Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (29 page)

Curious, I slide the pin aside. Steel creaks as I open the gate and step into the pen. I’m midway to the object when my boot thuds hollowly against the floor. Kneeling, I brush away the shavings—and realize I’m standing on a sheet of plywood.

It’s about four by six feet and three quarters of an inch thick. Kneeling, I slide my fingers beneath the edge. Dust flies as I lift. It’s heavy and requires a good bit of effort. But I muscle it aside. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize I’ve uncovered some kind of stairway or pit.

“What the hell?”

Ancient brick steps lead down to a dirt floor and a narrow passage. The walls are constructed of wood beams and crumbling brick. At first glance, I think I’ve stumbled upon a storm shelter or old root cellar. But as my beam reveals details, I realize this is neither. It’s some kind of tunnel.

Questions hammer my brain.
Why in God’s name is there a tunnel beneath the Masts’ barn? Where does it go? Who uses it? And for what?

A glance at my watch tells me it’s only been ten minutes since I called 911. That means a deputy won’t arrive for another ten. Pulling my phone from my belt, I punch the speed-dial button for Tomasetti. One ring. Two. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to answer. I tell myself I don’t want him to worry. But the truth of the matter is, I know he’ll try to convince me not to go down there—and I know that would be a pretty good piece of advice.

He answers on the fourth ring with a nasty growl of his name.

“The Masts are involved.” Quickly, I tell him about the car and the scrap of fabric. “She was wearing that tank top the day of the fight.”

“Where are you?”

It’s difficult to hear him above the din of rain against the roof. “I’m at the Mast farm.”

“Is someone from the sheriff’s office there?”

“He’s en route.”

“Are you alone?”

I start to hedge, but he cuts me off. “Goddamn it, Kate—”

“Tomasetti, there’s some kind of underground tunnel beneath the slaughter shed. It’s the perfect place to hide someone.”

“What’s the ETA on that deputy?” The tone of his voice changes, and I visualize him grabbing his jacket and keys as he rushes toward the door.

“Ten minutes.”

“Call them again. In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the hell out of that goddamn tunnel?”

He disconnects without saying good-bye. Shaking my head, I hit end, then dial 911. I get the same dispatcher and quickly identify myself. “I need the ETA of that deputy.”

“He’s ten minutes out.”

“Get him on the radio and ask him to run with lights and siren.”

“Will do.”

I thank her and snap the phone onto my belt, then shine the beam into the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway looks ancient; it was probably here long before this barn was built. That’s when I notice the footprints in the dust on the steps, and I realize someone has been down there—recently.

I’ve nearly talked myself into walking outside to wait for the deputy when a scream rings out over the pounding rain. It’s female and the power behind it unnerves me.

I yank my .38 from my shoulder holster. “Shit.” With my left hand, I fumble for my phone, hit
REDIAL
with my thumb.

Two rings and the dispatcher answers. “Nine one one. What’s—”

“I’ve got a possible homicide in progress. I need assistance right now.”

“Ma’am, the deputy is seven minutes—”

The rain is like thunder on the roof and drowns out the rest of the sentence. All I can think is that whoever’s down there doesn’t have that kind of time. “Call the Highway Patrol—” Another scream echoes from the depths. “Send an ambulance.”

It’s an awful sound and rattles me to my core. “Goddamn it.”

“Ma’am?”

And in that instant, I know I’m not going to follow protocol. There’s no way I can stand here and do nothing while God only knows what happens to a young woman just out of sight. “Tell the deputy there’s some kind of underground passage in the slaughter shed. I’m going down there.”

Snapping my phone closed, I clip it to my belt. I shine my beam into the mouth of the tunnel and start down the steps.

There are some decisions you make that you know will affect the rest of your life. Decisions where the line between right and wrong is blurred by circumstances. There’s no time to weigh consequences or rein in emotions you should have left out of it. And while my intellect tells me it would be wiser to turn around and wait for that deputy, the part of me that is a cop tells me to go get that girl.

The odors of damp earth and rotting wood fill my nostrils as I descend the stairs. The temperature seems to drop with every step. The pound of rain against the roof diminishes, only to be replaced by hushed air compressed by the tons of earth above and the rapid-fire beat of my heart. Adrenaline becomes a buzz in my ears, an electrical storm wreaking havoc on my muscles, making them jump beneath my skin.

My palm is wet against the grip of my .38. I hold the Mini Maglite in my left hand and pray to God the batteries will last. For the life of me I can’t remember the last time I replaced them. The beam isn’t as powerful as my full-size Maglite, which I keep in the Explorer. The only reason I’m carrying this one now is because it fits in my pocket.

I’ve never been claustrophobic, but by the time I reach the base of the stairs, I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, as cold and dank as the flesh of a long-dead corpse. The tunnel is about three feet wide and just high enough for me to stand upright. Tree roots dangle from the ceiling like snakes. Sweeping the beam left to right, I start down the corridor.

Another scream stops me. This one is primal and raw and seems to go on forever. I discern terror in the voice, and pain, hopelessness. It is the sound of a human being who’s been reduced to an animal. For the span of several heartbeats, I stand there unmoving, my every sense attuned to the darkness ahead. I listen for footsteps or voices, anything to indicate what I’m dealing with. All I hear is my own elevated breathing and the hum of blood through my veins.

I notice the beam of my flashlight shaking and order myself to calm down. I glance over my shoulder. The square of light from the opening is still visible, and I realize I’ve gone only twenty feet or so. I start walking, my footfalls silent on the dirt and brick floor. I’ve only taken a few steps when the smell assails me. I want desperately to believe it’s manure that’s leached through the layers of soil overhead, but I’ve smelled this particular stench too many times not to recognize it. There’s something dead down here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with farm animals or manure.

“Goddamn it,” I whisper as I shine the beam in a semicircle.

I’ve barely gotten the words out when I notice the niche to my left. My flashlight beam illuminates a small alcove with crumbling brick walls and an arched ceiling with a splintered wood beam. The sight of the body on the floor sends a shock wave through me, and I take an involuntary step back. Even in the dim light of the beam, I can tell it’s a female. I see blue jeans, a filthy tank top that once was white, beat-up leather sandals. I note the horribly bloated torso, a mottled blue face with eyeballs that have long since liquefied. One arm sticks straight up. I see a black clawlike hand. At first, I think the position is due to rigor; then I notice the chain and I realize she was shackled to the wall.

“Shit.
Shit.
” My first thought is that it’s Sadie. But the hair color is different, and the hair is shorter. Not Sadie, I realize, and a strange sense of relief sweeps through me.

I cross to the body and kneel. This person has been dead for a few days. Judging from the condition of the body, it wasn’t an easy death; she suffered a good bit of abuse beforehand. I shine the beam on the shackle. It’s constructed of heavy chain welded to some type of steel band that clamps around her wrist. It looks homemade. I can tell by the dried blood on her arm that she struggled—violently enough for the band to have cut flesh. I don’t see any other visible injuries—gunshot or stab wounds—but there’s so much dirt and deterioration, it’s difficult to tell. After a minute, the stench drives me back. I’m loath to leave her, but there’s nothing I can do for her now. Except find her killer.

Holding my sidearm at the ready, I turn and sidle back to the main corridor. I glance right. I can barely make out the gray light from the opening now. I wonder if the deputy has arrived. Putting the flash-light in my mouth, I pull out my phone, hit 911. The phone beeps and
Failed
appears in the display.

“Damn it,” I mutter, clipping it to my belt.

Sweeping my beam left, I step into the darkness. The sensation of being swallowed by some massive black mouth engulfs me, and I stave off a crushing wave of claustrophobia. I concentrate on my surroundings, listening for any sound, any sign of life—or danger.

I’ve traveled only about ten feet when my toe brushes against something. I jerk my beam down—half-expecting to see a rat—and find myself staring at a sneaker. I kneel for a closer look. It’s a woman’s shoe. The fabric once was pink, but it’s covered with dirt and spattered with blood now.

I rise and, flashlight at my side, stare ahead into the black abyss. If there’s someone there, he can see me. If he’s armed, I’m a sitting duck. For the first time, I feel exposed, vulnerable. I consider turning off the flashlight and trying to make my way in the dark. But that could prove to be even more dangerous. I could encounter stairs or a pit—or someone equipped with night-vision goggles.

Raising the flashlight, I set the beam on the walls and ceiling. If someone is using this tunnel on a regular basis, he may have installed electricity or be using an extension cord. Sure enough, my beam reveals an orange cord that’s affixed to the ceiling with galvanized fencing staples. I track the cord with my beam, realize it runs along the ceiling as far as I can see.

I pick up my pace, keeping my eye on the cord, sweeping the beam left and right. Traversing a tunnel of this size and scope is surreal. It’s like a nightmare where you think you’re about to reach the end but never do. Another few yards and I trip over a step and go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, fumble with the flashlight, and find a railroad tie sunk into the floor. To my right, an ancient door constructed of crumbling wood planks is set into the wall. I see a newish hook-and-eye lock, a floor-level wooden jamb. Above me, the cord makes the turn and disappears behind the door.

Averting the beam of my flashlight, I edge right and listen. The muffled sound of sobbing emanates from beyond. I set my ear against the wood. Not just sobbing. This is the sound of human misery, an unsettling mix of keening and groaning. Female, I think. I can’t help but wonder if Sadie is on the other side of the door. I wonder if she’s alone, if she’s injured. I wonder if there’s someone in there with her, hurting her, waiting for me.

Gripping my .38, I stuff the flashlight, beam up, into my waistband and use my left hand to ease the hook from the eye. Metal jingles against the wood when it snaps free. The sobbing stops, telling me whoever is on the other side has heard it. I kick open the door with my foot, lunge inside.

The door swings wide, bangs against the wall. Dust billows in a gossamer cloud. I’m standing in a small antechamber. Movement straight ahead. I drop into a shooter’s stance, train my weapon on the threat. “Police,” I snap. “Don’t fucking move.”

For an instant, I can’t believe my eyes. Shock is a battering ram against my brain. Three girls, teenagers, dirty and clad in little more than rags, sit on the floor, spaced about three feet apart. Two of the girls are little more than skin and bones, with sunken, haunted eyes. I see tangled, greasy hair, faces smudged with grime, bare arms covered with scabs and cuts.

The room is about six feet square and as damp and dank as a grave. The smell of urine and feces and unwashed bodies wafts over me as I move closer. The girls are chained to the wall, their wrists shackled with rusty steel bands and smeared with blood.
What in the name of God is going on?

For the span of several seconds, three pairs of eyes stare at me as if I’m some kind of apparition. I see in the depths of those eyes a tangle of primal emotions I can’t begin to name.

“I’m a cop.” I whisper the words, put my finger to my mouth in a silent plea for them to remain silent. “Shhh. I’m here to help you. But I need for you to be quiet. Do you understand?”

“Katie?” The girl farthest from me lunges to her feet, the chain at her wrist clanging. “Katie? Oh my God!
Katie!
”

Sadie, I realize. She’s barely recognizable because of the dirt. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “But you have to be quiet.”

“
I’m scared,
” she whispers.

“I know, honey.” I move toward her, my eyes taking in details I don’t want to see; details I’ll be seeing in my nightmares for a long time to come. The steel band around her wrist has cut to the bone, exposing the ulna. Her hand is swollen and streaked with blood. The wound is bad; it’s worse that she doesn’t seem to notice.

“How badly are you hurt?” I ask.

“They’re starving us. I’ve cut my wrist.” She motions toward one of the other girls. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s feverish and out of her mind.”