Page 101 of The Burning

“I’m going to talk to him.”

He mutters a curse. “Kate, you know that’s not a good idea for too many reasons to count.”

“I’ll do it … unofficially. Ask a few questions. Feel him out.”

“I think we both know that’s bullshit, right?”

“I know I’m right about this. Everything fits.”

He curses beneath his breath. “Give me Hofer’s address,” he growls. “I’ll meet you there.”

I recite the address from memory. “I owe you one.”

“If we’re going to screw up our careers, we may as well do it with some fucking panache.”

“We’re not—”

He hangs up on me without letting me finish.

It’s nearly dusk by the time I enter the corporation limits of Dundee. The drizzle that had been falling most of the day has transformed to snow. The thermometer on my dash hovers at the thirty-two-degree mark when I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Sugarcreek Sand and Gravel Company. I’m thinking about my pending conversation with Isaiah Hofer as I pass by a yellow backhoe, exhaust spewing, as the blade shoves a cut rock the size of a Volkswagen to demark the edge of the lot. I don’t expect him to admit any wrongdoing; he’s too smart for that. The best I can hope for is some scrap of information that will set me on track to either prove or disprove my premise—and his involvement.

I park in the same spot as the last time I was here. Cold seeps underneath the collar of my coat as I take the sidewalk to the office. I notice the sign on the door a few yards before I reach the building. SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL HAS CLOSED. I recall Hofer telling me the quarry was spent, but the timing of it ruffles the edges of my cop’s suspicions.

I knock, but no one answers. The blinds are open just enough for me to see inside. The desk is bare, but the light is on. I go back to the door, turn the knob, and it rolls open.

As I step inside, I remind myself that this is a business, not a private residence. I’m not trespassing, simply walking inside in search of help.

“Hello?” I call out. “Mr. Hofer? It’s Kate Burkholder.”

The reception desk where the woman had been sitting last time I was here is vacant. The chair is gone. There are no papers or clutter or folders lying about. The computer and keyboard are gone, too. I’m thinking about taking a peek in the rear office when I notice the old-fashioned telephone on the credenza behind the desk, a single light telling me that either someone is using it or there’s a line off the hook.

“Mr. Hofer?”

I’m aware of the rise and fall of the backhoe’s engine outside as I start down the hall. I pass by a partially closed door marked RESTROOM and continue on to the office. The lights are on. There’s a chair and desk with a smattering of papers on the desktop. A SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL mug sits on the blotter. I go to it, set the backs of my fingers against the side, find it warm.

“Mr. Hofer?”

My phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, see Tomasetti’s name on the display, and pluck it off my belt. “Where are you?”

“Pulling in now.” I can tell by his tone he’s not happy with me. “You?”

“Main building. Once you enter the parking lot, you’ll see it. Blue SUV parked in front is my rental.”

“Meet you there.”

I’m clipping the phone back onto my belt when a thunderous clang! sounds from outside. Alarmed, I jog down the hall and through the reception area. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the backhoe’s engine revving. I’m nearly to the door when through the window, I catch a glimpse of the backhoe. The fill bucket is against the passenger side of the Tahoe, pushing it sideways at a high rate of speed.

“What the hell?”

I yank open the door, take in a hundred things at once. The backhoe moving fast, the fill bucket shoving Tomasetti’s Tahoe sideways across the lot. The Chevy’s tires plow through gravel and mud, the engine whining. Not an accident.

“Tomasetti!”

I drop my hand to my .38 as I fly down the steps and then I’m running full out. Laser focus on the vehicles. I thumb off the holster break strap, yank it out. Finger inside the guard. And I level it at the cab of the backhoe.

“Stop!” I scream. “Police! Stop!”

The driver’s side of the Tahoe slams into the solid wall of rock. The pop! pop! pop! of gunfire sounds. I see a puff of smoke as a bullet tears through the Tahoe’s window. Tomasetti, I realize, firing through the passenger window, defending himself.