Using my foot, I shove the drum onto its side. Ash flies as the contents spill out on the ground. Looking around, I spot a charred branch and use it to poke through the ashes. I uncover an old piece of garden hose, a plastic flowerpot. Bending, I upend the barrel. That’s when I notice the partially burned pack of cigarettes.
Clove cigarettes.
For the span of several heartbeats, all I can do is stare while my mind scrambles to make sense of what I see. It’s the same brand Sadie was smoking that day on the bridge. What are the odds of an Amish couple having a pack of clove cigarettes in their trash? The same obscure brand that a missing girl was known to smoke?
I pull out my phone and dial Tomasetti. “I think I have something,” I say by way of greeting.
“Lay it on me.”
I tell him about the cigarettes. “Sadie Miller smoked the same brand.”
“Where are the Masts?”
“There’s no one here.”
We fall silent, and I know he’s running this new information through his brain, seeking that elusive connection that will make everything click. “Tomasetti, I think they might be involved.”
“Kate, another kid went missing last night,” he tells me. “A boy. Sixteen years old.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Where?”
“Alexandria. About fifty miles north of here.”
“Amish?”
“Yeah.”
“Troubled?”
“He’s had a couple of scrapes with the law. We’re still gathering information.”
“He fits the pattern,” I hear myself say.
“Get out of there.” He says the words easily, as if they are a suggestion that has just occurred to him. But I sense he’s worried about my being here alone. “I’ll get started on a warrant.”
A clap of thunder makes me jump. “Look, the sky’s getting ready to open up.” I start toward the Explorer. “I’ll give you a call from the sheriff’s office.”
“Be careful.”
“You know it,” I say, but he’s already disconnected.
Smiling, I shake my head. “Tomasetti,” I mutter, and reach for the door handle. I’m sliding behind the wheel, stabbing the key into the ignition when I notice the door to the slaughter shed is standing open.
CHAPTER 19
For an instant, I can’t believe my eyes. I walked past the slaughter shed on my way to the barn when I arrived, and I’m certain the door was closed. Had it been open, I would have noticed. Of course, it’s possible the wind blew it open, but I don’t think so.
So how did the door get open?
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter as I get out of the Explorer. I stand beside the vehicle for a moment and scan the area. Aside from the wind, everything is silent and deserted. But I can’t shake the prickly sensation between my shoulder blades.
My senses rev into hyperalert as I start toward the shed. I’m still holding my cell phone in my left hand. I’m aware of the holster beneath my jacket pressing reassuringly against my ribs.
I reach the door and peer inside. The interior is dark and smells faintly of old blood, manure, and stale air. I glance around for something with which to prop open the door, but there’s nothing handy. I turn my attention to the hasp and realize it’s the kind that could have blown open if not properly closed. But did it?
For a full minute, I stand there and listen for any sign of movement. But the only sounds are the moan of the wind, the dry scuttle of leaves across gravel, and the low rumble of thunder.
The urge to step inside and take a look around is powerful, but I know that any impropriety on my part could become an issue if this ever goes to court. I’m miles out of my jurisdiction. Tomasetti is working on a search warrant. All I have to do is wait this out at the sheriff’s office, and by day’s end an army of agents and crime-scene technicians will search this property from top to bottom.
None of that changes the fact that Annie King is dead and that I have a fifteen-year-old missing Amish girl on my hands who may be facing the same fate. I don’t know how or why, but my gut is telling me the Masts are involved. And I can’t help but think that while I’m being herded through this case like an obedient cow being prodded onto a truck, Sadie Miller is somewhere nearby, fighting for her life.
Or she’s already dead.
“To hell with it,” I mutter, and snap open my cell. The 911 dispatcher answers on the second ring. Quickly, I identify myself, letting her know I’m law enforcement. “I’m out at the Mast farm on Township Road 405, and I need for you to send a deputy as soon as possible.”
“What is your emergency, ma’am?”
“I’ve found evidence of a crime that’s related to a case I’m working on.”
I hear the clatter of fingernails against a keyboard. “What’s your location, ma’am?”
I recite the address from memory.
“I’ve got a deputy en route.”
“What’s the ETA on that?”
“Twenty minutes.” She pauses. “Are you in imminent danger, ma’am? Would you like me to stay on the line until he arrives?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I disconnect and clip the cell to my belt.
Overhead, rain begins to tap on the roof, fat drops hitting the shingles like nails from a nail gun. A gust of wind sends a scatter of dry leaves around my feet. The door slams. The sound is like a shotgun blast, and even though I saw it coming, I jump.
Crossing to the door, I twist the knob and shove it open. There’s no one there, just the wind and the storm and the weight of my own tripping suspicion. And all of it is shadowed by the doubt that I’m wrong about the Masts and that when the deputy arrives, I’m going to have some backpedaling to do.
Pulling my Mini Maglite from my pocket, I turn away from the door and start toward the corridor that will take me to the slaughter room. It’s the same route Tomasetti and I took the night we were here. Everything looks different now as the cone of light plays over the dirt floor. It’s as if some unseen threat lurks around every corner.
Using my foot, I shove open the door to the slaughter room, shine my beam inside. Light from an overhead Plexiglas panel reveals an empty space that smells vaguely of bleach and manure. The bench where the carcasses are dressed is clean and dust-free. The boiling drum is empty and dry. Cutting tools gleam from hooks on the wall. Above, the chain used to lower the carcass into the vat is rusty but free of contaminants. Perry Mast runs a clean operation. Only I found a half-burned pack of clove cigarettes in his trash. . . .
The velocity of the rain against the roof increases to a deafening drumroll. It’s so loud, someone could fire a gun and I wouldn’t hear it. I back from the slaughter room and continue down the corridor. I come to a door on my right and open it. It’s a small shop with a workbench against the wall. A big floor sink with a bar of homemade soap next to the faucet and a towel draped over its side is set against the wall. I see a container of bleach on a shelf. Cloth towels have been folded neatly on a shelf below. A cattle prod hangs from a nail that’s been driven into a two-by-four. A knife the size of a machete lies next to a sharpening stone on a workbench.
Glancing at the other side of the room, I see a large piece of equipment covered with a tarp. I cross to it and pull off the tarp. Dust flies, but I barely notice because I’m transfixed by the sight of the dark blue Ford LTD. I almost can’t believe my eyes. What the hell are the Masts doing with a vehicle? A vehicle that matches the description of the car Mandy Reiglesberger described near where Sadie Miller was last seen.
Leaving the tarp on the floor, I start toward the door, my heart pounding. Next to the door is a plastic fifty-gallon drum. The top has been sawed off and it’s being used as a trash bin. No liner. Using my flashlight, I peer inside. I see a crumpled bag of cat food, chunks of hog hooves, the broken handle of some garden tool. The sight of the bloody rags gives me pause. I lean closer, noticing a few red-black flecks on the side of the drum. I remind myself this is a butchering shed; the rags
may have been used to clean or disinfect the equipment.
It’s not an unusual find, but I pull an evidence bag from my pocket anyway. Snapping it open, I use it to pick up the smallest rag I can find, stuff it inside. I’m in the process of sealing the bag when I spot another piece of fabric at the bottom of the barrel. The fine texture of the fabric tells me it’s not a rag. It’s dirty and torn and covered with chaff. I pull out a second bag—my last—and use it to pick up the scrap. It’s about six inches long and frayed. I level my beam on it and lean forward to blow away the chaff. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle as I take in the bold white stitching against black silk. I recognize it immediately as a piece of the tank top Sadie Miller was wearing that day on the bridge.
Adrenaline rips across my midsection. I run my beam around the room, but there’s no one there. Nothing moves. Rain hammers against the roof; I can’t hear shit. Quickly, I tear the scrap into two pieces, drop half back into the barrel—evidence for the CSU—and stuff the other piece into the evidence bag. I push both bags into my back pocket and start toward the door.
Then I’m rushing down the corridor, anxious to get out. A right turn will take me back to the main door. I shine my beam left, spot yet another door at the end of the hall, next to what looks like a holding pen for the doomed hogs. I vacillate an instant, then take a left. Four strides and I reach the door. I reach for the knob, find it locked.
Cursing under my breath, I shine my beam into the holding pen. It’s constructed of steel pipe. I see a concrete water trough, which is dry. The dirt floor is covered with a mix of wood shavings and straw. No trace of manure. On the outside wall, a small half door is closed, and I suspect it leads to the outer hog pen.
I’m about to make my exit, when I notice an irregularity on the pen floor. Thrusting my flashlight through the pipe rail, I train the beam on what looks like a sheet of plywood that’s partially covered with wood shavings and straw.
Curious, I slide the pin aside. Steel creaks as I open the gate and step into the pen. I’m midway to the object when my boot thuds hollowly against the floor. Kneeling, I brush away the shavings—and realize I’m standing on a sheet of plywood.
It’s about four by six feet and three quarters of an inch thick. Kneeling, I slide my fingers beneath the edge. Dust flies as I lift. It’s heavy and requires a good bit of effort. But I muscle it aside. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize I’ve uncovered some kind of stairway or pit.
“What the hell?”
Ancient brick steps lead down to a dirt floor and a narrow passage. The walls are constructed of wood beams and crumbling brick. At first glance, I think I’ve stumbled upon a storm shelter or old root cellar. But as my beam reveals details, I realize this is neither. It’s some kind of tunnel.
Questions hammer my brain. Why in God’s name is there a tunnel beneath the Masts’ barn? Where does it go? Who uses it? And for what?
A glance at my watch tells me it’s only been ten minutes since I called 911. That means a deputy won’t arrive for another ten. Pulling my phone from my belt, I punch the speed-dial button for Tomasetti. One ring. Two. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to answer. I tell myself I don’t want him to worry. But the truth of the matter is, I know he’ll try to convince me not to go down there—and I know that would be a pretty good piece of advice.
He answers on the fourth ring with a nasty growl of his name.
“The Masts are involved.” Quickly, I tell him about the car and the scrap of fabric. “She was wearing that tank top the day of the fight.”
“Where are you?”
It’s difficult to hear him above the din of rain against the roof. “I’m at the Mast farm.”
“Is someone from the sheriff’s office there?”
“He’s en route.”
“Are you alone?”
I start to hedge, but he cuts me off. “Goddamn it, Kate—”
“Tomasetti, there’s some kind of underground tunnel beneath the slaughter shed. It’s the perfect place to hide someone.”
“What’s the ETA on that deputy?” The tone of his voice changes, and I visualize him grabbing his jacket and keys as he rushes toward the door.
“Ten minutes.”
“Call them again. In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the hell out of that goddamn tunnel?”
He disconnects without saying good-bye. Shaking my head, I hit end, then dial 911. I get the same dispatcher and quickly identify myself. “I need the ETA of that deputy.”
“He’s ten minutes out.”
“Get him on the radio and ask him to run with lights and siren.”
“Will do.”
I thank her and snap the phone onto my belt, then shine the beam into the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway looks ancient; it was probably here long before this barn was built. That’s when I notice the footprints in the dust on the steps, and I realize someone has been down there—recently.
I’ve nearly talked myself into walking outside to wait for the deputy when a scream rings out over the pounding rain. It’s female and the power behind it unnerves me.
I yank my .38 from my shoulder holster. “Shit.” With my left hand, I fumble for my phone, hit REDIAL with my thumb.
Two rings and the dispatcher answers. “Nine one one. What’s—”
“I’ve got a possible homicide in progress. I need assistance right now.”
“Ma’am, the deputy is seven minutes—”
The rain is like thunder on the roof and drowns out the rest of the sentence. All I can think is that whoever’s down there doesn’t have that kind of time. “Call the Highway Patrol—” Another scream echoes from the depths. “Send an ambulance.”
It’s an awful sound and rattles me to my core. “Goddamn it.”
“Ma’am?”
And in that instant, I know I’m not going to follow protocol. There’s no way I can stand here and do nothing while God only knows what happens to a young woman just out of sight. “Tell the deputy there’s some kind of underground passage in the slaughter shed. I’m going down there.”
Snapping my phone closed, I clip it to my belt. I shine my beam into the mouth of the tunnel and start down the steps.
CHAPTER 20
There are some decisions you make that you know will affect the rest of your life. Decisions where the line between right and wrong is blurred by circumstances. There’s no time to weigh consequences or rein in emotions you should have left out of it. And while my intellect tells me it would be wiser to turn around and wait for that deputy, the part of me that is a cop tells me to go get that girl.
The odors of damp earth and rotting wood fill my nostrils as I descend the stairs. The temperature seems to drop with every step. The pound of rain against the roof diminishes, only to be replaced by hushed air compressed by the tons of earth above and the rapid-fire beat of my heart. Adrenaline becomes a buzz in my ears, an electrical storm wreaking havoc on my muscles, making them jump beneath my skin.
My palm is wet against the grip of my .38. I hold the Mini Maglite in my left hand and pray to God the batteries will last. For the life of me I can’t remember the last time I replaced them. The beam isn’t as powerful as my full-size Maglite, which I keep in the Explorer. The only reason I’m carrying this one now is because it fits in my pocket.
I’ve never been claustrophobic, but by the time I reach the base of the stairs, I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, as cold and dank as the flesh of a long-dead corpse. The tunnel is about three feet wide and just high enough for me to stand upright. Tree roots dangle from the ceiling like snakes. Sweeping the beam left to right, I start down the corridor.
Another scream stops me. This one is primal and raw and seems to go on forever. I discern terror in the voice, and pain, hopelessness. It is the sound of a human being who’s been reduced to an animal. For the span of several heartbeats, I stand there unmoving, my every sense attuned to the darkness
ahead. I listen for footsteps or voices, anything to indicate what I’m dealing with. All I hear is my own elevated breathing and the hum of blood through my veins.
I notice the beam of my flashlight shaking and order myself to calm down. I glance over my shoulder. The square of light from the opening is still visible, and I realize I’ve gone only twenty feet or so. I start walking, my footfalls silent on the dirt and brick floor. I’ve only taken a few steps when the smell assails me. I want desperately to believe it’s manure that’s leached through the layers of soil overhead, but I’ve smelled this particular stench too many times not to recognize it. There’s something dead down here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with farm animals or manure.
“Goddamn it,” I whisper as I shine the beam in a semicircle.
I’ve barely gotten the words out when I notice the niche to my left. My flashlight beam illuminates a small alcove with crumbling brick walls and an arched ceiling with a splintered wood beam. The sight of the body on the floor sends a shock wave through me, and I take an involuntary step back. Even in the dim light of the beam, I can tell it’s a female. I see blue jeans, a filthy tank top that once was white, beat-up leather sandals. I note the horribly bloated torso, a mottled blue face with eyeballs that have long since liquefied. One arm sticks straight up. I see a black clawlike hand. At first, I think the position is due to rigor; then I notice the chain and I realize she was shackled to the wall.
“Shit. Shit.” My first thought is that it’s Sadie. But the hair color is different, and the hair is shorter. Not Sadie, I realize, and a strange sense of relief sweeps through me.
I cross to the body and kneel. This person has been dead for a few days. Judging from the condition of the body, it wasn’t an easy death; she suffered a good bit of abuse beforehand. I shine the beam on the shackle. It’s constructed of heavy chain welded to some type of steel band that clamps around her wrist. It looks homemade. I can tell by the dried blood on her arm that she struggled—violently enough for the band to have cut flesh. I don’t see any other visible injuries—gunshot or stab wounds—but there’s so much dirt and deterioration, it’s difficult to tell. After a minute, the stench drives me back. I’m loath to leave her, but there’s nothing I can do for her now. Except find her killer.
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