Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 32

"No. Never. Becca was perfect." He lowers his face into his hands and begins to cry. "She was like an angel."

Tomasetti gives him a moment. "So, after Becca died, they moved you into the tunnel and you lived there permanently?"

"Ja."

"Did they ever let you out?" he asks.

He raises his head, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "They brought everything I needed down to me. Meat and bread. Water. Milk. Mamm read the Bible to me."

Tomasetti stares at the calluses on the man's wrists. "Did they keep you chained?"

"Most of the time. But only because I tried to leave."

"Were there others down there with you?"

Noah doesn't answer immediately. It's obvious he's trying to protect his parents, despite the cruelty they inflicted upon him, the years they stole from his life. "I never saw them. But I could hear them sometimes. You know, crying."

"Do you know any of their names?

The Amish man shakes his head.

"Were there girls and boys?"

"Girls, I think."

Tomasetti nods. "Do you know why your parents put them there?"

"I figured they did something bad and needed to be brought back. Same as me."

"How did your parents find the girls?"

"I dunno."

"Do you know how they got the girls into the tunnel?"

"I think G.o.d brought them."

Tomasetti looks down at his hands, laces his fingers, unlaces them. "Noah, about your parents ... I'm afraid I've got some bad news."

"What do you mean?" The Amish man pushes up in the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. The gown shifts, and I see a swirl of hair on a sunken chest and shoulders that are bony and sharp.

"Your parents were killed earlier today. I'm sorry."

"What? Killed?" His mouth opens. I see yellow incisors and molars in the early stages of decay. "You mean they are dead?"

"I'm very sorry," Tomasetti says.

"But how can that be? I saw them this morning. Mamm brought me milk, like always. They weren't sick. Why are you saying these things?" He looks at me as if expecting me to dispute the words. When I don't, he collapses back into the pillows and looks up at the ceiling, his chest heaving. "I don't believe you. They would not leave me."

Without looking away, Tomasetti reaches for the plastic pitcher of water on the tray and pours some into a cup, hands it to Noah.

The Amish man doesn't look at us as he sips. When he finishes, he relaxes back into the pillow and closes his eyes. "I cannot believe they are gone. How did they die?"

"Your father was sick-"

"But he was fine!"

Tomasetti touches his temple. "He was sick inside his head, where you couldn't see it."

Noah Mast puts his face in his hands and begins to sob.

The Whistle Stop Tavern in Monongahela Falls is nestled in a warehouse district between the Grand River and a busy set of railroad tracks. In keeping with the train theme, the establishment is housed inside an old railroad car. The interior has been renovated and made into a bar and restaurant-heavy on the bar-and reeks of fried onions and cigarette smoke. The smell should repel me, but I have an affinity for places of disrepute and I've spent too much time in dives just like this one not to be attracted to it now.

Six booths line the left side of the car. The benches are the requisite red vinyl; the tabletops are Formica, with chrome strips on the sides. The bar itself looks like a ramp that was once used to schlep goods onto railway cars. It's a ma.s.sive slab of scuffed wood and runs the length of the car. The lower part of the bar, where red and chrome stools are lined up like colorful mushrooms, is covered with gum-the chewed variety-and I realize that at some point over the decades, it became a weird kind of tradition for patrons to stick their gum to the wood.

It's after midnight and the place is deserted. We find a booth at the rear and order coffee. The bartender is a large bald man with arms the size of tree trunks. He has a spiked dog collar around his neck, and there's a tattoo of a pit bull on his right bicep. But he's fast and friendly, and within a couple of minutes he delivers two steaming mugs.

Tomasetti smiles as he picks up his cup. "You think there's a matching leash?"

"I'm betting his wife keeps it in the night table next to the bed."

"There's a thought I don't want in my head." He tips the mug. "Here's to interesting characters."

"There are plenty of us to go around."

We sip coffee, comfortable with the silence. The last hours have been intense, and we both know it will take some time to decompress.

"You haven't talked about what happened in the tunnel," Tomasetti says after a moment.

The truth of the matter is, I haven't had a chance to think about the time I spent underground with Perry Mast. Now that the adrenaline is flagging and exhaustion is setting in, I realize those minutes were probably some of the most terrifying of my life.

"The worst part was having to leave those girls behind," I tell him. "They were terrified I wouldn't come back for them."

"I guess they don't know you as well as I do. Remind me to give you s.h.i.t later about risking your neck, will you?" But there's no rancor in his voice.

"Bad habit of mine." The smile feels phony on my lips, but I don't bother trying to disguise it. Maybe because I'm tired. Maybe because I trust him, even with the part of me that isn't always on the up-and-up.

I think about the case and all the strange places it has taken us. I think of the body I found in the tunnel, and I wonder if the parents know of their dead child yet. I wonder if the news will give them comfort or closure, or if the not knowing was better because they still had hope.

"Did the coroner have any idea how long that girl had been dead?" I ask.

Tomasetti shakes his head, gives me a reproachful look. "You couldn't have saved her, Kate."

"If we'd figured this out sooner, we might have-"

"Cut it out." He softens the words with a smile. "Those three girls are alive because of you. Because of what you did. You listened to your gut and you went into a dangerous situation. A lot of cops wouldn't have done that, so stop beating yourself up."

The television above the bar changes to a newscast, and the bartender reaches for the remote and turns up the volume. Neither of us looks at the TV, but we listen.

According to the Lake County sheriff's office, a local Amish man shot and killed his wife this afternoon and then turned the gun on himself. The sheriff's office isn't releasing details, but according to reports, a number of hostages were being held in an underground room. The hostages, several of whom have been missing for quite some time, are recovering at a hospital in Cleveland. No names have been released....

Tomasetti sets down his mug and walks over to the jukebox, digs change from his pocket, and makes a selection. A few seconds later, Red Rider's "Lunatic Fringe" rattles from the speakers, drowning out the newscaster's voice.

Neither of us wants to talk about the case. But it's part of the decompression process. I sense the weight of it between us.

Tomasetti breaks the silence. "I heard from the CSU earlier," he tells me. "They found more remains. Bones. In the hog pens."

The hog pens. The meaning behind the words creep over me like a snake slithering around my neck. "Have any of them been identified?"

"I don't know if the lab will be able to extract DNA from the bones. We're going through cold missing-person cases, but I think identification is going to take a while."

I nod, thinking about the Masts, what might have driven them to commit such horrific deeds. "We talked to them, Tomasetti. Why the h.e.l.l didn't we know something was wrong with them?"

"Insanity isn't always obvious."

"How did it get to this point?"

He shrugs. "Taking into consideration everything we know, I suspect it started when their daughter committed suicide."

"They snapped," I say, venturing a guess. "Went off the deep end."

"Or maybe they were just a couple of f.u.c.king lunatics. Fed off of each other."

Bitterness resonates in his voice, and for the first time I grasp fully the ironies of the case. This is about kids, our most precious resource, and the way we treat them. How out of touch parents-even good parents-can be. But this case is mostly about the lost ones who fall through the cracks, both Amish and English. Some of the children were loved; some were ignored. Others were looked upon by their parents or society with a sort of detached disdain.

I look at Tomasetti and wonder how he has fared. So many times I've tried to imagine him with a wife he loved and two little girls he doted on. It's a difficult image to capture. I suspect he's a different man now than he was before.

"I can't imagine how difficult it's been for you to deal with a case like this," I say after a moment.

He looks down at his coffee, but not before I see the walls go up, and I realize even after three years, the deaths of his wife and children is the one topic he won't breach.

"Tomasetti?

He looks at me. "Yeah?"

"If you ever want to talk about it, I'm a good listener."

His expression softens. "I know."

The sound of a train whistle drowns out the final notes of "Lunatic Fringe." The liquor bottles above the bar rattle as a train pa.s.ses. The tabletop shakes, and I feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.

Across from me, Tomasetti slouches in the booth, staring at his coffee, his face revealing nothing of what he's thinking or feeling. It's a battle-scarred face, though it bears not a single mark. I want to heal him, but I don't know if I can. I don't know if he'll let me.

"I got a room," Tomasetti says. "The old hotel by the river."

"The Petry," I say slowly. "I noticed it when we drove past."

"I figured we could both use some downtime."

Even after so long, it unsettles me that I want him with such intensity. That I'm vulnerable to him in that way. That I'm vulnerable to my own needs and that we're sitting here as if any of it makes sense.

I reach across the table and take his hand. Surprise flashes on his face when I tug him toward me. I lean across the table and touch my mouth to his. His lips are firm and warm against mine, and my only conscious thought is that I want more. I smell coffee and the fading redolence of aftershave, and something profound stirs inside me.

Not for the first time, I wonder where our relationship will take us. I wonder if two people with as much baggage as we have can get past it, make a go of something good. I wonder if our demons will allow it. And I wonder how long this precarious happiness will last.

After a moment, I break the kiss and move back slightly. But I don't let go of him and our faces remain close. "You make me happy," I tell him.

He stares at me as if I'm some puzzle that's unexpectedly baffled him. It would be just like him to spout off something flippant or crude. But he doesn't, and his silence leaves me stammering.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"That kiss helped a lot."

"Maybe this relationship stuff isn't as complicated as we thought."

His mouth curves. "You're complicated. I'm screwed up. That's probably a bad combination."

I start to pull away, but his hand tightens on mine. Pulling me close, he kisses me hard on the mouth. It's completely inappropriate for a public place, but it feels good, and I'm too caught up in it to stop. After a moment, he pulls back and contemplates me. It's as if he can see all of those jumpy places inside me-the ones I spend so much time trying to hide, especially from him.

I try to tug my hand from his, but he doesn't let me. He's so close, I feel the warmth of his breath against my face. His dark eyes are level on mine, and for an instant it's as if there's nothing between us. Not my secrets. Not his baggage.

That's when the reality of what I've let happen strikes me. The realization staggers me. Terrifies me. A rise of panic is like a steel clamp around both lungs. I feel my mouth open, but I don't dare utter the words. But I feel the tangled mess of them piled up in my chest.

I wonder if the truth is pasted all over my face. I wonder if he can see it in my eyes, in the way my hand is tight and wet within his.

"Tomasetti..." I begin, but I run out of breath and my voice trails off.

"I know," he whispers. "I know."

CHAPTER 26.

No matter where I travel, how long I've been gone, whether it's for business or pleasure or something in between, there's something special about coming home. It's midmorning by the time I pull into my parking s.p.a.ce at the Painters Mill police station and shut down the engine. For a moment, I sit there, taking in the facade of the building-the ugly red brick and the circa 1970s gla.s.s door. I see my office window with its cracked pane and bent miniblinds, and a few leaves from the ficus tree I've been nursing back to health sticking through.

It's not the visual that grants me such a powerful sense of homecoming, but knowing what lies beyond those doors-and my utter certainty that I'm part of it. Lois's Cadillac is parked a few s.p.a.ces down and, as usual, I can tell her husband spent much of the weekend detailing it. Glock's car sits a few feet away, waxed and lined up within the parking stripes with military precision. Mona's still here-four hours after the end of her shift-and not for the first time I wonder if she's got a life outside her job. There's no sign of Pickles or Skid, but I know they're on their way. T.J. has already gone for the day, but I'll see him tomorrow. That's something else I can count on.

Tomasetti was gone when I woke at just after seven this morning. There was no note. No good-bye. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he slipped out the door without waking me. He's good at that, leaving without so much as a kiss.

G.o.d knows, I'm no expert on relationships, but I do know when something's good. And this thing we've created between us is precious and rare. I only hope it's not fleeting, because for the first time in my adult life, I've given someone the power to hurt me.

I get out of the Explorer and start toward the front door. Suddenly, I can't wait to get inside. I want to talk to my team and get caught up, not only on any police matters but on the small pieces of their lives they occasionally share. I want to sit in my office and listen to Mona and Lois argue over something mundane. I want to fret over that stupid ficus and procrastinate when it comes to archiving those old files that have been sitting on the floor in boxes for the last three months. I want to talk to my sister and brother and find a way to repair all the broken things between us, things I've let the past and my own pride destroy. I want to call Tomasetti and say the words I couldn't say last night.