Instead of responding, Tomasetti pours alcohol over both of his hands, letting it drip onto the ground, then unfastens another button on my blouse. I barely notice as he tears open a small pouch of gel and smears it over my burns. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but the pain is coming to life: a tight, searing sensation that spreads from my collarbone, upper arm, and breast. It’s strange, but I’m almost thankful for the distraction. Anything to keep me from imagining the scene belowground.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says after a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” But he leans toward me and gives me a quick, hard kiss.
I think of the family he lost—his wife and two little girls—and suddenly I feel guilty for doing that to him when he’s already been through so much. The pop of a gunshot ends the moment.
On instinct, we duck slightly, look toward the house. At first, I think the deputy or the trooper has taken a shot. But they’re also looking for the source.
“Where did it come from?” Tomasetti growls.
“The house, I think.”
Another shot rings out.
“The house!” The deputy shouts the words from his position behind the trooper’s vehicle.
A woman’s scream emanates from inside. At first, I think Mast has brought one of the girls topside. That he’s going to use her for leverage or cover to blast his way out. Or kill her right in front of us to make some senseless point.
But the scream is too deep, too coarse to have come from one of the girls. “That was Irene Mast,” I hear myself say.
Tomasetti’s eyes narrow on mine. I can tell by his expression that he knows what I’m saying. “What the hell is that crazy son of a bitch doing?”
A third shot rings out.
The house falls silent. We wait. The minutes seem to tick by like hours. Around us, the rain increases. No one seems to notice. I hear sirens in the distance, and I know the fire department and medical personnel are parked at the end of the lane.
“There he is!”
I don’t know who shouted the words. I turn and see Perry Mast exit the house through the back door. He’s holding a rifle in his right hand, my .38 in his left.
The trooper, armed with a bullhorn, calls out, “Stop right there and put down the guns.”
Mast stares out at us as if he’s in a trance. His face is blank and slack, completely devoid of stress and emotion. He’s snapped, I realize. Mentally checked out. It’s a chilling scene to see an Amish man in that state, knowing what he’s done, what he’s capable of.
“Drop those weapons!” the trooper says. “Get down on the ground.”
The Amish man doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge the command.
I look at Tomasetti. “Do you think he’d respond to Pennsylvania Dutch?”
“Worth a try.”
Staying low, keeping the vehicles between us and the shooter, we start toward the trooper.
“She knows Pennsylvania Dutch,” Tomasetti says.
The trooper sends me a questioning look.
“I used to be Amish,” I tell him.
He passes the bullhorn to me. “Might help.”
“Mr. Mast, it’s Kate Burkholder.” I fumble for the right words, hoping to land on something that will reach him. “Please put down the guns and talk to me.” I wait, but he doesn’t respond.
“Violence isn’t the way to handle this, Mr. Mast. Please. Lay down the—”
My words break off when Perry Mast shifts his stance. For an instant, I think he’s going to acquiesce. That he’s going to step off the porch and give himself up. Instead, he raises his left hand, sets the muzzle of the .38 beneath his chin, and pulls the trigger.
CHAPTER 23
Mast’s head snaps back. Blood spatters the door behind him, like red paint spattered violently against a canvas. His knees buckle and he falls backward, striking the door on his way down.
“Shit,” Tomasetti hisses.
And then we’re on our feet, running toward the house.
“Irene Mast is inside!” I shout. “She’s armed!”
Marcus, the deputy, reaches the porch first. He’s holding his Glock in his right hand, keeping his eyes on the window and door. I’m behind him. Tomasetti is beside me—so close that his arm brushes against mine.
I try not to look at Mast. He’s lying on his back, his head propped against the door. The bullet entered beneath his chin. The entry wound is small. But I know enough about weapons to know the kind of damage a .38 will do when it exits. I don’t see a wound, but a pool of blood the size of a dinner plate spreads out on the concrete beneath him. His eyes are open and seem to stare right at me. And even though I know he’s beyond feeling any kind of emotion, I swear I see an accusatory glint.
We need to go through the door, but Mast’s body is in the way. The trooper bends, sets his hands beneath the corpse’s shoulders, and drags him aside, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete. Marcus yanks open the door. I go through first, the Glock at the ready, Tomasetti right behind me.
“Police!” I shout. “Put your hands up and get on the floor!”
My heartbeat roars like a freight train in my chest as I step into the kitchen.
“Blood,” Tomasetti says, and motions left.
A pool of it shimmers black in the dim light slanting through the window. I see the strips of cloth I used to bind the Amish woman’s hands. Then I spot the drag mark.
“Shit!” whispers the deputy as he steps in behind us.
A whimper sounds from the hall. It’s a terrible sound in the silence of the house. The cry of a dying animal. My Glock leading the way, I follow the blood trail through the kitchen and into the hall. There, I see Irene Mast lying on the floor. Her hands are free. She’s using her elbows to drag herself toward the basement door. With each movement, that terrible sound erupts from her mouth. It’s as if she’s a mindless thing that must reach some destination before she can die.
“Stop right there.” My throat is so tight, I barely recognize my own voice. “Stop.”
She continues on as if she hasn’t heard me, hands and elbows pulling her body along. Her hands are clawing at the hardwood floor, that terrible sound squeezing from her throat with every inch of progress.
In the periphery of my mind, I hear the deputy’s radio crack; he’s speaking into his mike, giving the paramedics the go-ahead to come up the driveway.
“Mrs. Mast?” I repeat. “Stop. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
She’s sustained at least one bullet wound to the head. I don’t know how it is that she’s still conscious. That she somehow survived that kind of trauma. Her kapp and the hair beneath it are blood-soaked. Her left ear is missing. She’s lost a lot of blood. But she doesn’t stop. Her hand claws at the floor, a mindless, brain-damaged action. Her nails are broken to the quick. Her legs remain unmoving, part of a broken body being dragged along behind her.
I kneel next to her, set my hand on her shoulder. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”
That’s when I notice the bullet hole in her back. It’s small and there’s not much bleeding. I wonder if the bullet struck her spine and that’s why her legs aren’t moving.
“Mrs. Mast, hold still. Help will be here any moment.”
She uses her left hand to turn onto her side. A sound squeezes between her lips as she rolls onto her back. Her eyes find mine, and I realize she’s cognizant. She knows she’s been shot. She knows I’m here.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
Her eyes focus on mine. Her mouth opens and blood and saliva form a bubble between her lips. She whispers something unintelligible and then the breath rushes from her lungs. Her body jerks twice and goes slack. I hear the paramedics come through the door, but I know they’re too late.