not let you stop me.”
I stare back, my brain scrambling for some way to get through to him. But my earlier calm has transformed into a twitching mass of nerves. The truth of the matter is, I’m in trouble. He’s got the upper hand and we both know it.
Mast isn’t a large man—maybe six feet tall, 170 pounds. He’s thirty years older than I am, so I’ve got the advantage of youth. I’m physically fit and fairly adept in the arena of self-defense. But I’m injured; he’s got fifty pounds on me and a lot more muscle.
Cautiously, I ease myself to a sitting position, try a different tactic. “God would never ask you to hurt anyone. He is benevolent. He wouldn’t ask you to harm another person.”
“He that spareth the rod hateth his son.”
“T alt shall not kill.”
Mast sighs, as if none of this is his plea sure, but a burden placed upon him by a merciless God. “I took no plea sure in that. Annie King was an accident. She ran . . .” He shrugs, his words trailing off. “It made my heart heavy. But it is a burden I must bear. A sacrifice I have been asked to make.”
I want to tell him that’s a total crock of shit, but I hold my tongue. “You’re hurting people,” I whisper. “This is not what God wants you to do.”
“The young people have lost their way, Chief Burkholder. Surely you see that in your line of work. Our youth have become morally corrupt. Spiritually destitute.” He shakes his head, a parent ravaged by disappointment. “Ruth Wagler had become a slave to the white powder. She sold her body, her very soul to get it. Bonnie Fisher murdered her unborn child. Leah Stuckey seduced her own uncle. Young Sadie Miller lies with the English boys. She gives freely of her body. She drinks alcohol and her head is filled with prideful ideas.
“The Lord has burdened me with the task of punishing the disobedient and sinners, and when they manifest repentance, He will receive them back.” Fervor rings in his voice. “I bring them back to the Amish way. Back to the Lord. In essence, Chief Burkholder, I save their souls.”
“By torturing and murdering?”
“It is extreme,” he admits. “But they have strayed far. In time, they will be thankful.” For the first time, I see the glint of insanity in his eyes. “Leah Stuckey was beyond redemption. But she did not die at my hand. God took her into His loving hands and returned her to the earth.”
I stare at him, knowing God had nothing to do with it. She died a slow death of starvation, exposure, and neglect.
Knowing there will be no negotiating, that his thought processes are beyond reason, I steal a quick glance around. The shovel leans against the wall, four feet away. I wonder if I can reach it before Mast brings down the rifle and gets off a shot.
“Did you dig these tunnels?” I ask, though I vaguely recall someone telling me this farm was once part of the Underground Railroad.
“These passages have been here since the Civil War. For the African slaves, you know. They could flee the house and hide in the forest—”
I lunge at the shovel, grab the handle above the spade. Pain rips up my side as I swing. The steel spade smashes against Mast’s chest. A guttural sound tears from his throat. His knees buckle and the rifle falls to the ground. I clamber to my feet. He lunges at me, but I lurch back, scramble out of reach. I look around for my weapon, but it’s nowhere in sight.
The next thing I know, his arms clamp around my thighs. He’s trying to knock me off balance, get me on the ground so he can overpower me. I raise the shovel, bring the spade down hard. The blade strikes his shoulder. Yowling, he reels backward, lands on his ass. I lunge at the flashlight a few feet away, but he reaches out and his hand closes around my ankle. I hit him with the shovel again, but my angle is bad and the blade only grazes his elbow. I lash out with my other foot, catch him in the chin. The impact snaps his head back, but he doesn’t let go. If he gets me on the ground, I’m done. The rifle lies on the ground, three feet away. Even if I get away and run, he’ll shoot me in the back.
I glance up, my eyes seeking the bulb. It’s too far away for me to reach. But the cord is right above me. I upend the shovel, stab the cord as hard as I can. Sparks fly as the blade severs it. Electricity cracks and darkness descends. Working blind, I drive the shovel’s spade in the direction where I last saw Mast, hear it make purchase. He releases my ankle. But I feel him grapple for the shovel. I thrust it at him but lose my grip as I stumble away. The blade grazes my hip. He’s swinging it at me, trying to hit me.
And then I’m running, completely blind, arms outstretched, feeling my way along the walls. I planned to exit the tunnel the same way I’d entered, but Mast is blocking my way. I think I’m heading in the general direction of the house, which is sixty yards from the slaughter shed.
I’ve gone only a few strides when my shoulder brushes the wall. The impact spins me around. Barely maintaining my balance, I re orient myself and keep going. Dirt crumbles beneath my fingertips. Cobwebs stick to my hands. I want to try my phone, but I don’t dare take the time. Mast has my flashlight and my .38. Not to mention the rifle. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll fire blind to stop me.
Light flashes in my peripheral vision. I glance over my shoulder, see the flashlight beam behind me, and I know Mast is closing in. My foot strikes something solid. I stumble, land on my hands and knees, but in an instant, I’m back on my feet,
Keeping my left arm extended in front of me, I reach for my cell with my right, flip it open. Relief flits through me when two tiny bars glint up at me, and I hit the speed dial button for Tomasetti.
He picks up on the first ring. “Kate.”
I can tell by his tone that he’s been trying to reach me. He knows something’s wrong. “I’m in trouble.” My voice is breathless and high.
“Where are you?”
“Mast farm. There are underground tunnels. Mast is armed.”
No response.
“Tomasetti?”
Nothing.
“Damn it.” I look down and see that the call has been dropped. Cursing, I snap the phone onto my belt.
My shoulder scrapes the wall, knocking me to one side. I slow to a walk, reach out with both hands, and touch the walls to orient myself. I hear Mast behind me, his footfalls heavy on the ground. He’s breathing hard, muttering words I can’t make out. I jerk my head around, see a misty beam of yellow light. He’s just yards away.
“
The tunnel veers left. I hear a sound behind me, but I don’t dare turn to look. That’s when I spot the small square of light a dozen yards ahead. The outline of a door, I realize. A hatch.
I barrel toward it, running as fast as I can. Definitely a hatch. Closed. But I can see the frame of light slanting through at the seams.
I’m a few feet from the stairs when a gunshot rings out.
CHAPTER 22
The bullet ricochets off a brick a foot from my head. Fragments of brick sting my face. I throw myself onto the steps, clamber up them, using my hands. At the top, I ram the hatch with my shoulder hard enough to jar my spine. The double wooden doors fly open. I scramble up the remaining steps, look around wildly. I’m in a basement or cellar with a dirt floor and stone walls. I see shelves filled with canning jars. Gardening tools. Wood steps twenty feet away.
Another shot rings out. Bending, I slam the doors closed. They’re heavy, fabricated of ancient wood planks with old-fashioned handles on the outside. There’s no lock, and I have scant seconds before Mast climbs the steps and jams that rifle in my face.
Spotting a sickle hanging on the wall, I rush to it, yank it down, and dash back to the hatch. I jam the blade
