Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,3

her spine. Her knees buckled and she went down. Her face hit the floor. Above, her attacker bellowed like a beast.

Da Deivel.

He knelt, muttering ungodly words in a voice like gravel. Another knife blow jolted her body, but she couldn’t move. No pain this time. A rivulet of blood on the linoleum. More in her mouth. Breaths gurgling. Too weak to spit, so she opened her lips and let it run. Using the last of her strength, she looked up at her attacker.

Run, sweet child, she thought. Run for your life.

The knife arced, the impact as violent as a bare-fisted punch, hot as fire. The blow rocked her body. Once. Twice. No more fight left. She couldn’t get away, couldn’t move.

She was aware of the linoleum cold and gritty against her cheek. The sunlight streaming in through the window. The crow cawing somewhere outside. Finally, the sound of his footfalls as he walked to the door.

CHAPTER 1

You see a lot of things when you’re the chief of police in a small town. Things most other people don’t know about—don’t want to know about—and are probably better off for it. I deal with minor incidents mostly—traffic accidents, domestic disputes, petty thefts, loose livestock. I see people in high-stress situations—friends, neighbors, folks I’ve known most of my life. Sometimes I see them at their worst. That reality is tempered by the knowledge that I see them at their best, too. I see courage and strong character and people who care, some willing to risk their lives for someone they don’t even know. Those are the moments that lift me. The moments that keep me going when the sky is dark and the rain is pouring down.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the police chief of Painters Mill. It’s a pretty little town of about 5,300 souls—a third of whom are Amish—nestled in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country. I was born here and raised Plain, but I left the fold when I was eighteen. I never thought I’d return. But after twelve years—and after I’d found my place in law enforcement—my roots called me back. Fate obliged when the town council offered me the position of chief. I like to think their interest was due to my law enforcement experience or because I’m good at what I do. But I know my being formerly Amish—my familiarity with the culture, the religion, and being fluent in Deitsch—played a role in their decision. Tourism, after all, is a big chunk of the economy and our city leaders knew my presence would go a long way toward bridging the gap that exists between the Amish and “English” communities.

It’s a little after four P.M., and I’m riding shotgun in the passenger seat of my city-issue Explorer. My newest patrol officer, Mona Kurtz, is behind the wheel. She’s all business this afternoon, wearing her full uniform, which still smells of fabric softener. Her usually unruly hair is pulled into a ponytail. Makeup toned down to reasonable hues of earthy brown and nude pink. She works dispatch most nights, but recognizing the importance of patrol experience, I’ve been spending a couple of hours with her every day when our schedules align. I want her to be ready once I get a new dispatcher hired and trained.

It’s a brilliant and sunny afternoon; cool, but pleasant for November in this part of Ohio. The X Ambassadors are feeling a little “Unsteady” on the radio, which is turned down low enough so that we can hear my police radio. We’ve got to-go coffees in our cup holders, and the wrappers of our burger lunch in a bag on the console. We’re cruising down County Road 19 when we spot the dozen or so bales of hay scattered across both lanes.

“Looks like someone lost their load,” Mona says, slowing.

“Driver hits a bale of hay doing fifty and they’re going to have a problem.”

Hitting the switch for the light bar, Mona pulls over and parks. “Set up flares?”

I look ahead and sure enough, an Amish wagon piled high with hay wobbles on the horizon. “Looks like our culprit there. Let’s toss the bales onto the shoulder and go get them.”

We spend a few minutes lugging bales onto the gravel shoulder, and then we’re back in the Explorer heading toward the wayward driver. It’s an old wooden hay wagon with slatted side rails, half of which are broken.

“At least he’s got a slow-moving-vehicle sign displayed,” I say as we approach. “That’s good.”

“Shall I