Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 27

I can tell by his tone that he's been trying to reach me. He knows something's wrong. "I'm in trouble." My voice is breathless and high.

"Where are you?"

"Mast farm. There are underground tunnels. Mast is armed."

No response.

"Tomasetti?"

Nothing.

"d.a.m.n it." I look down and see that the call has been dropped. Cursing, I snap the phone onto my belt.

My shoulder sc.r.a.pes the wall, knocking me to one side. I slow to a walk, reach out with both hands, and touch the walls to orient myself. I hear Mast behind me, his footfalls heavy on the ground. He's breathing hard, muttering words I can't make out. I jerk my head around, see a misty beam of yellow light. He's just yards away.

"s.h.i.+t." A hot burst of adrenaline catapults me back into a run. I stumble over a step, nearly lose my footing, somehow manage to stay on my feet. I don't know how far I've traveled or how far I have yet to go. I'm not even sure where I'm going or if I'll be able to escape when I get there. But I have no choice but to continue and pray for an exit. If Mast catches me, he'll kill me.

The tunnel veers left. I hear a sound behind me, but I don't dare turn to look. That's when I spot the small square of light a dozen yards ahead. The outline of a door, I realize. A hatch.

I barrel toward it, running as fast as I can. Definitely a hatch. Closed. But I can see the frame of light slanting through at the seams.

I'm a few feet from the stairs when a gunshot rings out.

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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 h.e.l.l 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 ch.o.r.e 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 ch.o.r.e 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 f.u.c.king 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 s.p.a.ce 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 f.u.c.king 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. Gla.s.s 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.senger 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.

"s.h.i.+t," I mutter, my steps quickening. "s.h.i.+t."

Keeping an eye on the barn, the slaughter shed, listening for any sound from the house behind me, I try the pa.s.senger 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 gla.s.s on the deputy's shoulders. There's more on the headrest, on the sleeves of his uniform s.h.i.+rt.

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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sails 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.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

Under normal circ.u.mstances 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 flas.h.i.+ng. 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 f.u.c.kin' 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 pa.s.senger window. "f.u.c.k!" He stares at the body, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up. "Walker! f.u.c.k!" He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. "What happened?"

"Perry Mast shot him. He's armed with a rifle. In a tunnel belowground. 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 f.u.c.k 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 p.r.i.c.kling sensation again. "I jammed the tunnel hatch in the bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 h.e.l.l 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 flas.h.i.+ng. Tomasetti's Tahoe brings up the rear. Both vehicles grind to a halt twenty yards away.