I rise and, flashlight at my side, stare ahead into the black abyss. If there’s someone there, he can see me. If he’s armed, I’m a sitting duck. For the first time, I feel exposed, vulnerable. I consider turning off the flashlight and trying to make my way in the dark. But that could prove to be even more dangerous. I could encounter stairs or a pit—or someone equipped with night-vision goggles.

Raising the flashlight, I set the beam on the walls and ceiling. If someone is using this tunnel on a regular basis, he may have installed electricity or be using an extension cord. Sure enough, my beam reveals an orange cord that’s affixed to the ceiling with galvanized fencing staples. I track the cord with my beam, realize it runs along the ceiling as far as I can see.

I pick up my pace, keeping my eye on the cord, sweeping the beam left and right. Traversing a tunnel of this size and scope is surreal. It’s like a nightmare where you think you’re about to reach the end but never do. Another few yards and I trip over a step and go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, fumble with the flashlight, and find a railroad tie sunk into the floor. To my right, an ancient door constructed of crumbling wood planks is set into the wall. I see a newish hook-and-eye lock, a floor-level wooden jamb. Above me, the cord makes the turn and disappears behind the door.

Averting the beam of my flashlight, I edge right and listen. The muffled sound of sobbing emanates from beyond. I set my ear against the wood. Not just sobbing. This is the sound of human misery, an unsettling mix of keening and groaning. Female, I think. I can’t help but wonder if Sadie is on the other side of the door. I wonder if she’s alone, if she’s injured. I wonder if there’s someone in there with her, hurting her, waiting for me.

Gripping my .38, I stuff the flashlight, beam up, into my waistband and use my left hand to ease the hook from the eye. Metal jingles against the wood when it snaps free. The sobbing stops, telling me whoever is on the other side has heard it. I kick open the door with my foot, lunge inside.

The door swings wide, bangs against the wall. Dust billows in a gossamer cloud. I’m standing in a small antechamber. Movement straight ahead. I drop into a shooter’s stance, train my weapon on the threat. “Police,” I snap. “Don’t fucking move.”