The girl’s face screws up. “I heard the gunshots,” she chokes out. “I thought he killed you.” She lowers her face into her hands and bursts into tears. “I thought he would kill us, too.”
“It’s going to be okay.” I go to her, put my arms around her. The chain binding her to the wall rattles as she throws her arms around me. She begins to sob uncontrollably, her body trembling against me. “It’s over,” I tell her. “You’re going home.”
CHAPTER 24
Two hours later, the Mast farm is swarming with sheriff’s deputies, local police, paramedics from the volunteer fire department, and a slew of state Highway Patrol troopers. The coroner’s SUV is parked outside the slaughter shed. Midway down the driveway, out of the crime-scene perimeter, is a television news van from WCVK, out of Cleveland. A young reporter in a lime green raincoat is finger-combing her hair while the cameraman sets up lights.
I’m about to go in search of Tomasetti, when I see him coming out of the house. The scowl he’s wearing softens when he spots me, and he starts toward me. “You’re getting wet, Chief.”
The fact that I hadn’t noticed tells me something about my frame of mind. I’m unduly glad to see him—for myriad reasons—and it takes a good bit of self-discipline to keep myself from putting my arms around him. “Anything new?” I ask.
“Going to take a while to figure this one out,” he tells me. “How are the hostages?”
I’ve spent the last hour in the tunnel with Sadie Miller, Bonnie Fisher, and the third girl, who, we believe, is Ruth Wagler, while the local locksmith dismantled the shackles.
“Sadie Miller and Bonnie Fisher are in relatively good condition. Physically anyway.” I look at Tomasetti and sigh. “The third girl is in terrible shape. She’s emaciated and weak. Nearly catatonic.”
“I called the Waglers,” he tells me. “Sheriff’s deputy is driving them down from Sharon.” He pauses. “Did you speak with the Miller girl’s family?”
“I called Glock and had him run out to my sister’s farm. They were … ecstatic. And thankful.” I grin. “Gave all the credit to God.”
“Ah … the bane of being a cop.”
We watch an ambulance pull away. I find myself thinking about the body I found. “Any more remains?”
“One of the deputies found bones in the hog pen,” he tells me. “Two skulls.”
“Jesus.” I stave off a shiver, trying not to think about what that means.
“We’re going to search the entire property. Sheriff’s office is going to bring in some cadaver dogs.”
I sigh, wondering if we’ll ever get the full story of what happened and why. “Have you talked to Noah Mast?”
He nods. “One of the troopers and I did while we were waiting for the ambulance. Kid’s a mess. Doesn’t even know what year it is.”
I struggle to wrap my brain around that. The conditions were truly horrific—dirty, unsanitary, damp. The hostages were malnourished and filthy. I can’t imagine the psychological toll nine years would take.
“Does he know his parents are dead?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
A snatch of memory pushes at the back of my brain. “All of this makes me wonder what really happened to the sister.”
Tomasetti nods. “We asked Noah about her. Evidently, the parents blamed him for her death.”
“But it was a suicide.”
“Maybe. We’ll need to take a look at the autopsy report. Maybe even exhume her body.”
I’m still thinking about the parents and how they could lay blame on their son. “Did Noah say why they blamed him?”
“We didn’t get that far. EMS took him to the hospital in Mayfield Heights. He’ll probably spend at least one night there. Once they get him set up in a room, we’ll do the interview.” His face darkens. “You get anything from the girls?”
“Not much. They were pretty shaken up.”
“We need to talk to them.”
“They took Bonnie Fisher and Ruth Wagler to the same hospital as Noah. Sadie went to Pomerene, in Millersburg, so her family could be there.”
For a moment, the only sounds are the crack of police radios and the patter of rain against the ground. “Tomasetti, what the hell was going on here?”
He shakes his head in a way that tells me not only does he not know but the depravity and insanity are so far beyond his grasp, he can’t imagine.
“The Masts seemed so fucking normal,” I say.
“Except they kidnapped at least five teenagers, killed at least three people, and imprisoned their own son for nine years,” he growls.
We fall silent, our thoughts zinging between us, and watch a trooper in a yellow slicker turn away a young reporter. But my mind is still on Bonnie Fisher, Sadie Miller, and Noah Mast. Tomasetti’s right: They’re going to be our best source of information. Our only source now that the Masts are dead.
I hope they know enough to tell us why.