Part 27 (1/2)
CHAPTER 21.
Solving a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. The kind that has a thousand infinitesimal pieces, some of which are missing, damaged, or false. Initially, none of those pieces seem to have a place in the big picture. They're the wrong color or shape or size. It's my job to persevere and figure out which ones to toss aside, which ones to keep. One excruciating piece at a time, an image will emerge.
After leaving the Kuhns' place, I drop Glock at the station and start for home to grab a shower and then head to Wooster to see Tomasetti. Somewhere between the station and my house, I change my mind. I blame the case, of course. Work is an acceptable excuse-especially when you're a cop-and one he's obliged to understand. The problem is, it's a lie.
John Tomasetti is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. I know I'm risking this thing we've created between us. But some small, self-destructive part of me won't let me reach out. Perhaps the same part that won't let me partake in the happiness that's within my grasp for the first time in my adult life.
It's 10:00 P.M. and once again I'm behind the wheel of my Explorer, camped out at the dead-end turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager lane. The light inside the house went dark half an hour ago. Nothing has moved since. Not a single vehicle or buggy has been on the road, not even to turn around. I don't think anyone is going to show up, but sitting here is better than going home to face an empty house and my own uneasy thoughts.
My mind is on Mattie tonight. Oddly, the things I'm dwelling on have little to do with the case and everything to do with the past that built us into the women we are today. I wonder where her thoughts have taken her tonight. Is she agonizing over the deaths of her husband and children? Is she thinking about the words between us? Wondering if Wayne Kuhns did something unforgivable? Blaming herself for not handling the situation differently? Is she as troubled as me?
At ten-thirty, I call Tomasetti.
”I take it you're not going to make it,” he says without preamble.
”I'm sorry.”
”Don't apologize. You're exactly where you want to be and that's the way it should be.”
Something in his voice sc.r.a.pes at my conscience. Makes me feel callous and self-centered. I tell him about Wayne Kuhns.
”Are you watching her place now?” he asks.
”I thought I'd camp out for a couple of hours.”
”You sure you're not hiding out?” he asks after a moment. ”From me?” From us?
He doesn't have to say the words; we're both thinking them. ”I could be.”
”You know, Kate, sooner or later we're going to have to deal with this white elephant that's been hanging out with us for the last few months.”
My initial impulse is to tell him I don't know what he means, but the response would be disingenuous. I'm well acquainted with the white elephant he's referring to, and while it's the one subject I don't want to broach, I owe it to him-to myself-to be honest. If only that weren't so d.a.m.n hard.
”Do you want me to spell it out for you?” he asks. ”Clear the air?”
His tone reveals no anger. But his frustration with me comes through the line as clearly as if he'd shouted the words. ”You don't have to spell it out.”
”One of us has to, or things are going to stay the same until one of us gets sick of it.”
I bite back the urge to snap at him for bringing up our personal relations.h.i.+p when I'm in the midst of a difficult case. But this discussion has been building for quite some time. Sooner or later-whether I want to or not-we're going to have to deal with it. Just not tonight.
”Let's set it aside for now,” I tell him.
”Because of the case? Or because I'm asking for something you can't give?”
”Because I need more time. I don't understand why that's so difficult for you to grasp.”
I know the instant the words are out that they're a mistake. Tomasetti won't be placated by snarky phrases or bulls.h.i.+t. ”Is that lover-speak for we're good as long as things don't get too complicated for you?”
His tone is challenging and cool. I sit there, mute, not sure how to reply. It's as if I'm frozen on the outside, unable to speak my mind. Inside, my emotions are a jumble of molten rock, hot and churning and fusing into something unwieldy and volatile.
”I didn't mean to make you angry,” I say.
”I'd like to know where I stand, Kate. Where we stand. I don't think my asking for a little clarification is unreasonable at this point.”
”It's not,” I concede.
He waits, putting me on the spot.
A hundred responses scroll through my mind. I'm sorry. I like things the way they are. I don't want to ruin what we have. But I've said it all before. None of them are the answer he's looking for. They won't solve the problem we face now.
”I've given you your s.p.a.ce,” he says after a moment. ”I haven't pushed.”
”I know.”
When I don't elaborate, he lowers his voice. ”You're brus.h.i.+ng me off. I don't like it.”
”I'm sorry I can't give you what you want.”
”Kate, what the h.e.l.l does that mean?”
”That means I need some time to figure this out.”
”If you haven't figured this out by now, we're in trouble.”
”Tomasetti, I can't discuss this right now. I have to go.”
He laughs. I don't know if he's genuinely amused by this perplexing impa.s.se, or if he's trying to anger me. ”Of course you do. That's your MO. When things get complicated or difficult, you cut and run.”
”That's not fair.”
”I'm not a fair man. You should know that by now.”
I wait a beat and say, ”Tomasetti, what the h.e.l.l are we doing here?”
”Arguing, apparently.”
Silence falls between us. I discern his elevated breathing coming through the line and I wonder if he's as upset as I am.
After a moment, he sighs. ”For chrissake.”
The line goes dead.
I know he's gone, but before I can stop myself, I say his name. ”Tomasetti?”
I hate the uncertainty, the need, the hurt I hear in my voice. The hiss of the dead line mocks me. I look down at the phone in my hand, rap it hard against the steering wheel. ”Nice going, Burkholder.”