A Dark Path #6
Her brows draw together. “Come to think of it, two nights ago I was out here late, painting some shelves in the mudroom there at the back of the house. My husband had gone into town to pick up pizza, and I thought I saw a light right here in the cemetery.”
“Any idea what kind of light it was?” Tomasetti asks.
“I caught just a flicker when I looked out the window. I thought it was a flashlight. I started to go outside to check, but my husband pulled in and I assumed I’d just seen his headlights reflecting off the trees.”
“Have you noticed any tire tracks?” I ask. “Anything like that?”
“I did see some tire marks. But then we had a painter out here to help with the ceiling. I figured the tracks belonged to him.”
Her brows pull together. “Chief Burkholder, I may be jumping to conclusions here, but I remember reading a newspaper article about someone digging up a grave down in McConnelsville. The police thought it might be devil worshippers.” Looking concerned, she bites her lip.
“You don’t think they’ve come here, do you? ”
“I don’t know.” I think about that a moment. “In light of the damaged graves and your having seen a light back here, would you be okay with us coming back after dark to keep an eye on the place?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tomasetti arch a brow.
Naomi looks intrigued by the idea. “You mean like a stakeout? Catch them in the act?”
“It’s illegal to disinter a grave,” Tomasetti says.
“If someone’s participating in illegal activities,” I tell her, “we need to find them and stop them.”
“I sure don’t appreciate some loser destroying one of the most historic and interesting features of the property. My God. Devil worshippers.” She shakes her head. “I’m on my way back to Millersburg, so you’ll have the place to yourselves. Do you need a key?”
I glance past her toward the house. “I think we’ll have a better view from the barn,” I tell her.
She nods. “You know, Chief Burkholder, I’ve never felt unsafe out here. I’ve never felt the need to lock the doors. It’s so peaceful. And beautiful. But if some criminal is twisted enough to come out here in the middle of the night and dig up a dead body, who knows what else they might do.”
A three-quarter moon broods above the treetops as Tomasetti and I take the path toward the Zook house. I parked the Explorer in the trees at the mouth of the lane, close enough for us to reach it quickly if needed, yet out of sight from the road should someone drive by.
I’m toting a thermos of coffee and my Maglite, which I’ve not yet turned on. Tomasetti carries his own Maglite along with the infrared binoculars we use at home for spotting wildlife.
He’s been reticent since checking his phone a few minutes ago. “You’re not worried about this, are you?” I ask as we round the side of the house.
He grimaces. “The sheriff down in Morgan County responded to my query and sent over some interesting information.”
That garners my full attention. “Judging from your expression, it’s not good.”
“Investigators believe the individuals who damaged the grave in McConnelsville may be an offshoot group of a cabal out of upstate New York called the Red Horn.”
“What kind of group?”
“The Red Horn, for lack of a better term, is a satanic cult,” he says.
I stop walking and face him, aware that the hairs on my arms are up and prickling. “I’ve not heard of any satanic cults operating in this part of Ohio.”
“Normally, they don’t draw much attention from law enforcement.” He shrugs. “Most of these organizations are made up of disaffected individuals looking for something to believe in. They’re usually young, trying to find a place to fit in, or else they just want to rebel against society.”
“I’m getting the distinct impression there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“Evidently, a few months ago there was a ritualistic murder near the Canadian border. Multiple law enforcement agencies worked the case, but no arrest was made. The lead investigator believes the Red Horn group was involved.”
I nod, trying to reconcile all of that with what’s happening here in Painters Mill. “So, you think this offshoot group may be operating here?”
“I think we need to walk into this with our eyes wide open.”
We start toward the barn, thoughtful now.
Around us, the woods ebb and flow with night sounds—nocturnal animals, the skitter of fallen leaves, and the occasional hoot of an owl.
I’m no stranger to being in the woods at night—or dealing with the shadow side of society—but I have to shake off the shiver hovering between my shoulder blades.
“More than likely, we’re dealing with pranksters or some petty thief looking to make a quick buck selling headstones,” Tomasetti says after a moment.
“So we hang out in the barn and drink coffee for a couple of hours. Tell a few ghost stories.”
“You know this is how the scary movie always starts, right?”
The barn is a massive structure with three levels, the lowest being the livestock pens on the downside of the hill. The uppermost floor is the hayloft. Both upper levels have ample windows that face the cemetery.
“We should have a clear vantage point from the second level,” I say.
“Or the loft, if we can get up there.”
It’s incredibly dark when we step inside, so I flick on the Maglite to get my bearings. Dust motes fly in the beam. Ahead, an old manure spreader squats in the center of the main area. A pile of lumber to our left. Farther, half a dozen livestock pens have fallen to ruin.
Tomasetti motions right. “Stairs there.”
I turn off the Maglite.
“What could possibly go wrong?” he mutters as we make our way to the stairs.
With Tomasetti in the lead, we ascend the stairs, pass through the second level, finally reaching the loft.
There, he turns on his flashlight, careful to keep the beam away from the windows.
Cobwebs hang down from overhead beams. Loose hay covers the floor.
A dozen or so bales are stacked against the wall.
Burlap bags that have been torn open are scattered about, the contents long since consumed.
“Floor is solid,” he says.
“Good enough.” In the periphery of my vision, I see a rat dart beneath the pile of lumber.
“I didn’t know capybaras were native to the Midwest,” he mutters.
“Capy … what?”
“World’s largest rodent.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “Welcome to a stakeout in rural Ohio.”
He douses the flashlight and crosses to one of three windows that face the rear of the property. “Decent line of sight here.”
Moonlight slants in, offering just enough light for us to set up. While Tomasetti opens the window, I set up a crate so one of us can sit while the other keeps watch.
He removes binoculars from their case, sets the sights to his eyes, and focuses on the cemetery. “Perfect vantage point,” he says. “Not too many trees in the way.”
I uncap the thermos and pour coffee into the two lid-cups, pass one to Tomasetti. Setting down the binocs, he takes his cup, then raises it to mine. “To our first stakeout.”
Without breaking eye contact, we clink our cups together and sip. This isn’t the time for me to notice the glint of moonlight in his eyes or the brooding set of his mouth. But I do and for the span of a full minute I’m unable to look away.
“Coffee’s good,” I say slowly.
“Company’s better.”
“Not counting the rat.”
With a mischievous smile, he leans closer and brushes his lips across mine.
I start to return the kiss, but pull back. “I’m not very good at … multitasking.”
His eyes soften as he passes me the binocs. “Yeah, you are.”
My heart is still beating a little too fast when I turn to the window and put the lenses to my eyes. The world beyond glows with a lime-green monochrome. The trees are dark, the headstones bright. Through the canopies of the trees, the moon glimmers white with a greenish tinge.
“If they come, we’ll see them,” I say.
“We’ll probably hear them first.”
For an hour, we share an easy silence, sipping coffee and taking turns watching the cemetery. We listen to the night sounds, the occasional creak of the century-old barn. The groan of the wind coming in beneath the eaves. The rattle of leaves outside. Mostly, we enjoy each other’s company.
I’m thinking about a second cup of coffee when a jangle sounds outside the window.
Tomasetti and I exchange looks and rise simultaneously.
Standing slightly to one side, he raises the binocs.
I squint into the darkness. At first, I don’t see anything.
Just the tree branches swaying in the breeze.
Dried leaves skittering down. Then I hear the jangle again.
It’s a sound I know. One I’ve heard a thousand times.
“That’s a harness,” I whisper.
“Movement eleven o’clock.”
Light flickers through the trees. “Someone coming this way.”
“It’s a wagon,” he says quietly. “Two males. No, wait. Four males. Adults. Two in the wagon. Two on foot.”
I feel a tingle of surprise as the wagon comes into view. I’d expected black-clad figures with flashlights and shovels.
“There goes the devil-worshipper theory.” Shaking his head, he passes me the binocs. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
I put the binoculars to my eyes and watch as the wagon pulls up to the picket fence and stops. The driver ties off the lines. I can tell by the way he climbs down that he’s elderly. One of the other men uses what appears to be a walker as he lumbers to the rear of the wagon.
“They’re Amish,” I whisper, taking note of their clothes. Black jackets. Flat-brimmed hats. Full beards.
“Not a spring chicken in sight,” Tomasetti says beneath his breath.
One of the men holds a lantern and reaches for the wick. The flame brightens and I catch my first glimpse of their faces. I don’t know any of them, but I’m betting they’re locals. I can hear them talking, but they’re too far away for me to make out what they’re saying.
Then two of the men remove shovels from the back of the wagon. “Tomasetti, what the hell are they doing?”
He shoots me a questioning look.
I pass the binoculars to him. “I think they’re going to dig.”