“She’s done,” Tomasetti says.
I stare down at her for a moment, watching the life drain from her eyes. I remind myself that just minutes ago, she tried to kill me; I shouldn’t feel anything except gratitude that I’m alive and she’s lying there dead instead of me. But the fact of the matter is, it’s not easy to watch someone die. In this case, Irene and Perry Mast left too many questions unanswered.
“Kate.”
It takes me a moment to realize Tomasetti is speaking to me. I have no idea what he’s saying. I turn to him, pretending I wasn’t somewhere else.
“The tunnel, Kate. Where is it?”
The sheriff’s deputy stands next to him, barking something into his lapel mike, but his attention is on me.
“Basement,” I say. “This way.”
Then I’m striding down the hallway, vaguely aware that my legs are shaking. The basement door stands open, the wood around the lock shattered. Evidently, Perry Mast used the rifle to blast his way out. I stop at the door, look down the steps into the basement. It seems like hours since I was down there, though in reality it’s only a matter of minutes.
I start down the steps. The temperature drops as I descend. The odor of rotting wood and wet earth close around me like a dirty, wet blanket. Gray light oozes in from a single window at ground level, but it’s not enough to cut the shadows.
My boots are silent on the dirt floor as I cross to the hatch. Tomasetti walks beside me, shining his Maglite from side to side. I hear the deputy behind me. He’s breathing heavily, which tells me his adrenaline is flowing. The fact of the matter is, we don’t know what we’ll find down here. We don’t know if there are other people, if they’re armed, or if they mean us harm. We don’t know if the girls are alive or if Mast killed them before coming out and turning the gun on himself.
“They ran electricity to the tunnel,” I say as I take them to the hatch.
“So much for all those Amish rules,” Tomasetti mutters.
“I cut the extension cord.”
We reach the hatch. The sickle I used to lock Mast in lies on the floor, a few feet away. One of the double doors lies next to it; the other hangs at a precarious angle by a single hinge.
“He shot off the hinges,” says Marcus stating the obvious.
Tomasetti shines his light down the steps leading into the tunnel. “What the fuck is this?”
Marcus trains the beam of his flashlight on the steps. “House used to be part of the Underground Railroad.”
“No shit?” Tomasetti says.
“Newspaper did a story a few years ago.”
“Did you know about the tunnels?” Tomasetti asks.
“No one mentioned tunnels.”
“Now you know why,” I mutter.
The deputy sweeps his beam along the brick walls of the tunnel. “Creepy as hell, if you ask me.”
Dread scrapes a nail down my back as I stare into the darkness. My heart is a drum in my chest. The last thing I want to do is go back down there. Not because I’m afraid of some unseen threat, but because I don’t know what we’ll find. If Mast shot and killed his wife, chances are good he also killed the girls. . . .
“We need a generator and work lights.” Tomasetti glances my way, keeping his voice light. “You want to get that going, Chief?”
He’s giving me an out, I realize. As much as I appreciate the gesture, there’s no way I can stay behind.
“I need to go down there.”
“Let’s go.” Drawing his weapon, he starts down the steps.
Descending into the tunnel is like being swallowed alive by a wet black mouth. Even with two powerful flashlights, there’s not enough light.
No one says what they’re thinking. That we’re going to find the hostages dead. That Mast won this little war and we should chalk up another one for the bad guys. . . .
Our feet are nearly silent on the ancient brick and dirt floor. Tomasetti has to walk at a slight stoop because of his height.
“Where the hell does it go?” the deputy asks.
“The slaughter shed,” I tell him. “There was another turnoff, which might lead to the barn.”
Flashes of my blind run through this tunnel nudge the back of my consciousness. I remember feeling my way along the brick walls, stumbling over unseen obstacles, knowing an armed Perry Mast was closing in and bent on killing me. I suspect I’ll be making that run in my nightmares for some time to come. . . .
Twenty yards in, the unmistakable sound of footsteps reach us. Someone is running toward us.
“Shit.” Tomasetti raises his weapon and drops into a crouch. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Police!”
Beside me, the deputy drops to a shooter’s stance, raises his weapon. I pull the Glock from my waistband and do the same.
Both men shine their lights forward.
“The hostages were bound?” the deputy asks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
I see movement ahead. Out of the corner of my eye I see the deputy take aim. “Stop right there!” he shouts. “Sheriff’s office!”
On instinct, the three of us move closer to the wall, but there’s no cover. A figure appears out of the darkness. I see a tall, thin silhouette, a pale face and dark hair, dark clothes.
“Stop!” Tomasetti shouts. “Stop right fucking there!”
A young man dressed in tattered Amish garb stumbles to a halt a dozen feet away. His arms flap at his sides. His mouth is open. His eyes are wild. He screams something unintelligible and falls to his knees.
“Get your hands up!” Keeping his sidearm poised center mass, Tomasetti approaches the man. “Get them up! Now!”
“Get down on the ground!” the deputy screams.
The man stares at us, his expression terrified as he drops to his hands and knees and then onto his belly. He’s muttering words I don’t understand—an old Amish prayer I haven’t heard in years.
We rush forward as a unit. Tomasetti pounces on him, puts his knee in the man’s back. The deputy withdraws cuffs from his belt and secures the man’s hands behind his back. My hands shake as I pat him down for weapons. I pull the pockets of his trousers inside out. As I run my hands over his chest, I discern the sharp edges of ribs. He’s little more than skin and bones.
“He’s clean,” I say, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Tomasetti gets to his feet, brushes dust from his slacks, slants a look at me. “He one of the hostages?”
“The hostages were female.” I turn my attention to the young man. “What’s your name?”
The deputy helps the man to his feet. I guess him to be in his twenties. He’s breathing hard, his concave chest heaving with each breath. He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand.
I repeat my question in Pennsylvania Dutch. “What’s your name?”
“Noah,” he blurts. “Noah Mast.”
A shockwave goes through me with such power that I take a step back. I glance at Tomasetti. He’s not easily surprised. But I see shock in his eyes.
“You’re Noah Mast?” he asks.
“Ja.”
The deputy’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”
“Are you the son of Irene and Perry Mast?” I ask.
The man nods. “They are my mamm and datt.”
I’m so taken aback by the revelation, it takes me a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing down here?”
“This is where I live.”
“What do you mean?”
“I live here. This is where they keep me.”
“You mean here? On the property?” I ask. “With your parents?”
He looks at me as if I’m dense. “No. I live here. In the down below. Here.”
If I wasn’t hearing this with my own ears, I wouldn’t believe it. My brain sorts through the information, but I still can’t get my mind around it.