Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

at the bottom of the barrel. The fine texture of the fabric tells me it’s not a rag. It’s dirty and torn and covered with chaff. I pull out a second bag—my last—and use it to pick up the scrap. It’s about six inches long and frayed. I level my beam on it and lean forward to blow away the chaff. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle as I take in the bold white stitching against black silk. I recognize it immediately as a piece of the tank top Sadie Miller was wearing that day on the bridge.
    Adrenaline rips across my midsection. I run my beam around the room, but there’s no one there. Nothing moves. Rain hammers against the roof; I can’t hear shit. Quickly, I tear the scrap into two pieces, drop half back into the barrel—evidence for the CSU—and stuff the other piece into the evidence bag. I push both bags into my back pocket and start toward the door.
    Then I’m rushing down the corridor, anxious to get out. A right turn will take me back to the main door. I shine my beam left, spot yet another door at the end of the hall, next to what looks like a holding pen for the doomed hogs. I vacillate an instant, then take a left. Four strides and I reach the door. I reach for the knob, find it locked.
    Cursing under my breath, I shine my beam into the holding pen. It’s constructed of steel pipe. I see a concrete water trough, which is dry. The dirt floor is covered with a mix of wood shavings and straw. No trace of manure. On the outside wall, a small half door is closed, and I suspect it leads to the outer hog pen.
    I’m about to make my exit, when I notice an irregularity on the pen floor. Thrusting my flashlight through the pipe rail, I train the beam on what looks like a sheet of plywood that’s partially covered with wood shavings and straw.
    Curious, I slide the pin aside. Steel creaks as I open the gate and step into the pen. I’m midway to the object when my boot thuds hollowly against the floor. Kneeling, I brush away the shavings—and realize I’m standing on a sheet of plywood.
    It’s about four by six feet and three quarters of an inch thick. Kneeling, I slide my fingers beneath the edge. Dust flies as I lift. It’s heavy and requires a good bit of effort. But I muscle it aside. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize I’ve uncovered some kind of stairway or pit.
    “What the hell?”
    Ancient brick steps lead down to a dirt floor and a narrow passage. The walls are constructed of wood beams and crumbling brick. At first glance, I think I’ve stumbled upon a storm shelter or old root cellar. But as my beam reveals details, I realize this is neither. It’s some kind of tunnel.
    Questions hammer my brain. Why in God’s name is there a tunnel beneath the Masts’ barn? Where does it go? Who uses it? And for what?
    A glance at my watch tells me it’s only been ten minutes since I called 911. That means a deputy won’t arrive for another ten. Pulling my phone from my belt, I punch the speed-dial button for Tomasetti. One ring. Two. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to answer. I tell myself I don’t want him to worry. But the truth of the matter is, I know he’ll try to convince me not to go down there—and I know that would be a pretty good piece of advice.
    He answers on the fourth ring with a nasty growl of his name.
    “The Masts are involved.” Quickly, I tell him about the car and the scrap of fabric. “She was wearing that tank top the day of the fight.”
    “Where are you?”
    It’s difficult to hear him above the din of rain against the roof. “I’m at the Mast farm.”
    “Is someone from the sheriff’s office there?”
    “He’s en route.”
    “Are you alone?”
    I start to hedge, but he cuts me off. “Goddamn it, Kate—”
    “Tomasetti, there’s some kind of underground tunnel beneath the slaughter shed. It’s the perfect place to hide someone.”
    “What’s the ETA on that deputy?” The tone of his voice changes, and I visualize him grabbing his jacket and keys as he rushes toward the door.
    “Ten minutes.”
    “Call them again. In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the hell out of that goddamn tunnel?”
    He disconnects without saying good-bye. Shaking my head, I hit end, then dial 911. I get the same dispatcher and quickly identify myself. “I need the ETA of that deputy.”
    “He’s ten minutes out.”
    “Get him on the radio and ask him to run with lights and