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.
Holding my sidearm at the ready, I turn and sidle back to the main corridor. I glance right. I can barely make out the gray light from the opening now. I wonder if the deputy has arrived. Putting the flashlight in my mouth, I pull out my phone, hit 911. The phone beeps and Failed appears in the display.
“Damn it,” I mutter, clipping it to my belt.
Sweeping my beam left, I step into the darkness. The sensation of being swallowed by some massive black mouth engulfs me, and I stave off a crushing wave of claustrophobia. I concentrate on my surroundings, listening for any sound, any sign of life—or danger.
I’ve traveled only about ten feet when my toe brushes against something. I jerk my beam down—half-expecting to see a rat—and find myself staring at a sneaker. I kneel for a closer look. It’s a woman’s shoe. The fabric once was pink, but it’s covered with dirt and spattered with blood now.
I rise and, flashlight at my side, stare ahead into the black abyss. If there’s someone there, he can see me. If he’s armed, I’m a sitting duck. For the first time, I feel exposed, vulnerable. I consider turning off the flashlight and trying to make my way in the dark. But that could prove to be even more dangerous. I could encounter stairs or a pit—or someone equipped with night-vision goggles.
Raising the flashlight, I set the beam on the walls and ceiling. If someone is using this tunnel on a regular basis, he may have installed electricity or be using an extension cord. Sure enough, my beam reveals an orange cord that’s affixed to the ceiling with galvanized fencing staples. I track the cord with my beam, realize it runs along the ceiling as far as I can see.
I pick up my pace, keeping my eye on the cord, sweeping the beam left and right. Traversing a tunnel of this size and scope is surreal. It’s like a nightmare where you think you’re about to reach the end but never do. Another few yards and I trip over a step and go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, fumble with the flashlight, and find a railroad tie sunk into the floor. To my right, an ancient door constructed of crumbling wood planks is set into the wall. I see a newish hook-and-eye lock, a floor-level wooden jamb. Above me, the cord makes the turn and disappears behind the door.
Averting the beam of my flashlight, I edge right and listen. The muffled sound of sobbing emanates from beyond. I set my ear against the wood. Not just sobbing. This is the sound of human misery, an unsettling mix of keening and groaning. Female, I think. I can’t help but wonder if Sadie is on the other side of the door. I wonder if she’s alone, if she’s injured. I wonder if there’s someone in there with her, hurting her, waiting for me.
Gripping my .38, I stuff the flashlight, beam up, into my waistband and use my left hand to ease the hook from the eye. Metal jingles against the wood when it snaps free. The sobbing stops, telling me whoever is on the other side has heard it. I kick open the door with my foot, lunge inside.
The door swings wide, bangs against the wall. Dust billows in a gossamer cloud. I’m standing in a small antechamber. Movement straight ahead. I drop into a shooter’s stance, train my weapon on the threat. “Police,” I snap. “Don’t fucking move.”
For an instant, I can’t believe my eyes. Shock is a battering ram against my brain. Three girls, teenagers, dirty and clad in little more than rags, sit on the floor, spaced about three feet apart. Two of the girls are little more than skin and bones, with sunken, haunted eyes. I see tangled, greasy hair, faces smudged with grime, bare arms covered with scabs and cuts.
The room is about six feet square and as damp and dank as a grave. The smell of urine and feces and unwashed bodies wafts over me as I move closer. The girls are chained to the wall, their wrists shackled with rusty steel bands and smeared with blood. What in the name of God is going on?
For the span of several seconds, three pairs of eyes stare at me as if I’m some kind of apparition. I see in the depths of those eyes a tangle of primal emotions I can’t begin to name.
“I’m a cop.” I whisper the words, put my finger to my mouth in a silent plea for them to remain silent. “Shhh. I’m here to help you. But I need for you to be quiet. Do you understand?”
“Katie?” The girl farthest from me lunges to her feet, the chain at her wrist clanging. “Katie? Oh my God! Katie!”
Sadie, I realize. She’s barely recognizable because of the dirt. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “But you have to be quiet.”
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“I know, honey.” I move toward her, my eyes taking in details I don’t want to see; details I’ll be seeing in my nightmares for a long time to come. The steel band around her wrist has cut to the bone, exposing the ulna. Her hand is swollen and streaked with blood. The wound is bad; it’s worse that she doesn’t seem to notice.
“How badly are you hurt?” I ask.
“They’re starving us. I’ve cut my wrist.” She motions toward one of the other girls. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s feverish and out of her mind.”
Without warning, the girl she indicated lets out a bloodcurdling screech. “Awwwwwwwwer,” she wails. “Awwwwwwwwer …”
Those were the screams I heard earlier. Quickly, I cross to her and bend. “Be quiet,” I whisper. “I’m here to rescue you.”
The girl scrambles away, yanks against her chain, screams again.
“Shut up!” Sadie hisses, and lashes out at the girl with her foot. “Shut her up! She’s going to get us all killed.”
Tossing Sadie a warning look, I holster my weapon and grasp the screaming girl by the shoulders, give her a shake. “Quiet!” I make eye contact with her. “Please. Be quiet. Do you understand?”
Blank eyes stare at me from a face that’s black with grime. Dead eyes, I think. And I know that while this girl might be physically alive, something inside her has been snuffed out.
“It’s going to be okay.” Gently, I lower her to the ground, run my hand over her head. “What’s your name?”
She curls into herself, like some soft sea creature that’s been prodded by a sharp stick.
“I think her name’s Ruth,” Sadie whispers. “She’s crazy.”
Ruth Wagler, I realize. Four years gone and still alive.
I turn, find Sadie looking at me. Despite her ragged appearance, there’s a fierceness in her eyes, as if she’s ready to tear into the first person who walks through that door, the chain on her wrist be damned.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
“The deacon,” the second girl hisses.
“Deacon?” I repeat.
“A man,” Sadie tells me. “He’s old.”
“A couple,” the other girl cuts in. “A married couple.”
“The Masts?” I ask.
“That’s it!” Sadie cries.
“They’re fucking crazy,” the second girl chokes out.
I turn my attention to her, trying not to wince at the sight of the weeping sores around her mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Bonnie Fisher.”
The girl who disappeared two months ago, I realize. “Your mamm and datt miss you.”
She slaps her hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. Her eyes fill. But she doesn’t utter a sound.
“Where’s the couple now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Sadie tells me. “They haven’t been down here for a while.”
“
Are they armed?”
“He has a rifle,” Bonnie says.
Uneasiness creeps over me, like a big spider with cold, spindly legs creeping up the back of my neck. I glance toward the door. “Is there anyone else down here?”
The two girls exchange looks. “Leah,” Bonnie says.
Leah Stuckey. I recall the name from that first briefing with Sheriff Goddard. Sixteen years old. From Hope Falls, Ohio. Missing one year. Her parents were recently killed in a buggy accident.
“They took her,” Sadie adds. “Two days ago.”
I think of the body a few yards outside the door and I wonder if it’s Leah’s. “Where did they take her?”
“We don’t know,” Sadie replies.
“They hated Leah,” Bonnie tells me. “They were mean to her because she was mouthy and cussed a lot. They tried to make her read the Bible, like for twenty-four hours straight.” She chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. “Leah told them to get fucked.” She closes her eyes tightly, as if trying to ward off the memory. “They used a cattle prod on her.”
“They took her once, and when they brought her back, she got really sick. You know, bleeding …” Sadie bites her lip. “Down there.”
“I think she’s dead,” Bonnie whispers. “They’re going to kill us, too.”
“No, they’re not,” I say firmly. “I’m going to get you out of here. But I need for you to stay calm and be quiet.”
Sadie nods. The other girl jerks her head, but she doesn’t look convinced. I hope they can hold it together long enough for me to figure out how to handle this.
I look at the band around Sadie’s wrist. “Is there a key?”
“The old man keeps it in his pocket.”
I glance around the chamber, looking for something with which to break the chain. “Help me find something to break that chain,” I say. “A rock or a brick.”
The two girls look around. A single bare bulb dangles from the ceiling and doesn’t reveal much. I see an empty water bottle, a crumbled paper towel. A book lies facedown on a small table. I cross to it, read the embossed words on the spine Es Nei Teshtament. The New Testament.
“There’s nothing here,” Bonnie says.
“Shoot it off.” Sadie motions toward my sidearm and raises her wrist.
I don’t reply; I know she doesn’t want to hear my answer. The chain is too heavy to sever with a bullet. The cuff is too close to her wrist. Not only would it require multiple firings and risk a ricochet but I’d probably run out of ammunition before the job was done, and then I’d have no weapon at all.
I pull out my phone. A lone bar appears on the display. I hit 911 anyway and get another Failed message. I try Tomasetti’s number and get the same result.
Clipping my phone to my belt, I look at the two girls. They’re standing a few feet apart—as close to me as their chains will allow—staring at me as if I’m their last breath of air. “I have to go for help,” I tell them.
“What?” Bonnie looks at me as if I’m a traitor. “You can’t leave us!”
“No!” Sadie chokes. “Don’t go! You can’t!”
“There’s a deputy out there,” I tell them. “Just stay calm and I’ll get you out of here.”
The girl lying on the floor bellows an animalistic cry that echoes off the walls. Sadie whirls toward her. “Shut up!” she hisses.
“What if they come for us while you’re gone?” Bonnie whispers.
“They’re not home,” I say firmly. “I checked.”
“Don’t leave us down here!” she cries.
“They’ll kill us,” Sadie says.
I cross to her, set my hands on her shoulders, and give her a shake. “Everything’s going to be okay. But I need for you to be strong. Do you understand?”
Sadie jerks her head.
“Good girl.” I turn my attention to Bonnie.
Her face crumples. Sagging against the chain, she begins to sob. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us. Please don’t. Please!”
Reaching out, I set my hand on her shoulder and squeeze. “I’ll be back,” I say firmly. “I promise.”
As I turn my back on them and start toward the door, I pray it’s a promise I can keep.
CHAPTER 21
Their cries follow me through the door and into the corridor. Then I’m moving at a jog, heading toward the hatch from which I entered. I’m looking for daylight, anxious to get the hell out of this godforsaken tunnel and get those girls to safety.
The beam of my flashlight carves a murky path through the darkness. I’m kicking up dust, and in the periphery of my vision, it hovers like mist. I can hear myself breathing hard, a mix of adrenaline and physical exertion. I catch a glimpse of a small wooden door to my right, and I realize there’s yet another passage I overlooked on the way down. I have no idea how extensive these tunnels are; there could be many more passages and rooms. There could be more missing.
More bodies.
I keep moving as fast as I dare. I’m fifteen yards from the hatch. I’m running full out now, my mind jumping ahead to the things I need to do. I want to call Tomasetti and let him know three of the missing are alive. He’ll expedite the search warrant for the house and property. The body will need to be retrieved. The families notified. Arrest warrants issued for Irene and Perry Mast.
The blow comes out of nowhere, like a baseball bat slamming against my chest. The impact knocks me off my feet. For an instant, I’m suspended in space. Then my back slams against the ground. My head rocks back, sending a scatter of stars across my vision. At first, I think I’ve been shot. I can’t breathe. Terrible sounds grind from my throat as I try to suck oxygen into my lungs.
For what seems like an eternity, all I can focus on is breathing. I turn onto my side, manage a small gulp of oxygen. But pain zings all the way up to my collarbone. I’m aware of dim light above me. Dust motes are flying all around. I feel around for my .38, but it’s gone. I’ve dropped my flashlight, as well. But I can see. Where’s the light coming from?
My vision clears, and I find myself staring up at a bare bulb dangling down like some bizarre Christmas tree ornament. Turning, I look around. My flashlight lies on its side a few feet away. A man stands above me, his face obscured by shadows.
“Don’t get up, Chief Burkholder.”
Perry Mast steps into the sphere of light from the bulb. He’s holding a shovel in one hand, a rifle in the other, and the full gravity of my predicament hits home with all the stunning force of the blow.
“I don’t think I will just yet.” The words come out on a groan. I shift, make a show of wincing, use the opportunity to look around, take stock of my injuries. Broken ribs, probably. But in some small corner of my brain, I know that those injuries are the least of my worries. My .38 is nowhere in sight. I must have dropped it, and he picked it up. My chest hurts, but at least I can breathe. If I can keep him talking until the deputy finds us …
“You shouldn’t be down here,” he says. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
“Mr. Mast,” I begin, “what are you doing?”
“I know you found the young people,” he tells me. “I know you spoke to them. You should not have done that.”
How does he know? Has he been watching me since I arrived? Was he lurking outside the room, listening? Or maybe he’s installed cameras or listening devices. What ever the case, I decide, the less I profess to know, the better off I’ll be. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m afraid you’ve placed yourself in a tight spot.”
“This doesn’t have to end badly. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. We can end this now.” I try to rise, but he sets the shovel against my shoulder and pushes me down.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
I stare at him, my mind racing. “We can walk out of here right now and get this straightened out.”
“I do not wish to leave this place.” Leaning the shovel against the wall, he moves closer and looks down at m
e. “I will not abandon the work God has assigned me.”
For the first time, I get a good look at his face. His expression is serene. I see the wheels turning in his mind as he works through the predicament of my having discovered his underground secret. In that moment, I realize that cold, hard sanity is infinitely more frightening than madness.
“I’m a police officer,” I tell him. “You can’t get away with this. Stop now and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
He’s holding the rifle in his right hand. It’s a .22 hunting rifle, a deadly weapon to be sure. But a long rifle can be unwieldy in tight quarters—like this tunnel. If this turns into a physical confrontation, that could work to my advantage.
“I will not stop my work here, Chief Burkholder. It is God’s will and it will be done. Nothing you say or do can change that.”
“Mr. Mast, people know I’m here. Someone from the sheriff’s office is aboveground, looking for me. It’s over.”
“No one knows about the tunnels.”
“I told them. They’ll find my vehicle. It’s only a matter of time. Do yourself a favor and give it up.”
Mast stares at me as if I’m some unpleasant chore that must be completed. There’s no hatred, no passion in his eyes. I’m not a person to him, simply an impediment to his mission. There’s no doubt in my mind he means to harm me. Kill me. Or maybe chain me down here with the others.
“No more talking,” he tells me. “My work here is larger than you or me, and I will not let you interfere. I will not let you stop me.”
I stare back, my brain scrambling for some way to get through to him. But my earlier calm has transformed into a twitching mass of nerves. The truth of the matter is, I’m in trouble. He’s got the upper hand and we both know it.
Mast isn’t a large man—maybe six feet tall, 170 pounds. He’s thirty years older than I am, so I’ve got the advantage of youth. I’m physically fit and fairly adept in the arena of self-defense. But I’m injured; he’s got fifty pounds on me and a lot more muscle.
Cautiously, I ease myself to a sitting position, try a different tactic. “God would never ask you to hurt anyone. He is benevolent. He wouldn’t ask you to harm another person.”
Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) Page 22