Critical Acclaim for RAGE
"A gripping, shocking story—fortunately with some lighter moments to
offset the violence and tension—from a gifted, award-winning writer who
knows how to grab readers and keep them riveted from first page to
last." —Booklist, starred review
"With her signature blend of tension, vivid
characters, and atmospheric setting, Castillo delivers a compelling
mystery. Long-time fans will be enthralled, while new readers will be
hooked by the intricacies of the case and the personal stakes for Kate.
A captivating and thrilling addition to the Kate Burkholder series,
recommended for those who enjoy suspenseful mysteries in rural
settings." —Library Journal
EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1
There was no way they were going to find her. Not here by the creek where the ground was soft and brush grew thick along the bank. The path leading to this part of the woods was narrow and overgrown with weeds. Last summer, her cousin had gotten poison ivy on her ankle and it spread all the way up to her behind. That wasn’t to mention her little brother’s fear of spiders. The eight-legged creepers were big as quarters. Last time they played here, one crawled onto his shirt and he ran screaming all the way home.
Remembering, Mandi Weaver giggled. She was the best of the best when it came to hide-and-seek. Even when her older brother cheated while counting to ten, he rarely found her. She could hear him counting now as she sprinted down the path. She was barefoot today and her feet smacked the damp ground like clapping hands. At the curve, she ducked beneath the branch of a gnarly oak tree, then made a beeline for the creek ten yards away.
“Eight!” he called out. “Nine! Ten!”
Mandi knew her brother was already barreling down the path. She didn’t mind. She was a faster runner than her little brother; surely, he’d be found first. The little guy picked terrible hiding places. No, she thought with satisfaction, there was no way her older brother would find her down here.
“Ready or not, here I come!” came his voice from what seemed like a mile away.
Tongue sticking out in concentration, she ran past the big stump. The one with the mushrooms growing out the side. At the sound of the trickling water, she slowed, glanced behind her, and listened for footsteps. No one coming yet.
Breathless and giggling, she skidded down the incline on her heels. The creek was just ahead through the trees. At the big rock, she dodged left and hunkered down behind it. From a distance, she could hear her brother yelling.
“I’m going to find you!” he called out. “This time, you’re going to be ‘it’ until next week!”
She was breathing hard, making too much noise, so she put her hand over her mouth, and tried not to laugh. The air was still and humid and Mandi was sweating like crazy beneath her dress. Her feet were filthy. There was mud on the hem of her dress. She was looking around, thinking she might put her feet in the creek to cool off, when she spotted the weird pile of dirt. It looked as if someone had been digging. She’d been here just a few days ago and the mound hadn’t been there. No one ever came back this way. Their farm was the only one around for miles.
“You’re the worst hider in the world!” came her older brother’s voice.
“No fair!” her little brother squealed. “You cheated!”
“Did not!”
Mandi could hear them arguing, but her attention was on that strange mound of earth. Who would be digging back here and why? Buried treasure? A bag of money maybe? Curious, she left her hiding place and walked along the path, taking in a second pile. Too much dirt for a mole; the little vermin were always messing up Mamm’s garden. Not quite right for a groundhog either.
She studied the piled-up earth. A few feet away a straw hat lay upside down in the weeds as if someone had tossed it aside. It was the kind of hat her datt wore. Had someone dropped it? She looked around, vaguely troubled, but there was no one there. It was so quiet she could hear the flies buzzing. A lot of them. Too many …
That’s when she spotted the boot. It was a work boot, lying on its side a few feet from the hat. Why would someone leave their hat and a boot all the way down here? Craning her neck, Mandi sidled closer. Something sticking out of the boot. A stick? Some kind of cloth? It looked like the leg of the scarecrow her brother had put in the garden to keep out the crows. But why would anyone go to the trouble of burying a scarecrow down here by the creek?
Her feet took her closer before she even realized she was going to move. Though she was sweating like crazy beneath her kapp and dress, a chill quivered along her spine. Part of her didn’t want to see any more. She could hear her heart pounding, feel the hard thump of blood in her head.
Mandi stopped and looked down. She was standing on a low mound of freshly turned earth. Next to her foot, she saw something pale that was partially buried. The sweat went cold on her skin. Kneeling, she brushed at the dirt. Her tummy flip-flopped when her fingertips touched something rubbery and cold.
She cocked her head. Stared hard at it, certain her eyes were deceiving her. It looked like a hand. The skin was sticky-looking and covered with mud. Everything inside her went still. A hundred flies buzzed and suddenly the sound was deafening.
This was no scarecrow, she realized, and suddenly she knew something bad had happened here. For the first time, she smelled the smell. The same smell she remembered from last year when they found that dead buck in the woods.
Horror sent her stumbling back so fast she fell in the weeds on her backside.
“Eli!” She screamed her older brother’s name as she scrambled to her feet. “Eli!”
Hide-and-seek forgotten, she spun and ran as fast as she could to the trail in search of her brother.
* * *
Visiting students at Painters Mill Elementary School is a tradition I’ve upheld annually since becoming chief of police almost nine years ago. For the last two years, my partner in crime, “Kip the Cow,” has accompanied me. Kip is an expert on school safety, the kids love him, and they actually listen to what he has to say.
This morning, I’m standing next to the teacher’s desk, trying not to imagine how profusely Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore is sweating beneath the “Kip the Cow” costume. The classroom smells of paper dust, industrial-strength pine cleaner, and two dozen sweaty second graders who spent their morning recess playing outside in the sweltering late-August heat.
It’s the first week of school and the city pool is open one more week. I can tell by the way the students’ eyes slide repeatedly to the window that every single one of them is wishing they were there instead of here.
“How many of you walk to school?” Skid’s voice is muffled by the costume, but he’s learned to speak loudly so that the kids can hear.
When no one responds, I raise my hand and look out at our audience. “Great question, Kip. Let’s see a show of hands.”
A smattering of students raises their hands. A typical number for a small-town community where most people live on farms or in a rural area and ride the bus.
“How many of you ride your bikes?” Kip the Cow asks.
A few hands drop and a couple of others go up.
I glance at Kip. “Do you have any safety tips for students who walk or ride their bikes to school?”
“I sure do!” he exclaims. “Did you know it’s safer to walk or ride your bike if you’re with a friend?”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “Do you have any other advice on how students can stay safe during the school year?”
“Kip the Cow always has good safety advice for kids, Chief Burkholder.” Skid chuckles beneath the suit. “Here’s an important one: If anyone bothers you while you’re going to or from school, get away from that person as quickly as possible and tell your parents or your teacher.”
“Great tip.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, see a text from Lois, my first-shift dispatcher. The numbers 911 appear on the display, which is code for call immediately. Lois knows Skid and I are talking to students this morning, so I know it’s important.
As unobtrusively as possible, I slip into the hall, and hit the speed dial for the station. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” says Lois. “I just heard from Glock. He took a call out on Sweet Potato Ridge Road. Apparently, some Amish kids found a body.”
“A body?” The muscles at the back of my neck tighten. “Are you sure?”
“Glock sounded pretty certain.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Call Doc Coblentz,” I tell her, referring to the Holmes County coroner. “Tell him to stand by. The sheriff’s office too.”
“You got it.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 2
Ten minutes later, Skid and I are in my city-issue Explorer. The engine hums as I blow the stoplight at Main Street and head out of town. Next to me, Skid has removed the Kip the Cow head and is in the process of escaping the costume bodice.
“Remind me to trade this cow gig with Mona next year,” he mutters as he tosses the costume into the back seat. “She’s the damn rookie. Gotta pay her dues like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know, Skid. You make a pretty good Kip.” I glance over at him, see the sweat beaded on his forehead, and try not to smile. “Kids like you.”
“The only reason those kids like Kip the Cow is because he’s marginally more fun than a pop quiz.” He sighs. “I’ll take my chances with the dead body.”
Sweet Potato Ridge Road is a two-mile stretch of pitted asphalt that cuts through river-bottom forest and runs parallel with Painters Creek. Not many people venture out this way. Because of its proximity to the waterway and its tendency to flood in the spring, there are just two farms and a tree nursery in the area. Unless a jogger was overcome by heat, I can’t imagine how a dead body ended up here.
As I make the turn, massive trees on either side of the road close over the Explorer like knuckled fingers, casting us in shadow. Ahead, I see the flashing lights of Glock’s cruiser. There’s a horse and buggy parked on the shoulder. An Amish man and three children stand next to the buggy. The nursery and farms are another quarter mile down the road.
I park behind the cruiser, flick on my overhead lights, and get out. It’s not yet noon and already the heat of the day presses down like a steaming-hot rag. The buzz of cicadas rises from the woods like a hundred mini chain saws.
I spot Glock emerging from the woods several yards ahead. He’s in full uniform, his shirt wet with sweat beneath his arms and between his shoulder blades. Across the road, the Amish family huddles, watching us. I recognize the adult male; I’ve seen him around town, in the grocery or on the street, but I don’t recall his name. Such is the nature of small-town Ohio.
“Chief.”
Rupert “Glock” Maddox was the first officer I hired when I became chief. He’s a former marine, coolheaded, and a law enforcement pro in every way. He’s a father of four, a crack shot, a brown belt, and one of the nicest guys I know. Last I heard, he and his wife were considering a fifth child; somehow, he still finds time to coach Little League at the elementary school every Tuesday evening.
Skid and I greet him with handshakes. “What do you have?” I ask.
“According to Mr. Weaver, the kids were playing down by the creek and found a severed hand. Possibly a foot, too.” Glock motions toward the barely visible trailhead from which he emerged. “They ran home, which is the farm a little way down the road. Told their dad. He hitched up and drove over to the Amish phone shanty, called 911, then came back out here to meet us.”
Children discovering body parts in the woods is extremely unlikely in a town like Painters Mill. Usually, when a report like that comes in, it turns out to be a case of misidentification. A doll or discarded glove or boot, a practical joke, an honest mistake, or a ghost story run amok.
As if reading my skepticism, Glock grimaces. “The oldest boy led me down to the creek. Sure enough, there’s a damn severed hand down there in those trees.”
“Shit,” Skid mutters. “I guess that eliminates the heatstroke theory.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
Glock nods. “A foot. In a boot.”
“Any idea who they belong to?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Once I realized what we were dealing with, I got everyone out of there quick.”
I glance at the Amish family standing next to the buggy. “You get statements?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ve only been here fifteen minutes or so.”
I bend my head to speak into my lapel mike. “Lois, get County out here,” I say, referring to the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. “Find out where the coroner is. Tell him to expedite.” I look at Skid. “Get this road blocked off to traffic. No one comes in or out unless they’re LEO.” Law enforcement officer. “Stay cognizant of evidence.”
He gives me a mock salute. “You got it.”
I look at Glock. “Hang tight for a sec.”
“Yep.”
I go to my Explorer and hit the fob for the rear door. Having been born Amish right here in Painters Mill, I’m mindful of the cultural divide between the Amish and English communities, especially when it comes to the police. As chief, I do everything in my power to bridge that divide, earn their trust—and respect. I dig into the small cooler I keep handy when it’s hot, pull out four bottles of water, and approach the family.
“Guder mariye,” I say. Good morning. I pass out the water bottles. I can tell by the kids’ body language that they’re shaken from their find and nervous about talking to me.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask.
Copyright © 2025 by Linda Castillo
CHAPTER 1
There was no way they were going to find her. Not here by the creek where the ground was soft and brush grew thick along the bank. The path leading to this part of the woods was narrow and overgrown with weeds. Last summer, her cousin had gotten poison ivy on her ankle and it spread all the way up to her behind. That wasn’t to mention her little brother’s fear of spiders. The eight-legged creepers were big as quarters. Last time they played here, one crawled onto his shirt and he ran screaming all the way home.
Remembering, Mandi Weaver giggled. She was the best of the best when it came to hide-and-seek. Even when her older brother cheated while counting to ten, he rarely found her. She could hear him counting now as she sprinted down the path. She was barefoot today and her feet smacked the damp ground like clapping hands. At the curve, she ducked beneath the branch of a gnarly oak tree, then made a beeline for the creek ten yards away.
“Eight!” he called out. “Nine! Ten!”
Mandi knew her brother was already barreling down the path. She didn’t mind. She was a faster runner than her little brother; surely, he’d be found first. The little guy picked terrible hiding places. No, she thought with satisfaction, there was no way her older brother would find her down here.
“Ready or not, here I come!” came his voice from what seemed like a mile away.
Tongue sticking out in concentration, she ran past the big stump. The one with the mushrooms growing out the side. At the sound of the trickling water, she slowed, glanced behind her, and listened for footsteps. No one coming yet.
Breathless and giggling, she skidded down the incline on her heels. The creek was just ahead through the trees. At the big rock, she dodged left and hunkered down behind it. From a distance, she could hear her brother yelling.
“I’m going to find you!” he called out. “This time, you’re going to be ‘it’ until next week!”
She was breathing hard, making too much noise, so she put her hand over her mouth, and tried not to laugh. The air was still and humid and Mandi was sweating like crazy beneath her dress. Her feet were filthy. There was mud on the hem of her dress. She was looking around, thinking she might put her feet in the creek to cool off, when she spotted the weird pile of dirt. It looked as if someone had been digging. She’d been here just a few days ago and the mound hadn’t been there. No one ever came back this way. Their farm was the only one around for miles.
“You’re the worst hider in the world!” came her older brother’s voice.
“No fair!” her little brother squealed. “You cheated!”
“Did not!”
Mandi could hear them arguing, but her attention was on that strange mound of earth. Who would be digging back here and why? Buried treasure? A bag of money maybe? Curious, she left her hiding place and walked along the path, taking in a second pile. Too much dirt for a mole; the little vermin were always messing up Mamm’s garden. Not quite right for a groundhog either.
She studied the piled-up earth. A few feet away a straw hat lay upside down in the weeds as if someone had tossed it aside. It was the kind of hat her datt wore. Had someone dropped it? She looked around, vaguely troubled, but there was no one there. It was so quiet she could hear the flies buzzing. A lot of them. Too many …
That’s when she spotted the boot. It was a work boot, lying on its side a few feet from the hat. Why would someone leave their hat and a boot all the way down here? Craning her neck, Mandi sidled closer. Something sticking out of the boot. A stick? Some kind of cloth? It looked like the leg of the scarecrow her brother had put in the garden to keep out the crows. But why would anyone go to the trouble of burying a scarecrow down here by the creek?
Her feet took her closer before she even realized she was going to move. Though she was sweating like crazy beneath her kapp and dress, a chill quivered along her spine. Part of her didn’t want to see any more. She could hear her heart pounding, feel the hard thump of blood in her head.
Mandi stopped and looked down. She was standing on a low mound of freshly turned earth. Next to her foot, she saw something pale that was partially buried. The sweat went cold on her skin. Kneeling, she brushed at the dirt. Her tummy flip-flopped when her fingertips touched something rubbery and cold.
She cocked her head. Stared hard at it, certain her eyes were deceiving her. It looked like a hand. The skin was sticky-looking and covered with mud. Everything inside her went still. A hundred flies buzzed and suddenly the sound was deafening.
This was no scarecrow, she realized, and suddenly she knew something bad had happened here. For the first time, she smelled the smell. The same smell she remembered from last year when they found that dead buck in the woods.
Horror sent her stumbling back so fast she fell in the weeds on her backside.
“Eli!” She screamed her older brother’s name as she scrambled to her feet. “Eli!”
Hide-and-seek forgotten, she spun and ran as fast as she could to the trail in search of her brother.
* * *
Visiting students at Painters Mill Elementary School is a tradition I’ve upheld annually since becoming chief of police almost nine years ago. For the last two years, my partner in crime, “Kip the Cow,” has accompanied me. Kip is an expert on school safety, the kids love him, and they actually listen to what he has to say.
This morning, I’m standing next to the teacher’s desk, trying not to imagine how profusely Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore is sweating beneath the “Kip the Cow” costume. The classroom smells of paper dust, industrial-strength pine cleaner, and two dozen sweaty second graders who spent their morning recess playing outside in the sweltering late-August heat.
It’s the first week of school and the city pool is open one more week. I can tell by the way the students’ eyes slide repeatedly to the window that every single one of them is wishing they were there instead of here.
“How many of you walk to school?” Skid’s voice is muffled by the costume, but he’s learned to speak loudly so that the kids can hear.
When no one responds, I raise my hand and look out at our audience. “Great question, Kip. Let’s see a show of hands.”
A smattering of students raises their hands. A typical number for a small-town community where most people live on farms or in a rural area and ride the bus.
“How many of you ride your bikes?” Kip the Cow asks.
A few hands drop and a couple of others go up.
I glance at Kip. “Do you have any safety tips for students who walk or ride their bikes to school?”
“I sure do!” he exclaims. “Did you know it’s safer to walk or ride your bike if you’re with a friend?”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “Do you have any other advice on how students can stay safe during the school year?”
“Kip the Cow always has good safety advice for kids, Chief Burkholder.” Skid chuckles beneath the suit. “Here’s an important one: If anyone bothers you while you’re going to or from school, get away from that person as quickly as possible and tell your parents or your teacher.”
“Great tip.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, see a text from Lois, my first-shift dispatcher. The numbers 911 appear on the display, which is code for call immediately. Lois knows Skid and I are talking to students this morning, so I know it’s important.
As unobtrusively as possible, I slip into the hall, and hit the speed dial for the station. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” says Lois. “I just heard from Glock. He took a call out on Sweet Potato Ridge Road. Apparently, some Amish kids found a body.”
“A body?” The muscles at the back of my neck tighten. “Are you sure?”
“Glock sounded pretty certain.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Call Doc Coblentz,” I tell her, referring to the Holmes County coroner. “Tell him to stand by. The sheriff’s office too.”
“You got it.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 2
Ten minutes later, Skid and I are in my city-issue Explorer. The engine hums as I blow the stoplight at Main Street and head out of town. Next to me, Skid has removed the Kip the Cow head and is in the process of escaping the costume bodice.
“Remind me to trade this cow gig with Mona next year,” he mutters as he tosses the costume into the back seat. “She’s the damn rookie. Gotta pay her dues like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know, Skid. You make a pretty good Kip.” I glance over at him, see the sweat beaded on his forehead, and try not to smile. “Kids like you.”
“The only reason those kids like Kip the Cow is because he’s marginally more fun than a pop quiz.” He sighs. “I’ll take my chances with the dead body.”
Sweet Potato Ridge Road is a two-mile stretch of pitted asphalt that cuts through river-bottom forest and runs parallel with Painters Creek. Not many people venture out this way. Because of its proximity to the waterway and its tendency to flood in the spring, there are just two farms and a tree nursery in the area. Unless a jogger was overcome by heat, I can’t imagine how a dead body ended up here.
As I make the turn, massive trees on either side of the road close over the Explorer like knuckled fingers, casting us in shadow. Ahead, I see the flashing lights of Glock’s cruiser. There’s a horse and buggy parked on the shoulder. An Amish man and three children stand next to the buggy. The nursery and farms are another quarter mile down the road.
I park behind the cruiser, flick on my overhead lights, and get out. It’s not yet noon and already the heat of the day presses down like a steaming-hot rag. The buzz of cicadas rises from the woods like a hundred mini chain saws.
I spot Glock emerging from the woods several yards ahead. He’s in full uniform, his shirt wet with sweat beneath his arms and between his shoulder blades. Across the road, the Amish family huddles, watching us. I recognize the adult male; I’ve seen him around town, in the grocery or on the street, but I don’t recall his name. Such is the nature of small-town Ohio.
“Chief.”
Rupert “Glock” Maddox was the first officer I hired when I became chief. He’s a former marine, coolheaded, and a law enforcement pro in every way. He’s a father of four, a crack shot, a brown belt, and one of the nicest guys I know. Last I heard, he and his wife were considering a fifth child; somehow, he still finds time to coach Little League at the elementary school every Tuesday evening.
Skid and I greet him with handshakes. “What do you have?” I ask.
“According to Mr. Weaver, the kids were playing down by the creek and found a severed hand. Possibly a foot, too.” Glock motions toward the barely visible trailhead from which he emerged. “They ran home, which is the farm a little way down the road. Told their dad. He hitched up and drove over to the Amish phone shanty, called 911, then came back out here to meet us.”
Children discovering body parts in the woods is extremely unlikely in a town like Painters Mill. Usually, when a report like that comes in, it turns out to be a case of misidentification. A doll or discarded glove or boot, a practical joke, an honest mistake, or a ghost story run amok.
As if reading my skepticism, Glock grimaces. “The oldest boy led me down to the creek. Sure enough, there’s a damn severed hand down there in those trees.”
“Shit,” Skid mutters. “I guess that eliminates the heatstroke theory.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
Glock nods. “A foot. In a boot.”
“Any idea who they belong to?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Once I realized what we were dealing with, I got everyone out of there quick.”
I glance at the Amish family standing next to the buggy. “You get statements?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ve only been here fifteen minutes or so.”
I bend my head to speak into my lapel mike. “Lois, get County out here,” I say, referring to the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. “Find out where the coroner is. Tell him to expedite.” I look at Skid. “Get this road blocked off to traffic. No one comes in or out unless they’re LEO.” Law enforcement officer. “Stay cognizant of evidence.”
He gives me a mock salute. “You got it.”
I look at Glock. “Hang tight for a sec.”
“Yep.”
I go to my Explorer and hit the fob for the rear door. Having been born Amish right here in Painters Mill, I’m mindful of the cultural divide between the Amish and English communities, especially when it comes to the police. As chief, I do everything in my power to bridge that divide, earn their trust—and respect. I dig into the small cooler I keep handy when it’s hot, pull out four bottles of water, and approach the family.
“Guder mariye,” I say. Good morning. I pass out the water bottles. I can tell by the kids’ body language that they’re shaken from their find and nervous about talking to me.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask.
Copyright © 2025 by Linda Castillo
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