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 flash-light 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.