Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

against the black sky. I smell the acrid scent of ash and something else that gives me pause.
    I breathe in deeply, trying to place the smell. It’s earthy and spicy and slightly exotic. It reminds me of Christmas ham at the farm. Clove, I realize, and my heart begins to pound. Turning, I walk back to the fire pit, step down off the retaining wall, cross to the drum, and peer inside. It’s half-full of partially burned trash. I see part of a cereal box, a melted bread wrapper. The smell of clove is stronger, definitely emanating from inside the barrel.
    Using my foot, I shove the drum onto its side. Ash flies as the contents spill out on the ground. Looking around, I spot a charred branch and use it to poke through the ashes. I uncover an old piece of garden hose, a plastic flowerpot. Bending, I upend the barrel. That’s when I notice the partially burned pack of cigarettes.
    Clove cigarettes.
    For the span of several heartbeats, all I can do is stare while my mind scrambles to make sense of what I see. It’s the same brand Sadie was smoking that day on the bridge. What are the odds of an Amish couple having a pack of clove cigarettes in their trash? The same obscure brand that a missing girl was known to smoke?
    I pull out my phone and dial Tomasetti. “I think I have something,” I say by way of greeting.
    “Lay it on me.”
    I tell him about the cigarettes. “Sadie Miller smoked the same brand.”
    “Where are the Masts?”
    “There’s no one here.”
    We fall silent, and I know he’s running this new information through his brain, seeking that elusive connection that will make everything click. “Tomasetti, I think they might be involved.”
    “Kate, another kid went missing last night,” he tells me. “A boy. Sixteen years old.”
    “Shit,” I mutter. “Where?”
    “Alexandria. About fifty miles north of here.”
    “Amish?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Troubled?”
    “He’s had a couple of scrapes with the law. We’re still gathering information.”
    “He fits the pattern,” I hear myself say.
    “Get out of there.” He says the words easily, as if they are a suggestion that has just occurred to him. But I sense he’s worried about my being here alone. “I’ll get started on a warrant.”
    A clap of thunder makes me jump. “Look, the sky’s getting ready to open up.” I start toward the Explorer. “I’ll give you a call from the sheriff’s office.”
    “Be careful.”
    “You know it,” I say, but he’s already disconnected.
    Smiling, I shake my head. “Tomasetti,” I mutter, and reach for the door handle. I’m sliding behind the wheel, stabbing the key into the ignition when I notice the door to the slaughter shed is standing open.

 
CHAPTER 19
     
    For an instant, I can’t believe my eyes. I walked past the slaughter shed on my way to the barn when I arrived, and I’m certain the door was closed. Had it been open, I would have noticed. Of course, it’s possible the wind blew it open, but I don’t think so.
    So how did the door get open?
    “Only one way to find out,” I mutter as I get out of the Explorer. I stand beside the vehicle for a moment and scan the area. Aside from the wind, everything is silent and deserted. But I can’t shake the prickly sensation between my shoulder blades.
    My senses rev into hyperalert as I start toward the shed. I’m still holding my cell phone in my left hand. I’m aware of the holster beneath my jacket pressing reassuringly against my ribs.
    I reach the door and peer inside. The interior is dark and smells faintly of old blood, manure, and stale air. I glance around for something with which to prop open the door, but there’s nothing handy. I turn my attention to the hasp and realize it’s the kind that could have blown open if not properly closed. But did it?
    For a full minute, I stand there and listen for any sign of movement. But the only sounds are the moan of the wind, the dry scuttle of leaves across gravel, and the low rumble of thunder.
    The urge to step inside and take a look around is powerful, but I know that any impropriety on my part could become an issue if this ever goes to court. I’m miles out of my jurisdiction. Tomasetti is working on a search warrant. All I have to do is wait this out at the sheriff’s office, and by day’s end an army of agents and crime-scene technicians will search this property from top to bottom.
    None of that changes the fact that Annie King is dead and that I have a fifteen-year-old