“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.
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.
“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.