Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

go inside for his statement.
    “To save their souls.” Tannin makes a sound of disgust.
    Tomasetti narrows his gaze on me, poses a question that’s been eating at me since the beginning. “But how did Mast know about these teenagers? How did he find out they were troubled?” he asks. “These kidnappings are fifty to one hundred miles apart. The Amish generally don’t use phones. How did he find out about these so-called troubled kids?”
    “He was a deacon,” I tell them.
    Tannin nods. “I knew he was some kind of elder.”
    “Is that relevant?” Tomasetti’s gaze is sharp on mine.
    “Deacons are usually the ones who convey messages of excommunication,” I tell them. “The bishop sends them into the church district to find out who the transgressors are.”
    “Because of his position within the church district,” Tomasetti says, “he was able to find out who was breaking the rules. He considered these kids transgressors.”
    “Even though they weren’t baptized,” I tell them.
    “Being the insane son of a bitch he was, maybe Mast decided that didn’t matter. He took it upon himself to save their souls, the rules be damned.”
    “Probably the best explanation of motive we’re going to get,” Tannin says.
    “I’ll double check with the bishop tomorrow to see if Mast was indeed an ordained deacon,” I tell them.
    Tannin motions toward the door of Noah Mast’s room. “Maybe his son will be able to shed some light on all this, too.”

 
CHAPTER 25
     
    Noah Mast watches us enter, wary as an animal whose den is being invaded by predators. He’s wearing a hospital gown. A stainless-steel IV stand next to the bed holds a bag of clear solution, which drips steadily into his arm. The lower half of his body is covered, but despite the blankets, I discern the boniness of his legs and the sharp points of his knees. His hands are clean, but they’re dotted with scabs. His skin is so pale, I can see the blue of his veins. The sight of him reminds me of photographs I’ve seen of Holocaust survivors.
    “Hello, Noah.” Tomasetti stops a few feet from the bed. “How are you feeling?”
    “Fine.” His eyes are the color of pewter. They’re glassy and rheumy, like an old man’s. “I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”
    I’m aware that Tannin is moving unobtrusively to the wall adjacent to the bed. He leans against it, his arms crossed in front of him. I move beside him, giving Tomasetti the floor.
    “I’m John,” he says, showing his badge. “I’m with the police.”
    “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
    “I’m just here to ask you some questions.”
    Noah’s eyes flick to me and Tannin, then back to Tomasetti. “W here are my mamm and datt ?”
    “I want to talk to you about your parents. But we need to get some questions out of the way first.” Tomasetti lowers himself into the chair next to the bed, leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I understand you were living down in the tunnel on your parents’ farm. Is that true?”
    “ Ja. ”
    “How long have you been living there?”
    Noah glances out the window, where rain streaks down, as if he wants to scramble out of bed and take a running leap through the glass. “I’m not sure. A long time, I think. I didn’t have a way to mark time.”
    “How old were you when you started living in the tunnel?”
    “Eighteen.”
    “How old are you now?”
    “Twenty-seven.” He offers a tentative smile. “ Mamm brought me German chocolate cake for my birthday.”
    I hear Tannin’s quick intake of breath. I feel that same shock echoing through me. It’s inconceivable that his parents kept him in that tunnel for nine years.
    “Did they force you to live down there?” Tomasetti asks.
    “I reckon so.”
    “Did they tell you why?”
    “I fell prey to sin.” The matter-of-fact tone makes his answer all the more bizarre.
    “How so? What did you do?”
    “Once, I was with a girl—you know . . . doing things. Bad things.” The Amish man’s eyes drop and he searches the sheets covering him, as if he’s too ashamed to meet our gazes. “You know . . .” His left leg begins to jiggle. “I kissed her. Touched her. We . . . you know.”
    Tomasetti nods. “You had intercourse with her?”
    “ Ja. ”
    “What’s the girl’s name?”
    “Hannah Schwartz.”
    I take out my notebook and jot down the name. In the back of my mind, I wonder if she’s missing, or dead.
    “Did your parents find out?” Tomasetti asks.
    He