Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

but her gaze drops away quickly. “I guess.”
    I pull up the chair next to the bed and tug out my notebook. “Bonnie, we need to know how you got into the tunnel. Can you tell us about that?”
    She reacts to the question as if trying to avoid a physical blow, sinking more deeply into the bed, pulling the sheet and blanket up to her chin. “It seems like a long time ago.”
    I nod in understanding. “Take your time.”
    The silence stretches for a full minute before she finally speaks. “I was riding my bicycle to work at the joinery,” she begins. “It was just starting to get light. I was late and in a hurry. There was a car behind me, following too close. I kept pedaling, but I remember being annoyed that a driver could be so rude when he had plenty of room to go around. You know how the tourists are. Always in such a hurry. . . .” Her voice trails off and she looks out the window.
    “What happened next?” I ask.
    “The car hit me. The back wheel went out from under my bike and I lost control, went into the ditch.”
    “Were you injured?”
    She chokes out a laugh. “I was angry and set on giving the driver a piece of my mind.” Her expression sobers, and I know her memory is taking her back.
    “The old man was just standing there,” she whispers, “looking at me with this creepy expression.”
    “Who was the old man, Bonnie?”
    “Deacon Mast.”
    “Perry Mast?”
    She nods. “We were only allowed to address him as ‘Deacon.’ ”
    “What kind of car was he driving?”
    She shakes her head. “It was old and blue, I think.”
    I think of the old Ford LTD I discovered in the shed and continue. “What happened next?”
    “I accused him of driving like a maniac.” A breath shudders out of her. “Deacon Mast . . . the old man, he made like he was sorry and wanted to help me. When he was close, he stabbed me with the needle.”
    “What kind of needle?”
    “The kind we vaccinate the calves with.”
    “A syringe?”
    She nods. “I thought he was crazy. I screamed and tried to get back on my bicycle. But what ever he put in that syringe made me sleepy, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move.”
    He drugged them, I realize. “Was he alone?” I ask.
    “I didn’t see anyone else.”
    “What happened next?”
    “Everything was kind of like a dream after that. But I’m certain he put me in the trunk. I remember riding in the dark.”
    “Did he bind your hands or feet?”
    “My hands were tied. I remember because my wrists were raw when I woke up.”
    “Where were you when you woke up?”
    “I was there.” Her face crumples and she looks down at the bruises on her wrists. “In that awful tunnel.”
    I press on, suspecting she will soon reach a point where she’s either too upset to speak or succumbs to the sedation. “Was there anyone else in the tunnel with you?”
    “The crazy girl. I think her name was Ruth.” She raises her gaze to mine. “Did you save her, Katie?”
    “We did.”
    “There was another girl, too. Leah.” She slurs the name, and I realize the sedative is pulling her down. “But she never woke up, and they took her away.”
    I think of the body I stumbled over, and I wonder if that’s the girl Bonnie is speaking of. Perhaps she succumbed to the physical and psychological stress and fell ill. I wonder if Mast dragged her aside like a bag of garbage and left her to rot in the cold and dark. . . .
    “Did you see Mast’s wife, Irene, at any point?” I ask.
    “The old lady. She brought us food. Scrapple, mostly. And bread. She’s not unkind, but my mamm is a better cook.”
    I smile. “Did you ever see a young man?”
    Her brows knit. “No, but I heard male voices sometimes.”
    “Did Deacon Mast tell you why you were there?” I ask. “Did he ever say why you’d been taken into the tunnel?”
    “He said we were there to pay penance and confess our sins. He said he was going to save our souls.” She stares at me, her expression stricken, as if she can’t quite believe the words she has just uttered. “I think he was crazy,” she whispers.
    “I think you’re right. I close my notebook and slide it into my pocket. “Get some rest.”
    “Mast used the car to make contact. He used it as a weapon or to stage an accident. Then he shot them up with some kind of drug to subdue them, threw them into the trunk, and took them to the tunnel.”
    Tomasetti, Deputy Tannin, and I are standing outside Noah Mast’s hospital room, preparing to