Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

through both handles.

An instant later, the doors rattle as Mast tries to pound his way out. I back away, praying the sickle will hold, and grapple for my cell. Relief flits through me when I see four bars. I hit 911 as I dart toward the stairs.

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

Quickly, I identify myself. “Shots fired at the Mast farm! I’ve got an armed suspect! One fatality!”

“Ma’am, the deputy is ten-twenty-three.”

Ten-twenty-three means he’s arrived on-scene. If that’s the case, where is he? I reach the steps and look up. A horizontal line of light bleeds from beneath the door. I lower my voice. “Get another deputy out here. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle. I’m under fire.”

“Stand by.”

I hear the pop of a gunshot, spin toward the hatch behind me, see a chunk of wood fly. Mast is shooting his way through. I end the call, clip the phone to my belt, and take the stairs two at a time to the top. I have no idea if Irene Mast is waiting for me on the other side with a rifle. The one thing I do know is that if I want to live, I have to get the hell out of here.

I open the door a crack. I see a hallway with plank floors, a homemade rug. To my right is a small living area. Looking to my left, I can see the linoleum floor of the kitchen. If I can get through the kitchen and out the back door, I’ll be able to take cover until backup arrives.

I listen for sirens. For Perry Mast pounding up the basement stairs. All I hear is the hard thrum of my heart and my survival instinct screaming Run!

Easing open the door, I step into the hall. Another layer of relief goes through me when I spot the skeleton key sticking out. Closing the door behind me, I twist the key. I know the lock is no match for a rifle, but it’s one more barrier between me and Perry Mast. It might buy me some time.

My boots are silent against the floor as I start toward the kitchen. The smell of cooking tomatoes hangs in the air. Pots rattle on the stovetop, and I realize Irene is in there, canning vegetables, a chore my own mamm did a hundred times when I was growing up.

I stop short of the doorway and peer into the kitchen. Irene Mast stands at the stove, her back to me. The faucet is running. She’s holding a towel in her left hand, has another slung over her shoulder. She’s lowering a rack of mason jars into a large steaming pot.

The sight is so utterly benign that I can barely reconcile it with the scene that just transpired in the tunnel. I stand frozen in place, wondering if she knows about the missing girls. Has she been kept in the dark? Has she turned a blind eye because she can’t handle the truth? Or is she part of it?

She’s so intent on her chore that she doesn’t hear me enter. I’ve gone only a couple of steps when it strikes me that if the deputy had indeed arrived, she wouldn’t be in here canning tomatoes. She’d be outside, answering some disturbing questions about missing girls and how her husband spends his spare time.

I’m about to call out to her, when I spot the rifle leaning against the cabinet. It’s an older .22 lever action with a scuffed walnut stock and a pitted barrel. The hairs on my neck stand straight up. She knows, a little voice whispers in my ear.

I’m ten feet away from her. She’s standing between me and the rifle, the weapon within easy reach. All she’d have to do is bend and pick it up. I measure the distance to the back door, wonder if I can reach it before she snatches it up and shoots me in the back.

The Amish woman turns. Her eyes find mine, but her expression doesn’t change. There’s no shock. No realization of culpability. No anger or fear. It’s as if she knew I was here all along. The only thought processes I see are intent and a cold conviction that chills my blood. And in that instant, I know she’s part of this. I know if I don’t act quickly, she’ll kill me.

“Don’t fucking move,” I tell her. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Unfazed, she reaches for the rifle with the calm of a woman picking up the broom to sweep the floor. . . .

I lunge at the weapon just as she’s bringing up the muzzle. I grab the barrel and yank it toward me. At the same time, I try to ram my knee into her abdomen, but there’s too much space between us. She’s a heavy woman; she’s got a better grip and maintains her balance. Her mouth contorts as she wrenches the rifle toward her. I stumble forward, and for an instant, we engage in a tug-of-war, the rifle between us. She’s got the advantage of weight. But I have training and youth on my side. I shove the rifle upward as hard as I can. The stock strikes the base of her chin, snapping her teeth together. Growling, she steps forward and slams her body into mine. The momentum knocks me off balance, but I come forward quickly, get beneath the rifle, jam it upward again. The stock hits her left cheekbone this time, hard enough to open the skin.

A guttural sound tears from her throat as she yanks back on the rifle. I catch a glimpse of her eyes. The rage reflecting back shocks me. The next thing I know, she’s charging forward, using the rifle to drive me backward. My backside hits the table. The legs screech across the linoleum. I twist the rifle, but she doesn’t release it. When I get her close enough, I bring up my knee, ram it into her abdomen.

The breath rushes from her in a sound that’s part roar, part scream. She lets go of the rifle, reels backward into the stove.

“Do not move!” I shout. “Do not fucking move!”

I’m checking to see if there’s a bullet in the chamber when she turns toward the stove.

“I will shoot you!” I scream. “Get down on the floor!”

She yanks the pot from the stove. Water sloshes over the side as she spins toward me. The jars clank together as she hurls the pot at me. Boiling water spews onto my clothes, my face and neck. I know I’m being scalded, but there’s too much adrenaline for me to feel pain. I use the rifle like a bat, slam it against the side of her head with such force that she’s knocked off her feet.

Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear a mason jar shatter as it hits the floor. Blood spatters the counter as Irene Mast goes down. The sensation of heat streaks down my neck, my right shoulder, my breast.

Irene Mast is lying on her side, not moving. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I cross to her, nudge her with my toe. She’s deadweight. Her eyes are open, but she’s not quite conscious. The blow opened a gash the size of my index finger just in front of her ear.

My hand shakes as I reach for my cuffs, only I’m not wearing my uniform belt. I look around for something with which to secure her hands, spot a towel on the floor. Using my teeth, I tear it into three strips and tie them together. Kneeling, I roll her over, pull her arms behind her back. As I secure her wrists, I glance toward the basement door behind me, half-expecting an armed Perry Mast to burst out shooting. I don’t think I’m in any condition to go another round.

I get to my feet, give Irene Mast a final look. “Don’t go anywhere,” I mutter. Picking up the rifle, I start toward the back door.

Midway through the mudroom, I pull out my phone, punch 911. Standing to one side, I move the curtain with the muzzle and peer out. I notice two things simultaneously. My Explorer is nowhere in sight. And a Trumbull County Crown Vic is parked in the same place my Explorer had been parked just a short time earlier. Where the hell is the deputy?

“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