Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (28 page)

“Shit.” Slamming the door, I start toward the barn. I pass the slaughter shed, where Tomasetti and I talked to Perry Mast just two days ago. The severed hog heads are gone, but I can see the indentations in the grass, the oily smears of blood. The door is closed, so I continue on toward the barn. I pass by a chicken coop with an attached wire aviary where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck the ground.

The smell of the hogs grows stronger as I near the barn. To my right, several pink snouts poke between the boards of the fence, and I know the pigs are watching me, hoping for a snack. I slide open the big door and step inside, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The interior is shadowy and smells of moldy burlap and pig shit. Dust motes float in the slant of murky light coming in from a grimy window on the west side.

“Hello?” I call out. “Mr. and Mrs. Mast?”

A pigeon coos from the rafters above. An antique-looking manure spreader stands next to a big hay wagon that’s missing a wheel. A rusty hand auger leans against the wall. A leather harness hangs from an overhead tack hook. I can smell the saddle soap from where I stand. Several empty burlap bags lay scattered on the floor in the corner. Kernels of corn glow yellow against the dirt floor.

“Hello? Mr. Mast? It’s Kate Burkholder.”

I cross to the window at the back and look out. Below, a small pen houses a dozen or more Hampshire hogs. Some are lying on their sides in the shade; others root around in a shallow mud puddle. To my right, in a larger pasture, two old draft horses and a sleek Standardbred gelding stand beneath the shade of a walnut tree, half-asleep, swatting flies with their tails.

I turn my attention to the field beyond the pasture, hoping to see someone cutting hay, but there’s no thresher or wagon or team of horses. The Masts aren’t home, and now I’m going to have to hang around before heading to Buck Creek.

“Damn,” I say with a sigh, knowing the day is going to be a bust.

I leave the barn. I’m closing the door behind me when I notice the greenhouse to my right. Some Amish use them to get a head start on their seedlings until the soil is warm enough to plant. I head that way on the outside chance someone’s there, but I know it’s wishful thinking. I’ve already decided that instead of waiting here for the Masts to return, I would be better off speaking to someone at the sheriff’s office and, if I can find him, to the Amish bishop. Hopefully, someone will be able to shed some light on the death of Rebecca Mast.

Midway to the greenhouse, I pass by a fire pit surrounded by a low stone retaining wall. A steel fifty-gallon drum vented with bullet holes stands upright in the center of the pit. Growing up, we handled our trash much the same way, by putting everything that couldn’t be composted into a big drum and burning it. If we were lucky,
Datt
would let Jacob and Sarah and me roast marshmallows.

Thunder rumbles like the long, low growl of a cross dog. The wind has picked up just enough to turn the maple leaves silver side up, their shimmering surfaces contrasting sharply 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-f 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.

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 missing Amish girl on my hands who may be facing the same fate. I don’t know how or why, but my gut is telling me the Masts are involved. And I can’t help but think that while I’m being herded through this case like an obedient cow being prodded onto a truck, Sadie Miller is somewhere nearby, fighting for her life.

Or she’s already dead.

“To hell with it,” I mutter, and snap open my cell. The 911 dispatcher answers on the second ring. Quickly, I identify myself, letting her know I’m law enforcement. “I’m out at the Mast farm on Township Road 405, and I need for you to send a deputy as soon as possible.”

“What is your emergency, ma’am?”

“I’ve found evidence of a crime that’s related to a case I’m working on.”

I hear the clatter of fingernails against a keyboard. “What’s your location, ma’am?”

I recite the address from memory.

“I’ve got a deputy en route.”

“What’s the ETA on that?”

“Twenty minutes.” She pauses. “Are you in imminent danger, ma’am? Would you like me to stay on the line until he arrives?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I disconnect and clip the cell to my belt.

Overhead, rain begins to tap on the roof, fat drops hitting the shingles like nails from a nail gun. A gust of wind sends a scatter of dry leaves around my feet. The door slams. The sound is like a shotgun blast, and even though I saw it coming, I jump.

Crossing to the door, I twist the knob and shove it open. There’s no one there, just the wind and the storm and the weight of my own tripping suspicion. And all of it is shadowed by the doubt that I’m wrong about the Masts and that when the deputy arrives, I’m going to have some backpedaling to do.

Pulling my Mini Maglite from my pocket, I turn away from the door and start toward the corridor that will take me to the slaughter room. It’s the same route Tomasetti and I took the night we were here. Everything looks different now as the cone of light plays over the dirt floor. It’s as if some unseen threat lurks around every corner.

Using my foot, I shove open the door to the slaughter room, shine my beam inside. Light from an overhead Plexiglas panel reveals an empty space that smells vaguely of bleach and manure. The bench where the carcasses are dressed is clean and dust-free. The boiling drum is empty and dry. Cutting tools gleam from hooks on the wall. Above, the chain used to lower the carcass into the vat is rusty but free of contaminants. Perry Mast runs a clean operation. Only I found a half-burned pack of clove cigarettes in his trash. . . .

The velocity of the rain against the roof increases to a deafening drumroll. It’s so loud, someone could fire a gun and I wouldn’t hear it. I back from the slaughter room and continue down the corridor. I come to a door on my right and open it. It’s a small shop with a workbench against the wall. A big floor sink with a bar of homemade soap next to the faucet and a towel draped over its side is set against the wall. I see a container of bleach on a shelf. Cloth towels have been folded neatly on a shelf below. A cattle prod hangs from a nail that’s been driven into a two-by-four. A knife the size of a machete lies next to a sharpening stone on a workbench.

Glancing at the other side of the room, I see a large piece of equipment covered with a tarp. I cross to it and pull off the tarp. Dust flies, but I barely notice because I’m transfixed by the sight of the dark blue Ford LTD. I almost can’t believe my eyes. What the hell are the Masts doing with a vehicle? A vehicle that matches the description of the car Mandy Reiglesberger described near where Sadie Miller was last seen.

Leaving the tarp on the floor, I start toward the door, my heart pounding. Next to the door is a plastic fifty-gallon drum. The top has been sawed off and it’s being used as a trash bin. No liner. Using my flashlight, I peer inside. I see a crumpled bag of cat food, chunks of hog hooves, the broken handle of some garden tool. The sight of the bloody rags gives me pause. I lean closer, noticing a few red-black flecks on the side of the drum. I remind myself this is a butchering shed; the rags may have been used to clean or disinfect the equipment.

It’s not an unusual find, but I pull an evidence bag from my pocket anyway. Snapping it open, I use it to pick up the smallest rag I can find, stuff it inside. I’m in the process of sealing the bag when I spot another piece of fabric 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.