The deputy sweeps his beam along the brick walls of the tunnel. “Creepy as hell, if you ask me.”

Dread scrapes a nail down my back as I stare into the darkness. My heart is a drum in my chest. The last thing I want to do is go back down there. Not because I’m afraid of some unseen threat, but because I don’t know what we’ll find. If Mast shot and killed his wife, chances are good he also killed the girls. . . .

“We need a generator and work lights.” Tomasetti glances my way, keeping his voice light. “You want to get that going, Chief?”

He’s giving me an out, I realize. As much as I appreciate the gesture, there’s no way I can stay behind.

“I need to go down there.”

“Let’s go.” Drawing his weapon, he starts down the steps.

Descending into the tunnel is like being swallowed alive by a wet black mouth. Even with two powerful flashlights, there’s not enough light.

No one says what they’re thinking. That we’re going to find the hostages dead. That Mast won this little war and we should chalk up another one for the bad guys. . . .

Our feet are nearly silent on the ancient brick and dirt floor. Tomasetti has to walk at a slight stoop because of his height.

“Where the hell does it go?” the deputy asks.

“The slaughter shed,” I tell him. “There was another turnoff, which might lead to the barn.”

Flashes of my blind run through this tunnel nudge the back of my consciousness. I remember feeling my way along the brick walls, stumbling over unseen obstacles, knowing an armed Perry Mast was closing in and bent on killing me. I suspect I’ll be making that run in my nightmares for some time to come. . . .

Twenty yards in, the unmistakable sound of footsteps reach us. Someone is running toward us.

“Shit.” Tomasetti raises his weapon and drops into a crouch. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Police!”

Beside me, the deputy drops to a shooter’s stance, raises his weapon. I pull the Glock from my waistband and do the same.

Both men shine their lights forward.

“The hostages were bound?” the deputy asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.

I see movement ahead. Out of the corner of my eye I see the deputy take aim. “Stop right there!” he shouts. “Sheriff’s office!”

On instinct, the three of us move closer to the wall, but there’s no cover. A figure appears out of the darkness. I see a tall, thin silhouette, a pale face and dark hair, dark clothes.

“Stop!” Tomasetti shouts. “Stop right fucking there!”

A young man dressed in tattered Amish garb stumbles to a halt a dozen feet away. His arms flap at his sides. His mouth is open. His eyes are wild. He screams something unintelligible and falls to his knees.