Without warning, the girl she indicated lets out a bloodcurdling screech. “Awwwwwwwwer,” she wails. “Awwwwwwwwer…”
Those were the screams I heard earlier. Quickly, I cross to her and bend. “Be quiet,” I whisper. “I’m here to rescue you.”
The girl scrambles away, yanks against her chain, screams again.
“Shut up!” Sadie hisses, and lashes out at the girl with her foot. “Shut her up! She’s going to get us all killed.”
Tossing Sadie a warning look, I holster my weapon and grasp the screaming girl by the shoulders, give her a shake. “Quiet!” I make eye contact with her. “Please. Be quiet. Do you understand?”
Blank eyes stare at me from a face that’s black with grime. Dead eyes, I think. And I know that while this girl might be physically alive, something inside her has been snuffed out.
“It’s going to be okay.” Gently, I lower her to the ground, run my hand over her head. “What’s your name?”
She curls into herself, like some soft sea creature that’s been prodded by a sharp stick.
“I think her name’s Ruth,” Sadie whispers. “She’s crazy.”
Ruth Wagler, I realize. Four years gone and still alive.
I turn, find Sadie looking at me. Despite her ragged appearance, there’s a fierceness in her eyes, as if she’s ready to tear into the first person who walks through that door, the chain on her wrist be damned.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
“The deacon,” the second girl hisses.
“Deacon?” I repeat.
“A man,” Sadie tells me. “He’s old.”
“A couple,” the other girl cuts in. “A married couple.”
“The Masts?” I ask.
“That’s it!” Sadie cries.
“They’re fucking crazy,” the second girl chokes out.
I turn my attention to her, trying not to wince at the sight of the weeping sores around her mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Bonnie Fisher.”
The girl who disappeared two months ago, I realize. “Your mamm and datt miss you.”
She slaps her hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. Her eyes fill. But she doesn’t utter a sound.
“Where’s the couple now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Sadie tells me. “They haven’t been down here for a while.”
“Are they armed?”
“He has a rifle,” Bonnie says.
Uneasiness creeps over me, like a big spider with cold, spindly legs creeping up the back of my neck. I glance toward the door. “Is there anyone else down here?”
The two girls exchange looks. “Leah,” Bonnie says.
Leah Stuckey. I recall the name from that first briefing with Sheriff Goddard. Sixteen years old. From Hope Falls, Ohio. Missing one year. Her parents were recently killed in a buggy accident.
“They took her,” Sadie adds. “Two days ago.”
I think of the body a few yards outside the door and I wonder if it’s Leah’s. “Where did they take her?”
“We don’t know,” Sadie replies.
“They hated Leah,” Bonnie tells me. “They were mean to her because she was mouthy and cussed a lot. They tried to make her read the Bible, like for twenty-four hours straight.” She chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. “Leah told them to get fucked.” She closes her eyes tightly, as if trying to ward off the memory. “They used a cattle prod on her.”
“They took her once, and when they brought her back, she got really sick. You know, bleeding…” Sadie bites her lip. “Down there.”
“I think she’s dead,” Bonnie whispers. “They’re going to kill us, too.”
“No, they’re not,” I say firmly. “I’m going to get you out of here. But I need for you to stay calm and be quiet.”
Sadie nods. The other girl jerks her head, but she doesn’t look convinced. I hope they can hold it together long enough for me to figure out how to handle this.
I look at the band around Sadie’s wrist. “Is there a key?”
“The old man keeps it in his pocket.”
I glance around the chamber, looking for something with which to break the chain. “Help me find something to break that chain,” I say. “A rock or a brick.”
The two girls look around. A single bare bulb dangles from the ceiling and doesn’t reveal much. I see an empty water bottle, a crumbled paper towel. A book lies facedown on a small table. I cross to it, read the embossed words on the spine Es Nei Teshtament. The New Testament.
“There’s nothing here,” Bonnie says.
“Shoot it off.” Sadie motions toward my sidearm and raises her wrist.
I don’t reply; I know she doesn’t want to hear my answer. The chain is too heavy to sever with a bullet. The cuff is too close to her wrist. Not only would it require multiple firings and risk a ricochet but I’d probably run out of ammunition before the job was done, and then I’d have no weapon at all.