Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

“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.

CHAPTER 20

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