“Probably the best explanation of motive we’re going to get,” Tannin says.

“I’ll double check with the bishop tomorrow to see if Mast was indeed an ordained deacon,” I tell them.

Tannin motions toward the door of Noah Mast’s room. “Maybe his son will be able to shed some light on all this, too.”

CHAPTER 25

Noah Mast watches us enter, wary as an animal whose den is being invaded by predators. He’s wearing a hospital gown. A stainless-steel IV stand next to the bed holds a bag of clear solution, which drips steadily into his arm. The lower half of his body is covered, but despite the blankets, I discern the boniness of his legs and the sharp points of his knees. His hands are clean, but they’re dotted with scabs. His skin is so pale, I can see the blue of his veins. The sight of him reminds me of photographs I’ve seen of Holocaust survivors.

“Hello, Noah.” Tomasetti stops a few feet from the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” His eyes are the color of pewter. They’re glassy and rheumy, like an old man’s. “I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”

I’m aware that Tannin is moving unobtrusively to the wall adjacent to the bed. He leans against it, his arms crossed in front of him. I move beside him, giving Tomasetti the floor.

“I’m John,” he says, showing his badge. “I’m with the police.”

“Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“I’m just here to ask you some questions.”

Noah’s eyes flick to me and Tannin, then back to Tomasetti. “W here are my mamm and datt?”

“I want to talk to you about your parents. But we need to get some questions out of the way first.” Tomasetti lowers himself into the chair next to the bed, leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I understand you were living down in the tunnel on your parents’ farm. Is that true?”

“Ja.”

“How long have you been living there?”

Noah glances out the window, where rain streaks down, as if he wants to scramble out of bed and take a running leap through the glass. “I’m not sure. A long time, I think. I didn’t have a way to mark time.”

“How old were you when you started living in the tunnel?”

“Eighteen.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven.” He offers a tentative smile. “Mamm brought me German chocolate cake for my birthday.”

I hear Tannin’s quick intake of breath. I feel that same shock echoing through me. It’s inconceivable that his parents kept him in that tunnel for nine years.

“Did they force you to live down there?” Tomasetti asks.

“I reckon so.”

“Did they tell you why?”

“I fell prey to sin.” The matter-of-fact tone makes his answer all the more bizarre.

“How so? What did you do?”