Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 25

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. .h.i.tting the s.h.i.+ngles 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 k.n.o.b 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, s.h.i.+ne my beam inside. Light from an overhead Plexiglas panel reveals an empty s.p.a.ce that smells vaguely of bleach and manure. The bench where the carca.s.ses 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 carca.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 sc.r.a.p. 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 p.r.i.c.kle as I take in the bold white st.i.tching 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 s.h.i.+t. Quickly, I tear the sc.r.a.p 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 rus.h.i.+ng down the corridor, anxious to get out. A right turn will take me back to the main door. I s.h.i.+ne 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 k.n.o.b, find it locked.

Cursing under my breath, I s.h.i.+ne 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 h.e.l.l?"

Ancient brick steps lead down to a dirt floor and a narrow pa.s.sage. 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 G.o.d'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 b.u.t.ton 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 sc.r.a.p 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. "G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l out of that G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+ne the beam into the mouth of the tunnel. The pa.s.sageway 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. "s.h.i.+t." 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 a.s.sistance 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. "G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 G.o.d only knows what happens to a young woman just out of sight. "Tell the deputy there's some kind of underground pa.s.sage in the slaughter shed. I'm going down there."

Snapping my phone closed, I clip it to my belt. I s.h.i.+ne 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sails 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.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it," I whisper as I s.h.i.+ne 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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.

"s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t." 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 s.h.i.+ne 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.

"d.a.m.n it," I mutter, clipping it to my belt.

Sweeping my beam left, I step into the darkness. The sensation of being swallowed by some ma.s.sive black mouth engulfs me, and I stave off a crus.h.i.+ng 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 m.u.f.fled 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 f.u.c.king 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, s.p.a.ced 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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 d.a.m.ned.

"Who did this to you?" I ask.

"The deacon," the second girl hisses.

"Deacon?" I repeat.

"A man," Sadie tells me. "He's old."