As I slip into the vest, secure it at my waist, I see Tomasetti striding toward us, his cell phone pasted to his ear. He’s holding his weapon in his right hand, down by his side, but he’s not looking at the house or the barn. His attention is focused on me. His expression is as hard as stone and completely devoid of emotion. But it’s like we’re looking through a vacuum at each other; in the short distance between us, nothing else exists.

“Can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?” he mutters.

I try to smile, but I can’t. “Evidently not.”

He turns his attention to the trooper. “Negotiator is on the way, along with the mobile command center. ETA thirty minutes.”

“I got a SWAT team en route.” The trooper looks at his watch. “We might be in for a wait.”

I tell the men about the hostages, about my having to leave them behind. They listen intently, their expressions grim.

“You’re lucky,” the trooper tells me.

I don’t feel very lucky. The truth of the matter is, I feel guilty for having left those girls at the mercy of a maniac. “I’m afraid he’ll kill them,” I say.

“We’re not equipped to go down in those tunnels,” the trooper tells me.

“What was Mast’s frame of mind?” Tomasetti asks.

“Cold. Determined. Calm.” The word murderous floats through my mind, but then, that’s a given.

The trooper glances toward the house. “What about the wife?”

“Bat-shit crazy.”

The two men exchange looks and I know they’re thinking the same thing I am. Do we go in and retrieve the Amish woman? Or do we wait for the command center and negotiator to arrive?

The trooper’s radio cracks. Hitting his mike, he breaks away to take the call.

Tomasetti turns his attention to me. “I told you to stay out of that tunnel.”

“You know how it is with me and authority.”

“Kind of like oil and water.” But his expression softens. “You okay?”

“I promised those girls I’d come back for them,” I say.

“We’ll get them.” His eyes skim down the front of me and I know he’s looking for blood, injuries. I know it the instant he spots the scald on my neck. He raises his eyes to mine. “How did you get those burns?”

I want to tell him the burns are not the source of my pain. That what ails me is the thought of Mast killing those girls. . . . “Irene Mast threw a pot of hot water on me.”

His mouth tightens, and he motions toward the Tahoe. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the back. Think I have some burn gel.”

“I don’t want to be fussed over.”

He sighs. “Kate.”

“Those girls are chained to the wall like animals,” I whisper. “Sadie’s down there.”