Page 81 of A Gathering of Secrets

Over rum raisin, we discuss how the day’s developments might affect the Gingerich case. “I’ll get with Stark County and have them send Petersheim’s fingerprints,” he says. “We’ll do a comp and see if they match anything we got from the Gingerich scene.” His brows go together. “Petersheim had a rifle?”

My mind’s eye flashes back to the rifle lying on the bedroom floor. Mark Petersheim’s arm slung over the side of the bed. I’d been so shocked by the sight of the bodies, I didn’t note the details of the long gun. But I know where Tomasetti is going with this, and I realize I should have thought of it, too.

“You think he’s the one who shot at me?” I ask.

“Gingerich raped his wife. Got her pregnant. She didn’t tell Petersheim. She married him, and passed the baby off as his.” He shrugs. “If he didn’t want that coming to light…” His voice trails. “Sad as that is, it’s the kind of scenario that fits.”

“How long will the latent comps take?”

“Twenty-four hours. Thirty-six max. We’ll get Petersheim’s prints right away. We’ll compare the latents picked up off the cartridges. Should be a pretty quick process.”

I think about that a moment, trying to get a handle on what isn’t settling in my gut. “I never figured Petersheim for killing Gingerich.”

His eyes find mine. “The person who killed Gingerich may not be the person who took a shot at you last night.”

I toss him a frown. “I thought of that.”

“Who else are you looking at?”

“Elam Schlabach.”

“The dead girl’s boyfriend.”

I nod. “And Milo Hershberger. The best friend.”

“I don’t have to tell you to keep those eyes in the back of your head open, do I?”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to be looking over my shoulder for a long time.”

* * *

I’m standing in the middle of a narrow and deserted road I don’t recognize. It’s nighttime. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a baby crying. Fog billows all around, and I get the sense that there’s something unseen nearby, but I don’t know what.

When I look down, I see blood on the asphalt. It’s fresh. The night air is cold. Steam rises from the puddle and somehow I know this is the place where Ruth Petersheim was dragged from the car and raped.

God doesn’t let things like that happen to good girls.

I glance over my shoulder to see a hideous version of Daniel Gingerich. Not the happy-go-lucky young man in the photos, but the monstrous thing lying on the gurney at the morgue. Black flesh. Hands burned off, bones protruding from the stumps. His arms are bent at the wrists and elbows into that terrible pugilistic posture. Though he’s standing, his legs are severely bent at the knee.

“Who did that to you?” I ask.

Cloudy white eyes stare at me from within a charred face. The skin has burned away from his mouth and I can see his teeth.

“You did.” He begins to chant. “You did. You did…”

“Kate. Kate.”

I open my eyes to see Tomasetti’s face. Mussed hair. Concern sharp in his expression. Looking at me as if he isn’t sure who I am.

I’m lying on the sofa in our living room. He’s on his knees, leaning over me, hand on my shoulder, pressing me down. The dream lingers; the stench of burned flesh still in my nostrils, the sound of little William’s screams ringing.

“I’m sorry.” I try to sit up but he holds me down.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “Just … lie still a moment. Catch your breath.”

I relax back into the cushions, but I’m shaking, my skin slicked with sweat. I know he can feel all of those things. I don’t know why it embarrasses me. Why it makes me feel vulnerable in a way I detest.

“What are you doing out here on the sofa?” He growls the words—an attempt to divert my attention from the nightmare—and I appreciate it more than I can express.