Page 94 of A Gathering of Secrets

I’m midway to the stairs when I notice a faint dome of light coming from a niche ahead. Moving quickly, I start toward it. My beam illuminates a small battery-powered lantern atop a wood crate. There’s a spiral-bound notebook next to a can of Diet Coke. A pen. A cell phone. A brown prescription bottle.

… she doesn’t want to be on this earth anymore …

“Oh, no,” I mutter, and then, “Neva! It’s Kate Burkholder! Come out here and talk to me.”

The floor is covered with a drop cloth or tarp. The kind a painter might use. I’m midway to the alcove when a loud crack! sounds. The floor gives way beneath my feet. Then I’m falling into space.

* * *

I land hard, feet first, dust and debris flying. My knees buckle on impact. The ground isn’t level and I pitch left. Something sharp gouges my thigh. The tarp tangles around my legs. I fall sideways, land on my side, my shoulder and head slamming against the ground.

I brown out for a second, unable to move, my brain like a cold engine, trying to fire. The breath has been knocked out of me, and I’m gasping like an asthmatic. I hear myself spit, realize my mouth is full of dirt. Pain in my right ankle. Searing heat in my thigh.

Groaning, I roll onto my back, blink dust from my eyes. Darkness all around. Flashlight nowhere in sight. Rain pounding the roof above in a deafening roar.

“Shit.” I choke out the word and spit again.

Bad move, Burkholder, a little voice chides.

I make an undignified sound that’s part curse word, part moan. I lie still, wait for my head to clear, taking physical stock, shifting my legs. Pain in my back, but not too bad. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, I think I’m okay.

“Chief Burkholder?”

Relief sweeps through me at the sound of Edna Lambright’s voice. I push myself to a sitting position. Dizziness swirls, but levels off. “Down here,” I call out.

“I heard the ruckus. You’ve taken quite a fall. Are you all right?”

A flashlight beam appears to my left. I glance over to see the Amish woman making her way down rickety steps. “Guess I should have taken the stairs,” I say, trying not to feel foolish.

“I should have warned you about that floor. We’re having it replaced, you know. Are you hurt?” she asks as she reaches the ground level.

“I’m fine.” Setting my hands on the ground, I get my legs under me, make it to my knees. “Any sign of Neva?”

“No.” She blinds me with the flashlight beam. “She’s never done anything like this before.”

I’m still shaken, my head reeling. “Can you get that light off me?” I say.

“Sorry.” She reaches me and stops. “Let me help you.”

Her light shifts. I can see the outline of her dress. Thick ankles, feet clad in sneakers that are muddy and wet. The bulk of her body. She’s fiddling with something in her right hand. I hear the rip-tear of Velcro. She bends toward me. Something hard is jabbed against my back.

“What are you doing?” I bring up my right leg, set my foot against the ground, start to get up.

A loud crack! snaps through the air. Pain explodes through my body. Every muscle contracts into a single, massive cramp. I stiffen. My balance leaves me. I fall sideways. Pain grinds throughout my body, seems to go on forever.

The next thing I know I’m laid out on the ground. For an instant I think I’ve been shot. But I know that sound. Stun gun. Lingering tremors ripple through my muscles.

Edna Lambright stands over me, looking down at me. No emotion on her face. Squatting, she reaches for me, yanks my radio from my belt. I try to stop her, but she hits my arm with the stunner, and another jolt zips from my shoulder to my fingers. My arm flops ineffectually to my side. I try to roll away, end up folding into a fetal position. She reaches for me again. I brace, but she flicks off the thumb snap, slides my .38 from its nest. I try to speak, but no words come. Instead, I do a quarter roll, flail uselessly.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Where’s that phone of yours?” she mutters.

“What the hell are you doing?” I rasp.

She sets her hands on me, digs into my pockets, grapples for my phone and yanks it out. “Danny Gingerich was a devil in disguise,” the Amish woman says. “Looked like some mama’s boy. Let me tell you something, he was a monster.”

I don’t know if she’s speaking to me or talking to herself. The one thing I do know is that I’m in trouble.