Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 22

The bullet ricochets off a brick a foot from my head. Fragments of brick sting my face. I throw myself onto the steps, clamber up them, using my hands. At the top, I ram the hatch with my shoulder hard enough to jar my spine. The double wooden doors fly open. I scramble up the remaining steps, look around wildly. I’m in a basement or cellar with a dirt floor and stone walls. I see shelves filled with canning jars. Gardening tools. Wood steps twenty feet away.

Another shot rings out. Bending, I slam the doors closed. They’re heavy, fabricated of ancient wood planks with old-fashioned handles on the outside. There’s no lock, and I have scant seconds before Mast climbs the steps and jams that rifle in my face.

Spotting a sickle hanging on the wall, I rush to it, yank it down, and dash back to the hatch. I jam the blade through both handles.

An instant later, the doors rattle as Mast tries to pound his way out. I back away, praying the sickle will hold, and grapple for my cell. Relief flits through me when I see four bars. I hit 911 as I dart toward the stairs.

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

Quickly, I identify myself. “Shots fired at the Mast farm! I’ve got an armed suspect! One fatality!”

“Ma’am, the deputy is ten-twenty-three.”

Ten-twenty-three means he’s arrived on-scene. If that’s the case, where is he? I reach the steps and look up. A horizontal line of light bleeds from beneath the door. I lower my voice. “Get another deputy out here. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle. I’m under fire.”

“Stand by.”

I hear the pop of a gunshot, spin toward the hatch behind me, see a chunk of wood fly. Mast is shooting his way through. I end the call, clip the phone to my belt, and take the stairs two at a time to the top. I have no idea if Irene Mast is waiting for me on the other side with a rifle. The one thing I do know is that if I want to live, I have to get the hell out of here.

I open the door a crack. I see a hallway with plank floors, a homemade rug. To my right is a small living area. Looking to my left, I can see the linoleum floor of the kitchen. If I can get through the kitchen and out the back door, I’ll be able to take cover until backup arrives.

I listen for sirens. For Perry Mast pounding up the basement stairs. All I hear is the hard thrum of my heart and my survival instinct screaming Run!

Easing open the door, I step into the hall. Another layer of relief goes through me when I spot the skeleton key sticking out. Closing the door behind me, I twist the key. I know the lock is no match for a rifle, but it’s one more barrier between me and Perry Mast. It might buy me some time.

My boots are silent against the floor as I start toward the kitchen. The smell of cooking tomatoes hangs in the air. Pots rattle on the stovetop, and I realize Irene is in there, canning vegetables, a chore my own mamm did a hundred times when I was growing up.

I stop short of the doorway and peer into the kitchen. Irene Mast stands at the stove, her back to me. The faucet is running. She’s holding a towel in her left hand, has another slung over her shoulder. She’s lowering a rack of mason jars into a large steaming pot.

The sight is so utterly benign that I can barely reconcile it with the scene that just transpired in the tunnel. I stand frozen in place, wondering if she knows about the missing girls. Has she been kept in the dark? Has she turned a blind eye because she can’t handle the truth? Or is she part of it?

She’s so intent on her chore that she doesn’t hear me enter. I’ve gone only a couple of steps when it strikes me that if the deputy had indeed arrived, she wouldn’t be in here canning tomatoes. She’d be outside, answering some disturbing questions about missing girls and how her husband spends his spare time.

I’m about to call out to her, when I spot the rifle leaning against the cabinet. It’s an older .22 lever action with a scuffed walnut stock and a pitted barrel. The hairs on my neck stand straight up. She knows, a little voice whispers in my ear.

I’m ten feet away from her. She’s standing between me and the rifle, the weapon within easy reach. All she’d have to do is bend and pick it up. I measure the distance to the back door, wonder if I can reach it before she snatches it up and shoots me in the back.

The Amish woman turns. Her eyes find mine, but her expression doesn’t change. There’s no shock. No realization of culpability. No anger or fear. It’s as if she knew I was here all along. The only thought processes I see are intent and a cold conviction that chills my blood. And in that instant, I know she’s part of this. I know if I don’t act quickly, she’ll kill me.

“Don’t fucking move,” I tell her. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Unfazed, she reaches for the rifle with the calm of a woman picking up the broom to sweep the floor. . . .

I lunge at the weapon just as she’s bringing up the muzzle. I grab the barrel and yank it toward me. At the same time, I try to ram my knee into her abdomen, but there’s too much space between us. She’s a heavy woman; she’s got a better grip and maintains her balance. Her mouth contorts as she wrenches the rifle toward her. I stumble forward, and for an instant, we engage in a tug-of-war, the rifle between us. She’s got the advantage of weight. But I have training and youth on my side. I shove the rifle upward as hard as I can. The stock strikes the base of her chin, snapping her teeth together. Growling, she steps forward and slams her body into mine. The momentum knocks me off balance, but I come forward quickly, get beneath the rifle, jam it upward again. The stock hits her left cheekbone this time, hard enough to open the skin.

A guttural sound tears from her throat as she yanks back on the rifle. I catch a glimpse of her eyes. The rage reflecting back shocks me. The next thing I know, she’s charging forward, using the rifle to drive me backward. My backside hits the table. The legs screech across the linoleum. I twist the rifle, but she doesn’t release it. When I get her close enough, I bring up my knee, ram it into her abdomen.

The breath rushes from her in a sound that’s part roar, part scream. She lets go of the rifle, reels backward into the stove.

“Do not move!” I shout. “Do not fucking move!”

I’m checking to see if there’s a bullet in the chamber when she turns toward the stove.

“I will shoot you!” I scream. “Get down on the floor!”

She yanks the pot from the stove. Water sloshes over the side as she spins toward me. The jars clank together as she hurls the pot at me. Boiling water spews onto my clothes, my face and neck. I know I’m being scalded, but there’s too much adrenaline for me to feel pain. I use the rifle like a bat, slam it against the side of her head with such force that she’s knocked off her feet.

Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear a mason jar shatter as it hits the floor. Blood spatters the counter as Irene Mast goes down. The sensation of heat streaks down my neck, my right shoulder, my breast.

Irene Mast is lying on her side, not moving. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I cross to her, nudge her with my toe. She’s deadweight. Her eyes are open, but she’s not quite conscious. The blow opened a gash the size of my index finger just in front of her ear.

My hand shakes as I reach for my cuffs, only I’m not wearing my uniform belt. I look around for something with which to secure her hands, spot a towel on the floor. Using my teeth, I tear it into three strips and tie them together. Kneeling, I roll her over, pull her arms behind her back. As I secure her wrists, I glance toward the basement door behind me, half-expecting an armed Perry Mast to burst out shooting. I don’t think I’m in any condition to go another round.

I get to my feet, give Irene Mast a final look. “Don’t go anywhere,” I mutter. Picking up the rifle, I start toward the back door.

Midway through the mudroom, I pull out my phone, punch 911. Standing to one side, I move the curtain with the muzzle and peer out. I notice two things simultaneously. My Explorer is nowhere in sight. And a Trumbull County Crown Vic is parked in the same place my Explorer had been parked just a short time earlier. Where the hell is the deputy?

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

Once more, I identify myself and tell her the sheriff’s cruiser is here but that there’s no sign of the deputy. “He could be down. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle and shooting at cops.”

“Ten-four. Stand by.”

The cruiser is too far away for me to discern if the deputy is inside, injured or otherwise. He could be in the barn or one of the outbuildings, searching for me. Unless Mast shot him . . .

I look down at the rifle in my hands. It’s an old Winchester with a tubular magazine. There’s no quick way to tell how much ammo is inside. When I pump the lever, I see a single bullet move into place. Better make it count.

“There’s another deputy en route,” says the dispatcher.

“What’s the ETA?”

“Six minutes.”

It’s not an unreasonable amount of time for a rural call. But a lot can happen in six minutes.

Clipping the phone to my belt, I peer through the window again. The yard between the house and barn is deserted. No sign of the deputy. No sign of Perry Mast. I hate not knowing where he is. It would take only a few minutes for him to double back and exit through the slaughter shed. He could be anywhere.

I open the door and step into a light rain. Feeling exposed, keeping low, with the rifle at the ready, I descend the porch steps and jog toward the cruiser. The headlights and wipers are on, but the engine is off. I’m twenty feet away when I notice blood spatter on the passenger window. From ten feet away, I can make out the silhouette of the deputy. He’s slumped over the steering wheel, still wearing his hat.

“Shit,” I mutter, my steps quickening. “Shit.”

Keeping an eye on the barn, the slaughter shed, listening for any sound from the house behind me, I try the passenger door, but it’s locked. I sidle around the front of the car. The hood is warm, the engine ticking as it cools. I approach the driver’s side. The window is shattered. I look inside, see blood and glass on the deputy’s shoulders. There’s more on the headrest, on the sleeves of his uniform shirt.

I reach through the broken window, unlock the door, and open it. The deputy’s hands are at his sides, knuckles down. Blood covers the steering wheel and the thighs of his uniform slacks. Chunks of glass glitter on the seat. The scene is almost too much to process.

“Deputy,” I whisper. “Deputy. Can you hear me?”

No response.

The stench of blood assails me when I reach in and remove his hat. The bullet penetrated his left jaw. His face has been devastated. Most of the flesh of his cheek has peeled away. Some of the teeth have blown out, along with part of his tongue. The cup of his ear is filled with blood and has trickled down, soaking his collar. Even before I press my finger against his carotid artery, I know he’s dead.

“Goddamn it.”

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t touch anything at a crime scene or risk contaminating evidence. But with an armed suspect at large in the immediate vicinity, I’m in imminent danger. I need a weapon. Unsnapping the leather strap of the deputy’s holster, I slide a .40-caliber Glock from its nest and back away from the vehicle.

Using the lever, I eject six bullets from the rifle, drop them in my pocket, and toss the rifle on the ground. I look toward the house. No movement. Aside from the steady rap of rain against the car, the muddy slap of it against the ground, the farm stands in absolute silence. But I know I’m being watched. I feel it as surely as I feel the rain streaming down my face. Did Mast double back and exit through the slaughter shed? Or is he watching me from the house, his finger itchy on the trigger?

The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. Relief skitters through me when I see a Trumbull County cruiser barrel up the lane, lights flashing. I wave, and the vehicle veers toward me, skids to a halt a few feet behind the other cruiser. A male deputy lunges from the car, a shotgun aimed at me. “Drop that fuckin’ gun! Get your hands up!”

“I’m a cop! I called.”

He keeps his eye on the house, the shotgun trained on me. “Show me your ID.”

Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my badge. “I’m with BCI.”

He’s a solid, muscular guy with sandy hair and a handlebar mustache. He takes a good look at my badge and lowers the shotgun. But his attention has already moved on to the other cruiser. “What happened?”

“He’s down.”

“Aw, man.” He dashes to the cruiser and peers through the passenger window. “Fuck!” He stares at the body, his face screwing up. “Walker! Fuck!” He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. “What happened?”

“Perry Mast shot him. He’s armed with a rifle. In a tunnel below-ground. He’s got hostages down there.”

He looks at me as if I’m speaking in a foreign language. “What?” He fumbles with his lapel mike, his hand shaking. “Six-nine-two. I got shots fired at the Mast farm. Walker’s down. I need backup.”

A gunshot rings out. Simultaneously, we drop to a crouch.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” he snarls.

Another shot snaps through the air. A tinny whack sounds and I see a hole the size of my pinkie tear into the cruiser two feet away. “Barn!” I shout.

Staying low, we circle around, take cover on the opposite side of the car.

“Shots fired!” he shouts into his mike. “Possible ten-ninety-three,” he says, referring to the hostages. “Male suspect armed with a rifle.”

“Ten-four,” comes the dispatcher’s voice. “HP is en route. Stand by.”

Behind him, the radio inside the dead man’s cruiser lights up with a burst of traffic. It’s a welcome sound, because I know every cop within a twenty-mile radius, regardless of agency, is on the way here. It’s one of the things I love about being a cop. That blue brotherhood. When an officer is down, you drop everything and go.

The deputy looks at me, wipes rain from his face with the sleeve of his uniform. “Is the house secure?”

I tell him about my altercation with Irene Mast. “I left her on the kitchen floor.”

“She in on this, or what?”

“She tried to blow my head off.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I turn my attention back to the house, feel that uneasy prickling sensation again. “I jammed the tunnel hatch in the basement, but I don’t know how long it will hold.”

“He could be anywhere.”

“That about covers it.”

He glances toward the lane. “Where the hell is backup?”

The question doesn’t require an answer.

“I’m Kate, by the way.”

He looks at me, nods. “I’m Marcus.” We don’t set down our weapons to shake.

I raise myself up slightly, glance over the hood of the cruiser toward the barn. “If Mast goes through the tunnel to the house and gets through that hatch, we’re sitting ducks here.”

We’re on our way to the rear of the cruiser when the sound of a vehicle draws our attention. I glance left and see an Ohio Highway Patrol car barrel up, engine revving, lights flashing. Tomasetti’s Tahoe brings up the rear. Both vehicles grind to a halt twenty yards away.

“There’s the cavalry.”

I look at Marcus. “Let’s go.”

Keeping low, weapons at the ready, we sprint to the nearest vehicle, the HP cruiser. The trooper is already out, and he’s left his door open for added cover. He’s wearing a vest, his weapon at his side. He motions us to the rear of the vehicle.

“Where’s the shooter?” he asks as he opens the trunk.

We crouch behind the raised trunk, and I give the trooper a condensed version of everything that has happened. “He’s armed with a rifle and has three hostages.”

“What about the female?”

“I left her in the kitchen, tied.” I shake my head. “If Mast got through the hatch in the basement, he could have untied her.”

“Well, shit.” The trooper pulls out two Kevlar vests and hands one to me, the other to the deputy. “Looks like we might be in for a standoff.”

As I slip into the vest, secure it at my waist, I see Tomasetti striding toward us, his cell phone pasted to his ear. He’s holding his weapon in his right hand, down by his side, but he’s not looking at the house or the barn. His attention is focused on me. His expression is as hard as stone and completely devoid of emotion. But it’s like we’re looking through a vacuum at each other; in the short distance between us, nothing else exists.

“Can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?” he mutters.

I try to smile, but I can’t. “Evidently not.”

He turns his attention to the trooper. “Negotiator is on the way, along with the mobile command center. ETA thirty minutes.”

“I got a SWAT team en route.” The trooper looks at his watch. “We might be in for a wait.”

I tell the men about the hostages, about my having to leave them behind. They listen intently, their expressions grim.

“You’re lucky,” the trooper tells me.

I don’t feel very lucky. The truth of the matter is, I feel guilty for having left those girls at the mercy of a maniac. “I’m afraid he’ll kill them,” I say.

“We’re not equipped to go down in those tunnels,” the trooper tells me.

“What was Mast’s frame of mind?” Tomasetti asks.

“Cold. Determined. Calm.” The word murderous floats through my mind, but then, that’s a given.

The trooper glances toward the house. “What about the wife?”

“Bat-shit crazy.”

The two men exchange looks and I know they’re thinking the same thing I am. Do we go in and retrieve the Amish woman? Or do we wait for the command center and negotiator to arrive?

The trooper’s radio cracks. Hitting his mike, he breaks away to take the call.

Tomasetti turns his attention to me. “I told you to stay out of that tunnel.”

“You know how it is with me and authority.”

“Kind of like oil and water.” But his expression softens. “You okay?”

“I promised those girls I’d come back for them,” I say.

“We’ll get them.” His eyes skim down the front of me and I know he’s looking for blood, injuries. I know it the instant he spots the scald on my neck. He raises his eyes to mine. “How did you get those burns?”

I want to tell him the burns are not the source of my pain. That what ails me is the thought of Mast killing those girls. . . . “Irene Mast threw a pot of hot water on me.”

His mouth tightens, and he motions toward the Tahoe. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the back. Think I have some burn gel.”

“I don’t want to be fussed over.”

He sighs. “Kate.”

“Those girls are chained to the wall like animals,” I whisper. “Sadie’s down there.”

He waits, as if knowing there’s more. He knows me too well.

“They’re running out of time,” I say.

“You can’t rush in there like some rookie.”

“Mast knows it’s over. He’s going to kill them.”

“You go into that tunnel, he’ll kill you. Or me.” He jams a thumb at the trooper. “Or that young cop over there. Is that somehow better?”

“That’s what we’re trained to do.”

“Our training doesn’t include taking crazy risks.”

I turn away and start toward the trooper’s vehicle with no real destination in mind. I know I’m being unreasonable; the intellectual part of my brain knows he’s right. It would be foolhardy to venture into that tunnel. But I saw the terror on the faces of those girls. I saw the cold determination in Perry Mast’s eyes. And I know if we don’t do something, he’ll execute them.

I’ve gone only a couple of strides when Tomasetti sets a hand on my arm and stops me. “Wait.”

I turn to him, struggling to control my temper and the fear that’s squeezing my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Kate.” He says my name roughly and with a good deal of reproof. “We have to follow protocol on this one.”

“Sometimes I hate fucking protocol.”

“Welcome to law enforcement,” he snaps, unsympathetic.

I focus on the line of trees growing along the length of the lane, saying nothing.

After a moment, he sighs. “Come here.”

I let him guide me to the rear of Tahoe. There, he turns to me, backs me against the door. Gently, he shoves my collar aside and looks at my neck. “Those look like second-degree burns.”

Without asking for permission, he unbuttons the top two buttons of my shirt and slips my bra strap aside. It feels too intimate for the situation, when there are two other cops in close proximity. Somehow, he makes it seem appropriate, and I allow it.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I say.

“It will once the adrenaline wears off.”

He touches my arm, brings it up for me to look at. I’m shocked to see a swath of bright pink flesh that’s covered with blisters.

Turning away, he retrieves his keys from his pocket and opens the back of the Tahoe. I watch as he pulls out a field first-aid kit, flips it open, and begins to rummage.

By the time he turns to me, my mind is back on the girls below-ground. “The shots came from the barn,” I say. “He doubled back. That means he would have passed by the chamber where the girls are being held.”

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.