Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

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.
    “I used to be Amish,” I tell him.
    He passes the bullhorn to me. “Might help.”
    “Mr. Mast, it’s Kate Burkholder.” I fumble for the right words, hoping to land on something that will reach him. “Please put down the guns and talk to me.” I wait, but he doesn’t respond.
    “Violence isn’t the way to handle this, Mr. Mast. Please. Lay down the—”
    My words break off when Perry Mast shifts his stance. For an instant, I think he’s going to acquiesce. That he’s going to step off the porch and give himself up. Instead, he raises his left hand, sets the muzzle of the .38 beneath his chin, and pulls the trigger.

 
CHAPTER 23
     
    Mast’s head snaps back. Blood spatters the door behind him, like red paint spattered violently against a canvas. His knees buckle and he falls backward, striking the door on his way down.
    “Shit,” Tomasetti hisses.
    And then we’re on our feet, running toward the house.
    “Irene Mast is inside!” I shout. “She’s armed!”
    Marcus, the deputy, reaches the porch first. He’s holding his Glock in his right hand, keeping his eyes on the window and door. I’m behind him. Tomasetti is beside me—so close that his arm brushes against mine.
    I try not to look at Mast. He’s lying on his back, his head propped against the door. The bullet entered beneath his chin. The entry wound is small. But I know enough about weapons to know the kind of damage a .38 will do when it exits. I don’t see a wound, but a pool of blood the size of a dinner plate spreads out on the concrete beneath him. His eyes are open and seem to stare right at me. And even though I know he’s beyond feeling any kind of emotion, I swear I see an accusatory glint.
    We need to go through the door, but Mast’s body is in the way. The trooper bends, sets his hands beneath the corpse’s shoulders, and drags him aside, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete. Marcus yanks open the door. I go through first, the Glock at the ready, Tomasetti right behind me.
    “Police!” I shout. “Put your hands up and get on the floor!”
    My heartbeat roars like a freight train in my chest as I step into the kitchen.
    “Blood,” Tomasetti says, and motions left.
    A pool of it shimmers black in the dim light slanting through the window. I see the strips of cloth I used to bind the Amish woman’s hands. Then I spot the drag mark.
    “Shit!” whispers the deputy as he steps in behind us.
    A whimper sounds from the hall. It’s a terrible sound in the silence of the house. The cry of a dying animal. My Glock leading the way, I follow the blood trail through the kitchen and into the hall. There, I see Irene Mast lying on the floor. Her hands are free. She’s using her elbows to drag herself toward the basement door. With each movement, that terrible sound erupts from her mouth. It’s as if she’s a mindless thing that must reach some destination before she can die.
    “Stop right there.” My throat is so tight, I barely recognize my own voice. “Stop.”
    She continues on as if she hasn’t heard me, hands and elbows pulling her body along. Her hands are clawing at the hardwood floor, that terrible sound squeezing from her throat with every inch of progress.
    In the periphery of my mind, I hear the deputy’s radio crack; he’s speaking into his mike, giving the paramedics the go-ahead to come up the driveway.
    “Mrs. Mast?” I repeat. “Stop. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
    She’s sustained at least one bullet wound to the head. I don’t know how it is