I don’t feel very lucky. The truth of the matter is, I feel guilty for having left those girls at the mercy of a maniac. “I’m afraid he’ll kill them,” I say.
“We’re not equipped to go down in those tunnels,” the trooper tells me.
“What was Mast’s frame of mind?” Tomasetti asks.
“Cold. Determined. Calm.” The word
The trooper glances toward the house. “What about the wife?”
“Bat-shit crazy.”
The two men exchange looks and I know they’re thinking the same thing I am. Do we go in and retrieve the Amish woman? Or do we wait for the command center and negotiator to arrive?
The trooper’s radio cracks. Hitting his mike, he breaks away to take the call.
Tomasetti turns his attention to me. “I told you to stay out of that tunnel.”
“You know how it is with me and authority.”
“Kind of like oil and water.” But his expression softens. “You okay?”
“I promised those girls I’d come back for them,” I say.
“We’ll get them.” His eyes skim down the front of me and I know he’s looking for blood, injuries. I know it the instant he spots the scald on my neck. He raises his eyes to mine. “How did you get those burns?”
I want to tell him the burns are not the source of my pain. That what ails me is the thought of Mast killing those girls. . . . “Irene Mast threw a pot of hot water on me.”
His mouth tightens, and he motions toward the Tahoe. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the back. Think I have some burn gel.”
“I don’t want to be fussed over.”
He sighs. “Kate.”
“Those girls are chained to the wall like animals,” I whisper. “Sadie’s down there.”
He waits, as if knowing there’s more. He knows me too well.
“They’re running out of time,” I say.
“You can’t rush in there like some rookie.”
“Mast knows it’s over. He’s going to kill them.”
“You go into that tunnel, he’ll kill you. Or me.” He jams a thumb at the trooper. “Or that young cop over there. Is that somehow better?”
“That’s what we’re trained to do.”
“Our training doesn’t include taking crazy risks.”
I turn away and start toward the trooper’s vehicle with no real destination in mind. I know I’m being unreasonable; the intellectual part of my brain knows he’s right. It would be foolhardy to venture into that tunnel. But I saw the terror on the faces of those girls. I saw the cold determination in Perry Mast’s eyes. And I know if we don’t do something, he’ll execute them.
I’ve gone only a couple of strides when Tomasetti sets a hand on my arm and stops me. “Wait.”
I turn to him, struggling to control my temper and the fear that’s squeezing my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Kate.” He says my name roughly and with a good deal of reproof. “We have to follow protocol on this one.”
“Sometimes I hate fucking protocol.”
“Welcome to law enforcement,” he snaps, unsympathetic.
I focus on the line of trees growing along the length of the lane, saying nothing.
After a moment, he sighs. “Come here.”
I let him guide me to the rear of Tahoe. There, he turns to me, backs me against the door. Gently, he shoves my collar aside and looks at my neck. “Those look like second-degree burns.”
Without asking for permission, he unbuttons the top two buttons of my shirt and slips my bra strap aside. It feels too intimate for the situation, when there are two other cops in close proximity. Somehow, he makes it seem appropriate, and I allow it.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say.
“It will once the adrenaline wears off.”
He touches my arm, brings it up for me to look at. I’m shocked to see a swath of bright pink flesh that’s covered with blisters.
Turning away, he retrieves his keys from his pocket and opens the back of the Tahoe. I watch as he pulls out a field first-aid kit, flips it open, and begins to rummage.
By the time he turns to me, my mind is back on the girls below-ground. “The shots came from the barn,” I say. “He doubled back. That means he would have passed by the chamber where the girls are being held.”
Instead of responding, Tomasetti pours alcohol over both of his hands, letting it drip onto the ground, then unfastens another button on my blouse. I barely notice as he tears open a small pouch of gel and smears it over my burns. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but the pain is coming to life: a tight, searing sensation that spreads from my collarbone, upper arm, and breast. It’s strange, but I’m almost thankful for the distraction. Anything to keep me from imagining the scene belowground.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says after a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” But he leans toward me and gives me a quick, hard kiss.
I think of the family he lost—his wife and two little girls—and suddenly I feel guilty for doing that to him when he’s already been through so much. The
On instinct, we duck slightly, look toward the house. At first, I think the deputy or the trooper has taken a shot. But they’re also looking for the source.
“Where did it come from?” Tomasetti growls.
“The house, I think.”
Another shot rings out.
“The house!” The deputy shouts the words from his position behind the trooper’s vehicle.
A woman’s scream emanates from inside. At first, I think Mast has brought one of the girls topside. That he’s going to use her for leverage or cover to blast his way out. Or kill her right in front of us to make some senseless point.
But the scream is too deep, too coarse to have come from one of the girls. “That was Irene Mast,” I hear myself say.
Tomasetti’s eyes narrow on mine. I can tell by his expression that he knows what I’m saying. “What the hell is that crazy son of a bitch doing?”
A third shot rings out.
The house falls silent. We wait. The minutes seem to tick by like hours. Around us, the rain increases. No one seems to notice. I hear sirens in the distance, and I know the fire department and medical personnel are parked at the end of the lane.
“There he is!”
I don’t know who shouted the words. I turn and see Perry Mast exit the house through the back door. He’s holding a rifle in his right hand, my .38 in his left.
The trooper, armed with a bullhorn, calls out, “Stop right there and put down the guns.”
Mast stares out at us as if he’s in a trance. His face is blank and slack, completely devoid of stress and emotion. He’s snapped, I realize. Mentally checked out. It’s a chilling scene to see an Amish man in that state, knowing what he’s done, what he’s capable of.
“Drop those weapons!” the trooper says. “Get down on the ground.”
The Amish man doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge the command.
I look at Tomasetti. “Do you think he’d respond to Pennsylvania Dutch?”
“Worth a try.”
Staying low, keeping the vehicles between us and the shooter, we start toward the trooper.
“She knows Pennsylvania Dutch,” Tomasetti says.
The trooper sends me a questioning look.
