“I didn’t want to leave without telling you how sorry I am about your brother,” I say.
She winces at the mention of her brother, hangs her head. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
“Matthew,” I say.
That I’m familiar with the Bible passage seems to please her. She raises her gaze to mine, scrubs her hands over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. “The deputy I talked to said you were there. When it happened.”
I nod.
“Did he say anything?” she asks. “Did he say why?”
I search my memory for something that will answer her question and yet won’t add to her misery. “He said he didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I tell her. “That he was sorry.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “How could he do what he did? To our datt? To Jonas. It’s beyond me.”
I don’t have the answers she needs. What little I know about her father will only add to her despair. I’m not exactly in a position to comfort her. “I know it must be difficult,” I say. “When you’re ready, you might see if you can find your mamm’s diary. There may be some answers there.”
She pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. “I don’t see how an old woman’s scribblings could drive a good man to kill.”
“Sometimes we write about the things that hurt us the most,” I tell her.
“My own brother.” The Amish woman presses her hand over her mouth, but she can’t suppress the sob that escapes. “He lured our datt to that old farm and shot him like an animal. Left him for the coyotes and vultures and God only knows what. He lied about it all these years.” She uses the tissue to wipe her eyes. “To cut off a man’s hands? How does anyone do such a thing? I can’t bear to think of it.”
The world around me grinds to a halt. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet. Something cold and sharp scrapes down my back. “Did Henry tell you that?” I ask.
She looks up at me, sniffs. “Tell me what?”
“That the hands had been removed?”
She shakes her head. “I must have read about it or heard it somewhere. Gossip probably. You know how the Amish are.”
I stare at her, an internal alarm shrilling. It was the one detail the police didn’t make public. Even if the information got out—which it did to me—hearing about the mutilation of a loved one isn’t the kind of news you forget where you heard it.
I’m aware of the sliding door standing open a few yards behind me. The loft above and to my right. Stalls on my left. The sound of the cattle bawling and moving around outside.
Mary Elizabeth stares at me. Tears are wet on her cheeks and yet something cold shifts in her eyes. “You should have left,” she tells me.
I lower my hand to the holster where my .38 usually rests. Of course, it’s not there. I’m aware of the mini Magnum against my ankle. Not easily accessed. I set my other hand against the key fob in my pocket. My cell is in the Explorer, drying out after being submerged. I don’t know if it’s operable. Shit.
“You have the journal,” I say.
“The police gave it to me after Mamm died,” she whispers. “Not Datt. Not Henry.” Her expression turns mournful. “I missed her so much. I wanted to understand why she did it.” She shakes her head. “Reading it was quite a shock. God in heaven I wish I hadn’t.”
I stare at her, focused on the .22 strapped to my ankle. I don’t know exactly what this woman knows or what she has done. I don’t know if she’s armed or what she’s capable of. I have no idea where her husband is. The one thing I do know is that I’m in danger. All I have to do is kneel, yank up the hem of my slacks, slide the revolver from its nest …
“How my mamm suffered,” she says. “The things he did. The horrors stuck in her head. Such ungodly things.”
Keeping my eyes on Mary Elizabeth, I back toward the sliding door. “Henry knew,” I say, buying time.
“He knew you’d figure it out.” She tilts her head, looks at me as if I’m something to be pitied, an injured animal about to be put down. “No one wanted you hurt. We’re not that way. We just wanted you gone.”
I drop to a kneeling position, yank up the hem of my slacks. A sound from above startles me. I glance up to see a wall of hay lean. I reach for the .22 but I’m not fast enough. Dozens of bales plummet. I lunge, try to get out of the way. A bale strikes my shoulder. Another slams into my back. I sprawl to the ground. A tremendous weight pummels me. I’m flat on my belly. The world falls silent.
And it’s just me and the dark and the knowledge that I’ve been buried alive and there’s no way out.
CHAPTER 32
I lie still, dazed, adrenaline sizzling in my gut. I’m in a prone position, arms outstretched, my head turned, cheek pressed to the ground. I have dirt in my mouth. Dust in my nostrils. Crushing weight on my back. Darkness all around. I suck in a breath. Dirt hits the back of my throat. I cough, my chest heaving, fingers of panic digging in.
Dear God, I can’t move.
I recall the hay tumbling from the loft. Dozens of bales coming down on top of me. I try to raise my head, but can’t. I flex my arm, try to push myself off the ground, but there’s too much weight pressing me down. A rush of claustrophobia assails me, primal and intense. I struggle mindlessly, grunting with the effort of trying to move. A scream tears from my throat. Dear God …
Easy does it, Chief. You got this.
Tomasetti’s voice comes to me out of the dark. I go still, listen to it, focus on the words. You got this. Slowly, the panic loosens its death grip. I bend my elbow. Bring my hand to my face. I wipe spit and mud and bits of hay from my mouth. I take another breath, not too deep. I move my leg, try to bring up my knee, only manage to dig the toes of my boots into the dirt.
All the while, I listen for voices. The only thing I hear is the hard pounding of my heart, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I try to shift onto my side, but there’s not enough room. I go still again, work my way through the chain of events, and I know this was no accident. Someone was in the loft and pushed the hay down on top of me. Adrian?
The thought prompts another barrage of panic. I fight it this time, force myself to remain still, reach for calm that isn’t there. I concentrate instead on my physical condition. No pain. I’m not injured, but I won’t last long without fresh air and with the weight of the hay crushing my lungs.
I have no idea how many bales came down. Each weighs fifty or sixty pounds. They’re rectangular and likely scattered on impact. The strongest muscles in my body are my legs. If I can shove just one bale aside, I may be able to dig my way out.
I bend both arms, set my hands against the ground, try to push off, push-up style. Hay scrapes against my skin. My scalp. I shove as hard as I can. No go.
I shift to my left side, bring up my right leg, try to roll to get my knee under me. The bale on top of me shifts, but another comes down. At first, I think I’ve made the situation worse. Then suddenly, my knee is beneath me. I twist, push against the bale with my back. I feel another bale move. Groaning with the strain, I shove harder. Get my other knee beneath me. Loose hay rains down. In my eyes, my mouth, my hair. But I see light, too. I’m in a crawling position now. Arms shaking with exertion. Breaths puffing. Choking on dirt. I bring my knee forward, get my foot beneath me, shove off against the ground. The bale on top of me tumbles away. Cool air pours over my sweat-slicked face. I suck in a breath as I squeeze between two bales. I see the rafters above. The broken rail hanging down. And then I’m free.