She reacts to the question as if trying to avoid a physical blow, sinking more deeply into the bed, pulling the sheet and blanket up to her chin. “It seems like a long time ago.”

I nod in understanding. “Take your time.”

The silence stretches for a full minute before she finally speaks. “I was riding my bicycle to work at the joinery,” she begins. “It was just starting to get light. I was late and in a hurry. There was a car behind me, following too close. I kept pedaling, but I remember being annoyed that a driver could be so rude when he had plenty of room to go around. You know how the tourists are. Always in such a hurry. . . .” Her voice trails off and she looks out the window.

“What happened next?” I ask.

“The car hit me. The back wheel went out from under my bike and I lost control, went into the ditch.”

“Were you injured?”

She chokes out a laugh. “I was angry and set on giving the driver a piece of my mind.” Her expression sobers, and I know her memory is taking her back.

“The old man was just standing there,” she whispers, “looking at me with this creepy expression.”

“Who was the old man, Bonnie?”

“Deacon Mast.”

“Perry Mast?”

She nods. “We were only allowed to address him as ‘Deacon.’ ”

“What kind of car was he driving?”

She shakes her head. “It was old and blue, I think.”

I think of the old Ford LTD I discovered in the shed and continue. “What happened next?”

“I accused him of driving like a maniac.” A breath shudders out of her. “Deacon Mast . . . the old man, he made like he was sorry and wanted to help me. When he was close, he stabbed me with the needle.”

“What kind of needle?”

“The kind we vaccinate the calves with.”

“A syringe?”

She nods. “I thought he was crazy. I screamed and tried to get back on my bicycle. But what ever he put in that syringe made me sleepy, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move.”

He drugged them, I realize. “Was he alone?” I ask.

“I didn’t see anyone else.”

“What happened next?”

“Everything was kind of like a dream after that. But I’m certain he put me in the trunk. I remember riding in the dark.”

“Did he bind your hands or feet?”

“My hands were tied. I remember because my wrists were raw when I woke up.”

“Where were you when you woke up?”

“I was there.” Her face crumples and she looks down at the bruises on her wrists. “In that awful tunnel.”

I press on, suspecting she will soon reach a point where she’s either too upset to speak or succumbs to the sedation. “Was there anyone else in the tunnel with you?”