Page 5 of The Burning

“Burkholder.”

“Sorry to wake you, Chief,” comes my graveyard-shift dispatcher’s voice. “I just took a call from Skid. Says he’s got a fire and body out on Dogleg Road.”

A quick punch of dread sends me bolt upright. My feet hit the floor. “A structure?” I ask, rising and going to the closet for my clothes. “House? Barn?”

“He’s in the woods,” she tells me. “Out by the covered bridge.”

My befuddled brain tries to make sense of it as I yank a uniform shirt off a hanger. “A vehicle accident?”

“He didn’t say. Sounded kind of shook up to be honest with you.”

“Tell him I’m on my way,” I tell her.

I’m vaguely aware of my husband, John Tomasetti, sitting up, rubbing his hands over his face. “Everything all right, Chief?”

“Not sure.” I tug my trousers from a dresser drawer and step into them. “There’s a fire in the woods off of Dogleg Road. Skid says there’s a body.”

“Odd combination.” He picks up his cell, checks the time. “You want some company?”

Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and a former detective with the Cleveland Division of Police. We’ve worked together on a dozen cases over the last few years. Not only do we make a good investigative team, but we’ve gotten pretty good at the whole husband and wife thing, too.

I grab my equipment belt off the chair and buckle up. “Don’t you have to be in Columbus at seven?”

“Unfortunately.” Groaning, he gets to his feet, rounds the foot of the bed, and puts his arms around me. “I’d rather hang out with you.”

“Dead body might be a third wheel.”

“Easy to ditch.”

We’ve been married for two months now. A change I still can’t quite reconcile. A joy I’m almost afraid to feel. Maybe because for the first time in my life, I’m unabashedly happy and I like the way it fits.

He kisses me.

I kiss him back, pull away an instant before I start to free-fall. “Tomasetti, has anyone ever told you that you have a macabre sense of humor?”

“I get that a lot.”

Pulling away, I open the night table drawer, snatch up my .38, and holster it.

“Be careful out there, will you, Chief?” he says.

“See you at dinner,” I tell him.

I brush my mouth across his and then I’m out the door.

Rural Ohio sleeps like the dead this time of night; the back roads are quiet and dark. Snow flutters in the headlights. Behind the wheel of my city-issue Explorer, I hit my emergency strobes, crank up the speedometer, and blow every stop sign that threatens to slow me down. It takes me seventeen minutes to make the usual thirty-minute drive.

Located in the heart of Amish country, Painters Mill is a picturesque village of fifty-three hundred souls, a third of whom are Amish. I was born Amish, but left at the age of eighteen when fate pulled the rug out from under me. I ran as far away from Painters Mill—and my roots—as I could, ending up in Columbus, where I found my way into the unlikely vocation of law enforcement. I attended the school of hard knocks, made a ton of mistakes along the way, and I learned how to not be Amish. Once I became a patrol officer and my life settled down, the roots I’d left behind began to call. When the position of chief came open and the town council courted me for the job, I went for it.

There have been plenty of bumps since, but I never looked back and I never regretted my decision. My parents are gone now, but my siblings and their families still live in the area. They’re still Amish. We’ve come a long way since those early days. In terms of getting back the close relationship we once had, we’re a work in progress.

By the time I make the turn onto Dogleg Road and head toward the covered bridge, big, wet flakes are coming down in earnest. I spot the emergency lights of Skid’s cruiser, which is parked on the shoulder, and pick up my radio mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting my dispatcher know I’ve arrived on scene.

A tinge of surprise slips through me at the sight of Mona’s personal vehicle parked behind the cruiser. She’s the department rookie and the first female officer to grace the ranks of the Painters Mill PD. I happen to know she worked until midnight. She’s prone to hanging around after her shift, especially if there’s something interesting going on, so I don’t think too much about her being here.

I park behind her car and get out. There’s no one in sight. No other vehicles. No sign of a fire. But the smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air. I hit my radio. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”

“Due north of my vehicle, Chief. A hundred yards.”