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.

"s.h.i.t!" 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 that she's still conscious. That she somehow survived that kind of trauma. Her kapp and the hair beneath it are blood-soaked. Her left ear is missing. She's lost a lot of blood. But she doesn't stop. Her hand claws at the floor, a mindless, brain-damaged action. Her nails are broken to the quick. Her legs remain unmoving, part of a broken body being dragged along behind her.

I kneel next to her, set my hand on her shoulder. "There's an ambulance on the way."

That's when I notice the bullet hole in her back. It's small and there's not much bleeding. I wonder if the bullet struck her spine and that's why her legs aren't moving.

"Mrs. Mast, hold still. Help will be here any moment."

She uses her left hand to turn onto her side. A sound squeezes between her lips as she rolls onto her back. Her eyes find mine, and I realize she's cognizant. She knows she's been shot. She knows I'm here.

"Who did this to you?" I ask.

Her eyes focus on mine. Her mouth opens and blood and saliva form a bubble between her lips. She whispers something unintelligible and then the breath rushes from her lungs. Her body jerks twice and goes slack. I hear the paramedics come through the door, but I know they're too late.

"She's done," Tomasetti says.

I stare down at her for a moment, watching the life drain from her eyes. I remind myself that just minutes ago, she tried to kill me; I shouldn't feel anything except grat.i.tude that I'm alive and she's lying there dead instead of me. But the fact of the matter is, it's not easy to watch someone die. In this case, Irene and Perry Mast left too many questions unanswered.

"Kate."

It takes me a moment to realize Tomasetti is speaking to me. I have no idea what he's saying. I turn to him, pretending I wasn't somewhere else.

"The tunnel, Kate. Where is it?"

The sheriff's deputy stands next to him, barking something into his lapel mike, but his attention is on me.

"Bas.e.m.e.nt," I say. "This way."

Then I'm striding down the hallway, vaguely aware that my legs are shaking. The bas.e.m.e.nt door stands open, the wood around the lock shattered. Evidently, Perry Mast used the rifle to blast his way out. I stop at the door, look down the steps into the bas.e.m.e.nt. It seems like hours since I was down there, though in reality it's only a matter of minutes.

I start down the steps. The temperature drops as I descend. The odor of rotting wood and wet earth close around me like a dirty, wet blanket. Gray light oozes in from a single window at ground level, but it's not enough to cut the shadows.

My boots are silent on the dirt floor as I cross to the hatch. Tomasetti walks beside me, shining his Maglite from side to side. I hear the deputy behind me. He's breathing heavily, which tells me his adrenaline is flowing. The fact of the matter is, we don't know what we'll find down here. We don't know if there are other people, if they're armed, or if they mean us harm. We don't know if the girls are alive or if Mast killed them before coming out and turning the gun on himself.

"They ran electricity to the tunnel," I say as I take them to the hatch.

"So much for all those Amish rules," Tomasetti mutters.

"I cut the extension cord."

We reach the hatch. The sickle I used to lock Mast in lies on the floor, a few feet away. One of the double doors lies next to it; the other hangs at a precarious angle by a single hinge.

"He shot off the hinges," says Marcus stating the obvious.

Tomasetti shines his light down the steps leading into the tunnel. "What the f.u.c.k is this?"

Marcus trains the beam of his flashlight on the steps. "House used to be part of the Underground Railroad."

"No s.h.i.t?" Tomasetti says.

"Newspaper did a story a few years ago."

"Did you know about the tunnels?" Tomasetti asks.

"No one mentioned tunnels."

"Now you know why," I mutter.

The deputy sweeps his beam along the brick walls of the tunnel. "Creepy as h.e.l.l, if you ask me."

Dread sc.r.a.pes a nail down my back as I stare into the darkness. My heart is a drum in my chest. The last thing I want to do is go back down there. Not because I'm afraid of some unseen threat, but because I don't know what we'll find. If Mast shot and killed his wife, chances are good he also killed the girls....

"We need a generator and work lights." Tomasetti glances my way, keeping his voice light. "You want to 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 h.e.l.l 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.

"s.h.i.t." 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 f.u.c.king 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 ma.s.s, 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 s.h.i.t."

"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 flashlights, I can see he's not healthy. His lips are dry and cracked. His face is so pale, I can see the veins through his skin. The hair at his crown is thin and dry-looking.

"They are here. I hear them scream sometimes." He says the words as if living in a tunnel where people scream is a normal, everyday occurrence.

"Are they alive?" I ask.

"Some of them," he says matter-of-factly. "The good ones."

I glance at the deputy. "Can you take him topside?" I hear myself ask. "I'm going to get the hostages."

"Sure thing." He glances at Tomasetti, who nods, then at Mast. "Let's go."

The deputy and Mast start toward the hatch. Tomasetti and I watch them go. Mast turns his head and smiles. In that instant, he looks like a frightened teenager.

"What the h.e.l.l was going on here?" Tomasetti mutters.

I look at him and shake my head. "I'm not sure I want to know."

Shaking his head, he shines the beam down the tunnel. "Let's go find those hostages."

Neither of us holsters our weapons as we begin walking. I look around for some familiar landmark. A step-up or alcove or door. But there are only brick walls and the oval of the tunnel. It's as if I've never been here.

We've only gone a few yards when a scream echoes from the darkness. It's the same voice I heard when I was down here earlier. It's a bloodcurdling sound that rattles my nerves. But it also fills me with hope, because I know at least one of the hostages is alive.

I break into a jog. Tomasetti quickens his pace to keep up, holding the beam steady and ahead. We've gone only a few yards when I see the door.

"That's it," I say.

"Careful. He could have b.o.o.by-trapped it."

But I'm already pushing it open. I see two girls lying on the floor. Sadie is standing, one hand shading her eyes from my beam. I see terror in her eyes in the instant before she recognizes me.

"Katie!" she cries. "You came back!"

"Is everyone okay?" I ask.