Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(83)

The sound of pounding startles me. It’s muffled; I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Rounding the table, I move to the living room. Beyond is a murky hall with two doors. One opens to a bathroom. The other door is closed. There’s a padlock, shiny and new and starkly out of place.

The pounding sounds again.

Senses on alert, I go to the door, set my ear against the wood. “Who’s there?”

The tempo of the pounding increases. “Let me out!” A little girl’s voice, high-pitched and panicked.

“Elsie?”

“Let me out! Let me out! I promise to be good!”

A hundred thoughts tear through my brain. I lift the lock, but it’s engaged. I look around for the key, but it’s nowhere in sight.

Caution makes me hesitate. I don’t know if there’s anyone else in the house. I don’t know if the girl is alone. If there’s someone with her. If they’re armed …

“Are you alone?” I call out.

“Yes! I’m scared! Pleeeeeeease lemme out! I promise not to run away!”

“I’m a policeman,” I tell her. “Stay calm and keep quiet, okay? We’ll get you out.”

Either the girl doesn’t hear me or she’s too panicked to comprehend my words. The pounding becomes frenzied. I can hear her crying, little fingernails scratching the door. No time to comfort her.

I spin and dash through the kitchen. I tug out my .38 as I go through the mudroom; then I’m on the porch. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, on the phone. “I got her!” I say to him.

He whirls, a collage of emotions playing in his expression. He’s already moving toward me. “Anyone else in the house?”

“I don’t know. She said she’s alone.”

Reaching into his jacket, he pulls his Kimber from his shoulder holster. “Let’s go get her.”

We burst into the house, run through the kitchen. Tomasetti reaches the door first.

“Can I come out now?” comes a tiny voice. “I want my mamm.”

“Stand back,” he tells her. “I’m going to break down the door.”

Silence.

We exchange a look. “Are you away from the door, sweetheart?” I ask.

“Ja!”

Stepping back, Tomasetti raises his right leg and slams his foot against the door, next to the knob. Wood cracks, but holds. He kicks it again. On the third try, the wood jamb splits. The hasp holds. A final kick and the door flies open.

It’s a tiny bedroom. Windows covered with plywood. Little Elsie Helmuth stands a few feet away, tears streaming, her hands over her face. It’s a heartrending sight. I want to go to her, put my arms around her. Let her know she’s safe. But we’re not sure what we’ve stumbled upon, so I hold my ground.

Tomasetti enters the room, goes to her, bends to her. “We’re the police,” he says gently. “We’re here to take you home.”

The girl rushes to him. Tomasetti sweeps her into his arms. I see her arms go around his neck, her legs wrap around his waist.

“I want Mamm,” she sobs.

For the span of several seconds, he holds her. He presses his cheek to the top of her head. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The sight of him with the child in his arms moves me so profoundly that for a moment I have to blink back tears.

Still wearing her dress and kapp, the little girl clings to Tomasetti, her arms tight around his neck, her legs around his middle, her face pressed against his shoulder. Tomasetti is holding her against him with one arm, the Kimber in his other hand.

“I’m going to take her to the Explorer and call this in.” He flashes me a look, his expression a mosaic of relief and trepidation. “Get that deputy. Keep your eyes open.”

Taking a final look at them, I turn and jog through the kitchen, go out the back door, and sprint toward the barn. The door stands open, but the interior is dark.

“Deputy!” I call out.

No answer.

I reach the doorway, give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. It’s a huge structure with a low ceiling and support beams as thick as a man’s waist. To my right are tumbledown stalls with sliding doors in the front, Dutch doors that likely open to the outside pens. Some of the stall front boards are missing and have been piled on the floor. To my left are stairs that lead to the loft. Ahead, an old water trough is filled with wood planks and steel T-posts. Next to it, a tangled roll of rusty barbed wire lies in the dirt.

“Deputy!” Gray light slants in through grimy windows; some of the panes are broken or gone. A large sliding door at the back of the barn stands open. I’ve just reached the door when I spot the deputy outside, sprawled on the ground, arms and legs splayed. A copious amount of blood covers his jacket.

My .38 at my side, I start toward him. I’m midway there when I spot the pickup truck in the trees twenty yards away. Tan. Short bed. Tailgate down. A man stands on the other side of the truck, looking at me, his rifle leveled right at me.

A gunshot sears the air. I spin, run back to the barn, throw myself against the nearest beam. Another shot rings out. The wood inches from my face explodes. Shards pierce my cheek, my temple, and my scalp. I reel backward, stumble, nearly fall.

Through the open door I see the man round the truck. Rifle at his side.

“Police!” I scream. “Drop your weapon!”