Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,6

shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re all right.”

“Grossmammi!” Screaming, she claws at my clothes, looks over her shoulder toward the house. “Da Deivel got her!”

“What happened?” I run my hands over her. “Are you hurt?”

The girl tries to speak, but ends up choking and crying. I kneel and ease her to arm’s length, hold her gaze, give her a gentle shake. “Calm down, honey. Tell me what happened.”

“Da Deivel hurt Grossmammi!” the girl cries. “She’s bleeding. He’s coming to get me, too!”

“Where is she?” I ask firmly.

Choking, she lifts a shaking hand, points toward the old house. “In the kitchen. She won’t wake up!”

I look at Mona. “Get an ambulance out here. Call County and tell them to send a deputy.” I ease the little girl over to Mona. “Stay with her. I’m going to take a look.”

Normally, I’d take Mona with me, but this child is too young and too panicked to be left alone. I don’t expect anything in the way of foul play. Chances are, Grandma had an accident, a fall or heart attack or some other medical episode. Of course, that doesn’t explain the blood.…

I hear Mona hail Dispatch as I jog toward the house. I notice the buggy-wheel marks in the dust as I run. A burlap tote someone must have dropped.

I reach the back of the house. No movement inside. No sign anyone has been here. I go to the porch, spot a single footprint in the dust. The door stands ajar. The hinges squeak when I push it open the rest of the way.

I smell blood an instant before I see it. An ocean of shocking red covers the floor. Spatter on the cabinets. The sink. The wall. Adrenaline burns a path across my gut. I slide my .38 from its holster. A female lies on the floor. She’s Amish. Blue dress. White kapp. Older. Not moving. There’s no weapon in sight. All I can think is that this was no accident or suicide, and I may not be alone.

“Shit. Shit.” I hit my radio. “Ten-thirty-five-C. Ten-seven-eight.” They are the codes for homicide and need assistance.

I train my weapon on the doorway that leads to the next room. “Painters Mill Police! Get your hands up and get out here! Right now!” I hear stress in my voice. My senses are jacked and overloaded. My adrenaline in the red zone. Hands shaking.

“Get out here! Now! Keep your fucking hands where I can see them! Do it now!”

Keeping my eyes on the door, I go to the woman, kneel, and I get my first good look at her face. I’ve met her at some point. My brain kicks out a name: Mary Yoder. She lives with her daughter and son-in-law, Miriam and Ivan Helmuth, at the farm down the road. I bought a cake from her last fall.

“Damn.” Even before I press my index finger to her carotid, I know she’s gone. Her skin is still warm to the touch, her eyes open and glazed. Mouth open and full of what looks like vomit.

I rise and sidle to the doorway, peer into the living room. It’s dark; curtains drawn. Shadows ebb and flow. Lots of blind spots. I yank the mini Maglite from my belt. I listen, but my heart pounds a hard tattoo against my ribs. I shine the beam around the room. The front door is closed. No sign of anyone. No movement or sound.

“Chief?”

I spin, see a Holmes County deputy come through the back door. He does a double take upon spotting the victim. “Holy shit,” he mutters.

“Place isn’t cleared,” I tell him. “Victim is deceased.”

“Fuck me.” Drawing his sidearm, he sidesteps the blood, moves past me, into the living room.

“Holmes County Sheriff’s Department!” The voice comes from outside an instant before the front door flies open. A second deputy enters, shotgun at the ready.

“House isn’t cleared,” I tell him. “Deceased female in the kitchen.”

Sunlight slants in through the door, allowing us to see. The men exchange looks. The first deputy strides to a casement doorway, peers into an adjoining room. “Clear!”

The other deputy calls for additional units. Together, they start up the stairs to the second level.

I go back to the kitchen, stop in the doorway, bank a swift rise of revulsion. I’ve seen a lot of bad scenes in the years I’ve been a cop. Traffic accidents. Knife fights. Serious beatings. Even murder. I can honestly say I’ve never seen so much blood from a single victim. What in the name of