Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (37 page)

“Tomasetti . . .” I begin, but I run out of breath and my voice trails off.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

No matter where I travel, how long I’ve been gone, whether it’s for business or plea sure or something in between, there’s something special about coming home. It’s midmorning by the time I pull into my parking space at the Painters Mill police station and shut down the engine. For a moment, I sit there, taking in the facade of the building—the ugly red brick and the circa 1970s glass door. I see my office window with its cracked pane and bent miniblinds, and a few leaves from the ficus tree I’ve been nursing back to health sticking through.

It’s not the visual that grants me such a powerful sense of homecoming, but knowing what lies beyond those doors—and my utter certainty that I’m part of it. Lois’s Cadillac is parked a few spaces down and, as usual, I can tell her husband spent much of the weekend detailing it. Glock’s car sits a few feet away, waxed and lined up within the parking stripes with military precision. Mona’s still here—four hours after the end of her shift—and not for the first time I wonder if she’s got a life outside her job. There’s no sign of Pickles or Skid, but I know they’re on their way. T.J. has already gone for the day, but I’ll see him tomorrow. That’s something else I can count on.

Tomasetti was gone when I woke at just after seven this morning. There was no note. No good-bye. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he slipped out the door without waking me. He’s good at that, leaving without so much as a kiss.

God knows, I’m no expert on relationships, but I do know when something’s good. And this thing we’ve created between us is precious and rare. I only hope it’s not fleeting, because for the first time in my adult life, I’ve given someone the power to hurt me.

I get out of the Explorer and start toward the front door. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get inside. I want to talk to my team and get caught up, not only on any police matters but on the small pieces of their lives they occasionally share. I want to sit in my office and listen to Mona and Lois argue over something mundane. I want to fret over that stupid ficus and procrastinate when it comes to archiving those old files that have been sitting on the floor in boxes for the last three months. I want to talk to my sister and brother and find a way to repair all the broken things between us, things I’ve let the past and my own pride destroy. I want to call Tomasetti and say the words I couldn’t say last night.

The smells of coffee and old building laced with the redolence of something that smells suspiciously like lemon wax greet me when I walk in. Tracy Chapman belts out a bluesy tune from Mona’s radio. There’s no one in sight, but I hear Lois and Mona talking somewhere nearby. I cross to the reception desk and look over the top of the hutch. The switchboard has been shoved aside and a can of Pledge with a dirty white cloth draped over the top sits next to it.

Lois is on her knees beneath the desk, a power cord in her hand. “I don’t know where it goes,” she snaps.

“Plug it in to the surge protector.” I see Mona’s red stilettos sticking out from beneath the desk, and I realize she’s on her hands and knees. As usual, her skirt barely covers her equipment.

“What if it starts smoking again?”

“Do I look like a freaking electrician?”

I clear my throat. “Do you guys want me to have the fire department stand by?”

“Oh. Crap.” Lois crawls out from beneath the desk and gives me a sheepish look.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona backs out from beneath the desk, a Swiffer duster in one hand, a power cord in the other.

“Phones up and running?” I ask, only mildly concerned.

“Never unplugged the switchboard or dispatch station.”

Lois plucks a dust bunny from Mona’s hair and the two women break into laughter. I laugh, too. It starts as a small chuckle and then turns into a belly laugh powerful enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“What’s so funny?”

I turn, to see Pickles and Skid standing just inside the front door. On the other side of the room, Glock leans against the cubicle divider, his arms crossed, shaking his head.

“We’re not rightly sure,” Lois mutters, and we break into a new round of laughter.

Skid studies the tangle of wires beneath the desk. “That shit looks like a fire hazard.”

I cross to the coffee station and fill my mug. The Mast story made the morning news shows. Anchors from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego have been carrying it ad nauseum all morning. I know my team is wondering how much is true and how much is sensationalism.

“Everything quiet on the home front?” I ask as I turn to face them.

Skid makes a sound of annoyance. “Garth Hoskins ran a stoplight out on Hogpath Road and T-boned old man Jeff ers’s pickup truck last night.”

“Anyone hurt?”

He shakes his head. “I cited Hoskins.”

Garth Hoskins is eighteen years old and drives a 1971 Mustang fastback that has more horses than the kid has brain cells.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say.

The room falls silent, all eyes landing on me. I tell them everything I know about the case. “Apparently, Perry and Irene Mast suffered some kind of breakdown after their daughter committed suicide. For reasons unknown, they held their son responsible and imprisoned him. They began preying on troubled Amish teens.”

“How many dead?” Glock asks.

“Four,” I tell him. “Coroner’s office is still there.”

“How’s Sadie Miller doing?” Lois asks.

“I’m going to drive over there and take her final statement in a few minutes,” I tell her.

My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I see Tomasetti’s name on the display and hit
TALK
as I start toward my office. “You make it home okay?”

“Been here a couple of hours,” he tells me. “What about you?”

“Letting myself into my office now.” I toss my keys on my desk. “Any news?”

“Noah Mast is missing. He left the hospital this morning and no one has seen him since.”

“That’s odd. They checked the farmhouse? The tunnel? Sometimes people go back to the places they’re used to, even if those places are unpleasant.”

Tomasetti makes a sound that tells me he’s not convinced. “If he doesn’t turn up in the next hour or so, the sheriff’s office is going to put out an APB.”

“You don’t think he hurt himself, do you?”

“Nothing would surprise me at this point.” He pauses. “Have you talked with Sadie Miller yet?”

“I’m heading out to the farm now. I’ll send my report your way as soon as I get everything typed up.”

I find Esther Miller in the backyard of her farm house, hanging trousers on the clothesline. A wicker basket full of damp clothes sits at her feet. She smiles around the clothespin in her mouth when I approach.

“Guder mariye,
” I say, wishing her a good morning.

“Wie bischt du heit?” How are you today?

She looks like a different woman. Her eyes are bright and alive, and I can tell she’s truly happy to see me. Dropping the trousers back into the basket, she crosses to me, throws her arms around me, and clings.

“Gott segen eich.” God bless you.
She’s not crying, but I feel her trembling against me. “Thank you for bringing her back to us.”

After a moment, feeling awkward, I ease her to arm’s length and offer a smile. “How is she?”

“Good. Happy, I think.” She blinks back tears. “She’s to be baptized in two weeks.”

“I’m happy for you.” But I feel a pang in my gut. I think of Sadie’s passion for her needlework and the part of her that will be lost when she takes her oath to the church, and I realize something inside me mourns its loss.

“I need to get a final statement from her, Esther. Is she busy?”

“She is in the barn, feeding the new calf.” Bending, she reaches for the trousers, pins them to the clothesline. “Go on, Katie. She’ll be happy to see you. I’ll be out as soon as I get these clothes hung.”

I take the crumbling sidewalk to the hulking red barn. The big sliding door stands open. The smells of fresh-cut hay and horse manure greet me when I enter. An old buggy in need of paint sits in the shadows to my left. I hear Sadie singing an old Annie Lennox song, and I head toward where the sound is coming from.

I find her in a stall. She’s holding an aluminum pail with a large nipple affixed to the base. A newborn calf with a white face sucks greedily at the nipple, his eyes rolling back as he gulps and nudges vigorously at the pail. The sweet scent of milk replacer fills the air, and for an instant the familiarity of the scene transports me to the past.

“He’s cute,” I tell her.

Sadie looks up from her work and grins. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a white apron and
kapp.
There’s no sign of the girl who was fighting on the bridge just a few days ago. The transformation seems to go deeper than clothing. There’s a peace in her eyes I didn’t see before. “He is a she and her
mamm
has decided she wants nothing to do with her.”

“She might come around.”

“Maybe.” She looks down at the calf and smiles. “I kind of like bottle-feeding her, though.”

We watch the animal in silence for a moment and then I ask, “How are you doing?”

She doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”

“Your
mamm
tells me you’ll be getting baptized soon.”

“After everything that happened with . . .” Her words trail off. “I think it was God’s way of telling me the path I should take.”

“That’s good, Sadie. I’m happy for you.”

The calf’s mouth slips from the nipple. We laugh when she makes a slurping sound and reattaches.

“I need to ask you some questions about what happened,” I say.

Sadie nods, but she still doesn’t look at me. “Are they in jail?”

“They’re dead,” I tell her.

Her mouth tightens. “They were crazy.”

“I know, honey.” I pull my note pad and pen from my pocket. “I need you to tell me what happened, Sadie. From the beginning.”

She continues to watch the calf nurse, but all semblance of plea sure is gone from her expression now. “I was walking on the road, down by that old horse farm.”

“The Reiglesberger place?” I ask.

She nods. “I was standing by the bridge when I noticed an old car parked alongside the road. The man was walking around, calling for his dog. He told me the dog’s name was Benji and that he’d jumped out the window and run away. He asked me to help him find it.” A breath shudders out of her. “So we walked the ditch for a few minutes, calling for him. When my back was turned, he rushed me and stabbed me with something sharp.” Using her right hand, she reaches around and rubs her left shoulder. “At first, I thought it was a knife. I thought he was going to kill me, so I ran. But I got woozy—I mean, like I’d been drinking or something—and I could barely walk. The next thing I knew, he got back in the car and he rammed me with it.” She indicates her right hip. “Bumper hit me here, and I went flying.”

She takes a deep breath, as if to garner the full force of her determination, and keeps going. “He dragged me to the car. I tried to fight, but by then I could barely move.” She shrugs. I guess I passed out after that. When I woke up, I was in the tunnel.”

Her breathing is elevated. Beads of sweat coat her upper lip. She’s no longer paying attention to the calf, but lost in a nightmare I suspect she’ll be dealing with for quite some time.

Everything she has said corresponds with Bonnie Fisher’s statement and the evidence found at the scene.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I know that wasn’t easy.” I look down at my notes. “I’ll add this to my final report and then all of us can put it behind us for good.” I smile at her. “You can concentrate on your upcoming baptism.”

She chokes out a laugh. “I still have two weeks to misbehave.”

I open my arms. Setting down the pail, she steps into my embrace. I squeeze her tight. “You’d better get back to your calf.”

I’m closing the stall door behind me when I think of one final question. “Was Irene Mast with him?” I ask.

Sadie looks up from the calf. “His
mamm
?”

“His wife.” Even as I say the words, something cold and sharp scrapes up my back.

I pause outside the stall, my heart pounding. “Sadie, how old was the man who accosted you?”

She’s already turned her attention back to the calf. “Older than me,” she says matter-of-factly. “At least twenty-five years old.”

For a moment, I’m so shocked that I can’t speak. I think of the way Noah Mast looked lying in the hospital bed, as pathetic as a dog that’s been neglected and brutalized by a heartless owner.

Not wanting to upset Sadie any more than I already have, I leave the stall. Disbelief trails me to the barn door. Once outside, I dial Tomasetti, praying I’m wrong, refusing to acknowledge that my hands are shaking.

He answers on the second ring.

Two months later: Lancaster County, Pennsylvania