“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.