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.
“The Lord has burdened me with the task of punishing the disobedient and sinners, and when they manifest repentance, He will receive them back.” Fervor rings in his voice. “I bring them back to the Amish way. Back to the Lord. In essence, Chief Burkholder, I save their souls.”
“By torturing and murdering?”
“It is extreme,” he admits. “But they have strayed far. In time, they will be thankful.” For the first time, I see the glint of insanity in his eyes. “Leah Stuckey was beyond redemption. But she did not die at my hand. God took her into His loving hands and returned her to the earth.”
I stare at him, knowing God had nothing to do with it. She died a slow death of starvation, exposure, and neglect.
Knowing there will be no negotiating, that his thought processes are beyond reason, I steal a quick glance around. The shovel leans against the wall, four feet away. I wonder if I can reach it before Mast brings down the rifle and gets off a shot.
“Did you dig these tunnels?” I ask, though I vaguely recall someone telling me this farm was once part of the Underground Railroad.
“These passages have been here since the Civil War. For the African slaves, you know. They could flee the house and hide in the forest—”
I lunge at the shovel, grab the handle above the spade. Pain rips up my side as I swing. The steel spade smashes against Mast’s chest. A guttural sound tears from his throat. His knees buckle and the rifle falls to the ground. I clamber to my feet. He lunges at me, but I lurch back, scramble out of reach. I look around for my weapon, but it’s nowhere in sight. Where the hell is my gun?
The next thing I know, his arms clamp around my thighs. He’s trying to knock me off balance, get me on the ground so he can overpower me. I raise the shovel, bring the spade down hard. The blade strikes his shoulder. Yowling, he reels backward, lands on his ass. I lunge at the flashlight a few feet away, but he reaches out and his hand closes around my ankle. I hit him with the shovel again, but my angle is bad and the blade only grazes his elbow. I lash out with my other foot, catch him in the chin. The impact snaps his head back, but he doesn’t let go. If he gets me on the ground, I’m done. The rifle lies on the ground, three feet away. Even if I get away and run, he’ll shoot me in the back.
I glance up, my eyes seeking the bulb. It’s too far away for me to reach. But the cord is right above me. I upend the shovel, stab the cord as hard as I can. Sparks fly as the blade severs it. Electricity cracks and darkness descends. Working blind, I drive the shovel’s spade in the direction where I last saw Mast, hear it make purchase. He releases my ankle. But I feel him grapple for the shovel. I thrust it at him but lose my grip as I stumble away. The blade grazes my hip. He’s swinging it at me, trying to hit me.
And then I’m running, completely blind, arms outstretched, feeling my way along the walls. I planned to exit the tunnel the same way I’d entered, but Mast is blocking my way. I think I’m heading in the general direction of the house, which is sixty yards from the slaughter shed.
I’ve gone only a few strides when my shoulder brushes the wall. The impact spins me around. Barely maintaining my balance, I re orient myself and keep going. Dirt crumbles beneath my fingertips. Cobwebs stick to my hands. I want to try my phone, but I don’t dare take the time. Mast has my flashlight and my .38. Not to mention the rifle. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll fire blind to stop me.
Light flashes in my peripheral vision. I glance over my shoulder, see the flashlight beam behind me, and I know Mast is closing in. My foot strikes something solid. I stumble, land on my hands and knees, but in an instant, I’m back on my feet,