“Get your hands up!” Keeping his sidearm poised center mass, Tomasetti approaches the man. “Get them up! Now!”

“Get down on the ground!” the deputy screams.

The man stares at us, his expression terrified as he drops to his hands and knees and then onto his belly. He’s muttering words I don’t understand—an old Amish prayer I haven’t heard in years.

We rush forward as a unit. Tomasetti pounces on him, puts his knee in the man’s back. The deputy withdraws cuffs from his belt and secures the man’s hands behind his back. My hands shake as I pat him down for weapons. I pull the pockets of his trousers inside out. As I run my hands over his chest, I discern the sharp edges of ribs. He’s little more than skin and bones.

“He’s clean,” I say, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Tomasetti gets to his feet, brushes dust from his slacks, slants a look at me. “He one of the hostages?”

“The hostages were female.” I turn my attention to the young man. “What’s your name?”

The deputy helps the man to his feet. I guess him to be in his twenties. He’s breathing hard, his concave chest heaving with each breath. He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand.

I repeat my question in Pennsylvania Dutch. “What’s your name?”

“Noah,” he blurts. “Noah Mast.”

A shockwave goes through me with such power that I take a step back. I glance at Tomasetti. He’s not easily surprised. But I see shock in his eyes.

“You’re Noah Mast?” he asks.

“Ja.”

The deputy’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”

“Are you the son of Irene and Perry Mast?” I ask.

The man nods. “They are my mamm and datt.”

I’m so taken aback by the revelation, it takes me a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing down here?”

“This is where I live.”

“What do you mean?”

“I live here. This is where they keep me.”

“You mean here? On the property?” I ask. “With your parents?”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “No. I live here. In the down below. Here.”

If I wasn’t hearing this with my own ears, I wouldn’t believe it. My brain sorts through the information, but I still can’t get my mind around it.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

He looks at me. Even in the dim light from the flashlights, I can see he’s not healthy. His lips are dry and cracked. His face is so pale, I can see the veins through his skin. The hair at his crown is thin and dry-looking.

“They are here. I hear them scream sometimes.” He says the words as if living in a tunnel where people scream is a normal, everyday occurrence.

“Are they alive?” I ask.