs me by about twenty pounds. Moving her is like trying to peel a starving lion off a fresh kill. When she doesn't acquiesce, I dig my fingers into her collarbone, put some muscle into it, and haul her back. "Stop resisting!"

"Get off me!" Blinded by rage, the girl tries to shake off my hands. "I'm going to kill this b.i.t.c.h!"

"Not on my watch." I put my body weight into the effort and yank her back hard. Her shirt tears beneath my hands. She reels backward and lands on her b.u.t.t at my feet. She tries to get her legs under her, but I press her down.

"Calm down." I give her a shake to let her know I'm serious.

Ignoring me, she crab-walks forward and lashes out at the other girl with her foot, trying to get in a final kick. I wrap my hands around her bicep and drag her back several feet. "That's enough! Now cut it out."

"She started it!" she screams.

Concerned that I'm going to lose control of the situation before backup arrives, I point at the most sane-looking bystander I can find, a thin boy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. "You."

He looks over his shoulder. "Me?"

"I'm not talking to your invisible friend." I motion to the second fighter, who's sitting on the ground with her legs splayed in front of her, her hair hanging in her face. "Take her to the other side of the bridge and wait for me."

I'm about to yell at him, when a girl with a pierced eyebrow steps forward. "I'll do it." Bending, she sets her hands on the other girl's shoulder. "Hey. Come on."

I turn my attention to the girl at my feet. She's glaring at me with a belligerent expression, breathing as if she's just come off a triathlon. A drop of mascara-tinged sweat dangles from the tip of her nose and her cheeks glow as if with sunburn. For an instant, I find myself hoping she'll take her best shot, so I can wipe all that bad att.i.tude off her face. Then I remind myself that teenagers are the only segment of the population ent.i.tled to temporary bouts of stupidity.

"If I were you," I say quietly, "I'd think real hard about what you do next."

I look around, gauging the crowd. They're still agitated, a little too close for comfort, and restless in a way I don't like, especially when I'm outnumbered twenty to one. Keeping my hand on the girl's shoulder, I straighten and make eye contact with a few of them. "You have thirty seconds to clear out, or I'm going to start arresting people and calling parents."

When they begin to disburse, I glance at the girl. She's eyeballing her friends, gesturing, sending them nonverbal messages teenager-style, and I realize she's enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame.

"What's your name?" I ask.

She gives me an "Eat s.h.i.t" look. But she's smart enough to know this is one standoff she's not going to win. "Angi McClanahan."

"You got ID on you?"

"No."

I extend my hand to help her up, but she ignores it and jumps to her feet with the grace of a fallen figure skater going for the gold. She's a pretty girl of about sixteen, with blond hair and blue eyes, freckles sprinkled over a turned-up nose. Her build is substantial, but she carries it well, the way young women do. The sleeve of her T-shirt hangs off her shoulder. I see scratch marks on her throat, another on the inside of her elbow. There's blood on her jeans, but I don't know where it came from.

"Are you injured?" I ask. "Do you need an ambulance?"