Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (30 page)

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.

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 me. “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.”

“He that spareth the rod hateth his son.”

“T alt shall not kill.”

Mast sighs, as if none of this is his plea sure, but a burden placed upon him by a merciless God. “I took no plea sure in that. Annie King was an accident. She ran . . .” He shrugs, his words trailing off. “It made my heart heavy. But it is a burden I must bear. A sacrifice I have been asked to make.”

I want to tell him that’s a total crock of shit, but I hold my tongue. “You’re hurting people,” I whisper. “This is not what God wants you to do.”

“The young people have lost their way, Chief Burkholder. Surely you see that in your line of work. Our youth have become morally corrupt. Spiritually destitute.” He shakes his head, a parent ravaged by disappointment. “Ruth Wagler had become a slave to the white powder. She sold her body, her very soul to get it. Bonnie Fisher murdered her unborn child. Leah Stuckey seduced her own uncle. Young Sadie Miller lies with the English boys. She gives freely of her body. She drinks alcohol and her head is filled with prideful ideas.