much do I owe you?” I ask.
“I thought maybe you could buy dinner.”
I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s almost 6:00 P.M. I wish I could reach out and stop time. “Is later okay?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I thought we’d drive up to Monongahela Falls and talk to the parents of the missing boy.”
He gives me a look of feigned disappointment. “You’re not trying to weasel out of dinner, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
CHAPTER 8
Irene and Perry Mast live on a mile-wide swath of farmland cut into national forest fifty miles north of Buck Creek. According to Goddard, the farm is over two hundred years old. During the Civil War, the house was part of the Underground Railroad, a stopping point for African slaves escaping to Canada. Now the Masts run a large hog operation and farm corn and soybeans.
Dusk has fallen by the time Tomasetti and I turn into the narrow gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by vast fields of corn as high as a man’s head. I catch the telltale whiff of hog manure as we speed toward the house. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed, the kinds of idyllic places photographers like to capture for postcards or coffee-table books. That’s not the case with the Mast farm.
The lane curves right and a sprawling brick house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof looms into view. Ahead, a massive barn with red paint weathered to brown greets us like a grizzled old friend. Looking through the fence rails, I see a dozen or so Hampshire hogs rooting around in mud so deep, their bellies scrape the surface.
The farm has a depressed, overused look to it, as if the people who own it no longer have the will to maintain it. I wonder if the loss of their son nine years earlier has anything to do with it.
Tomasetti steers the Tahoe around deep ruts and parks adjacent to the fence. “Damn place stinks,” he says as he slides out.
“Pigs,” I tell him as I start toward the house. “Poorly managed manure pit.”
“Great.” We share a look, and I know he’s thinking about the case we worked last winter, when three family members perished in the cesspit on their farm.
“There’s a light in the metal building over there.”
His voice jerks me back to the present, and I follow his finger as he points. Set back a short distance from the barn, a large windowless steel building looks out of place among the older wood structures. The sliding door stands open about three feet and dim yellow light slants through the opening.
A narrow dirt path cut into knee-high grass takes us toward the shed. We’re fifteen feet from the door when I notice several objects the size of soccer balls in the grass. At first, I think they’re decorative rocks. I’m nearly upon them before I realize they’re severed hog heads.
Tomasetti actually takes a step back, sends me a “What the fuck?” look.
“They’re probably slaughtering hogs,” I explain.
“Well, if the smell of shit isn’t bad enough, let’s just throw in a couple of severed heads.”
“You want to wait out here?”
He stares down at the heads in disgust. “This is going to ruin the whole baby back rib thing for me.”
Grinning, I go through the door. “Man up, Tomasetti.”
I grew up on a farm where the slaughter of livestock was a routine part of life. I bore witness to the process a dozen times before I was old enough to realize how much I hated it. Sense memories, I think, and I’m surprised at how vividly those days come rushing back.
The smell of dirt and manure and the salty copper stench of blood assaults my senses when I enter the building. A lantern hangs from a wire strung between two rafters and casts yellow light in all directions. A buggy with a missing wheel is parked a few feet away, its dual shafts angling down to the floor. Steel livestock panels lean against the wall. Next to them, an aluminum trough is tipped onto its side. A dozen or more burlap bags filled with some type of grain are stacked neatly atop a flatbed wagon, a good bit of yellow corn spilling onto the floor. Beyond, a shadowy hall leads toward the rear of the building.
“Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.
Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”
I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”
A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.
“Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.
I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”
Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.
“I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”
Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”
I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.
After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”
Wiping his eyes with his left hand, he pumps my hand with the other. “Hello, Kate Burkholder. That’s a good strong name.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti and the men shake.
“We’re with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation,” Tomasetti tells him. “Are the Masts home?”
Yoder’s expression falls somber. “You have news of Noah?”
“Just a few routine questions,” Tomasetti tells him.
We both know none of this is routine for the families of the missing.
“Come this way.” Yoder limps toward the hall. “I’ll take over so he can talk to you.”
I don’t miss the revulsion on Tomasetti’s face as we pass by a stainless-steel bin filled with severed hog hooves, and I know the slaughter room is the last place he wants to be. Of course he won’t admit it, and he falls in next to me. But I suspect it might be a while before he indulges in those baby back ribs.
Yoder leads us down a short hall. Ahead, lantern light spills through a wide door. The stink of fresh manure and blood is stronger here. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the chutes to my right, and I wonder if the animals know their fate. I’m aware of our footsteps on the concrete floor, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I’ve never been squeamish, but my stomach seesaws when we reach the room.
Yoder enters first. Tomasetti and I stop at the doorway. The room is about twenty feet square. The air is overly warm and unpleasantly humid. But it’s the smell that unsettles me. Corrugated steel panels comprise the walls. In the center of the room, a dead hog hangs suspended by a single rear leg, a chain wrapped around the area between the hoof and hock. The chain is attached to a pulley affixed to a massive steel beam overhead. A second Amish man, presumably Perry Mast, stands next to the dead animal with a large knife—the sticking knife—in hand. There’s a drain cut into the concrete floor and blood still drips from the hog’s snout.
“Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.
“Maybe we can do this outside,” I hear myself say.
Yoder looks at the hog approvingly. “That’s a good bleed, Perry,” he says.
The other man doesn’t even look up. With gloved hands, he shoves the giant carcass toward a massive steaming vat. I don’t want to watch what comes next, but I can’t look away. I remember my
