Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (32 page)

“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.”