Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

get that going, Chief?”
    He’s giving me an out, I realize. As much as I appreciate the gesture, there’s no way I can stay behind.
    “I need to go down there.”
    “Let’s go.” Drawing his weapon, he starts down the steps.
    Descending into the tunnel is like being swallowed alive by a wet black mouth. Even with two powerful flashlights, there’s not enough light.
    No one says what they’re thinking. That we’re going to find the hostages dead. That Mast won this little war and we should chalk up another one for the bad guys. . . .
    Our feet are nearly silent on the ancient brick and dirt floor. Tomasetti has to walk at a slight stoop because of his height.
    “Where the hell does it go?” the deputy asks.
    “The slaughter shed,” I tell him. “There was another turnoff, which might lead to the barn.”
    Flashes of my blind run through this tunnel nudge the back of my consciousness. I remember feeling my way along the brick walls, stumbling over unseen obstacles, knowing an armed Perry Mast was closing in and bent on killing me. I suspect I’ll be making that run in my nightmares for some time to come. . . .
    Twenty yards in, the unmistakable sound of footsteps reach us. Someone is running toward us.
    “Shit.” Tomasetti raises his weapon and drops into a crouch. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Police!”
    Beside me, the deputy drops to a shooter’s stance, raises his weapon. I pull the Glock from my waistband and do the same.
    Both men shine their lights forward.
    “The hostages were bound?” the deputy asks.
    “Yes,” I tell him.
    I see movement ahead. Out of the corner of my eye I see the deputy take aim. “Stop right there!” he shouts. “Sheriff’s office!”
    On instinct, the three of us move closer to the wall, but there’s no cover. A figure appears out of the darkness. I see a tall, thin silhouette, a pale face and dark hair, dark clothes.
    “Stop!” Tomasetti shouts. “Stop right fucking there!”
    A young man dressed in tattered Amish garb stumbles to a halt a dozen feet away. His arms flap at his sides. His mouth is open. His eyes are wild. He screams something unintelligible and falls to his knees.
    “Get your hands up!” Keeping his sidearm poised center mass, Tomasetti approaches the man. “Get them up! Now!”
    “Get down on the ground!” the deputy screams.
    The man stares at us, his expression terrified as he drops to his hands and knees and then onto his belly. He’s muttering words I don’t understand—an old Amish prayer I haven’t heard in years.
    We rush forward as a unit. Tomasetti pounces on him, puts his knee in the man’s back. The deputy withdraws cuffs from his belt and secures the man’s hands behind his back. My hands shake as I pat him down for weapons. I pull the pockets of his trousers inside out. As I run my hands over his chest, I discern the sharp edges of ribs. He’s little more than skin and bones.
    “He’s clean,” I say, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
    Tomasetti gets to his feet, brushes dust from his slacks, slants a look at me. “He one of the hostages?”
    “The hostages were female.” I turn my attention to the young man. “What’s your name?”
    The deputy helps the man to his feet. I guess him to be in his twenties. He’s breathing hard, his concave chest heaving with each breath. He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand.
    I repeat my question in Pennsylvania Dutch. “ What’s your name? ”
    “Noah,” he blurts. “Noah Mast.”
    A shockwave goes through me with such power that I take a step back. I glance at Tomasetti. He’s not easily surprised. But I see shock in his eyes.
    “You’re Noah Mast?” he asks.
    “ Ja. ”
    The deputy’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”
    “Are you the son of Irene and Perry Mast?” I ask.
    The man nods. “They are my mamm and datt. ”
    I’m so taken aback by the revelation, it takes me a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing down here?”
    “This is where I live.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I live here. This is where they keep me.”
    “You mean here? On the property?” I ask. “With your parents?”
    He looks at me as if I’m dense. “No. I live here. In the down below. Here. ”
    If I wasn’t hearing this with my own ears, I wouldn’t believe it. My brain sorts through the information, but I still can’t get my mind around it.
    “Where are the others?” I ask.
    He looks at me. Even in the dim light from the