“The Reiglesberger place?” I ask.
She nods. “I was standing by the bridge when I noticed an old car parked alongside the road. The man was walking around, calling for his dog. He told me the dog’s name was Benji and that he’d jumped out the window and run away. He asked me to help him find it.” A breath shudders out of her. “So we walked the ditch for a few minutes, calling for him. When my back was turned, he rushed me and stabbed me with something sharp.” Using her right hand, she reaches around and rubs her left shoulder. “At first, I thought it was a knife. I thought he was going to kill me, so I ran. But I got woozy—I mean, like I’d been drinking or something—and I could barely walk. The next thing I knew, he got back in the car and he rammed me with it.” She indicates her right hip. “Bumper hit me here, and I went flying.”
She takes a deep breath, as if to garner the full force of her determination, and keeps going. “He dragged me to the car. I tried to fight, but by then I could barely move.” She shrugs. I guess I passed out after that. When I woke up, I was in the tunnel.”
Her breathing is elevated. Beads of sweat coat her upper lip. She’s no longer paying attention to the calf, but lost in a nightmare I suspect she’ll be dealing with for quite some time.
Everything she has said corresponds with Bonnie Fisher’s statement and the evidence found at the scene.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I know that wasn’t easy.” I look down at my notes. “I’ll add this to my final report and then all of us can put it behind us for good.” I smile at her. “You can concentrate on your upcoming baptism.”
She chokes out a laugh. “I still have two weeks to misbehave.”
I open my arms. Setting down the pail, she steps into my embrace. I squeeze her tight. “You’d better get back to your calf.”
I’m closing the stall door behind me when I think of one final question. “Was Irene Mast with him?” I ask.
Sadie looks up from the calf. “His mamm?”
“His wife.” Even as I say the words, something cold and sharp scrapes up my back.
I pause outside the stall, my heart pounding. “Sadie, how old was the man who accosted you?”
She’s already turned her attention back to the calf. “Older than me,” she says matter-of-factly. “At least twenty-five years old.”
For a moment, I’m so shocked that I can’t speak. I think of the way Noah Mast looked lying in the hospital bed, as pathetic as a dog that’s been neglected and brutalized by a heartless owner.
Not wanting to upset Sadie any more than I already have, I leave the stall. Disbelief trails me to the barn door. Once outside, I dial Tomasetti, praying I’m wrong, refusing to acknowledge that my hands are shaking.
He answers on the second ring.
EPILOGUE
Two months later: Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
The party was in full swing by the time he arrived. The Amish teens, most of them on rumspringa, had been gathering at the trailer home for going on a month now. Everyone, it seemed, was always broke. But somehow, someone always managed to wrangle a few six-packs of beer. On a good night, someone would bring a bottle of whiskey or tequila and everyone would sit in the living room and do shots until it was gone and everyone was so shit-faced that they were lucky to make it to their vehicles. Most simply passed out where they were.
As usual, the front door stood wide open. As he parked behind Big Dan Beiler’s pickup truck, he could hear the bass thrum of Nirvana’s “The Man Who Sold the World” blaring through the open windows. Two Amish girls wearing dresses and sneakers sat on the steps, sharing a joint. They looked up when he got out of the car, but he didn’t pay them any heed. They weren’t the one he was looking for to night.
He found her in the kitchen. Rachel Shrock was seventeen years old and as beautiful and intelligent as she was headstrong. He’d met her here three weeks ago and he’d thought of little else since. She’d charmed him with her sense of humor and gentle way. When he was with her, it was as if he were the only man in the world and the very center of her universe. He’d taken her to one of the bedrooms that same night and they’d made love until the sun streamed in through the window.
He knew it was wrong to lie with her before marriage. They’d discussed it, in fact, and Rachel felt the same way. She was a gentle soul, after all. She loved God. She loved her family. And he was beginning to think she loved him, too. It was the start of something beautiful. That was why Noah had to do everything in his power to save her soul. The way his datt had saved the others.
The way his datt had saved him.
Perry Mast had been an ordained deacon—an important position within the church district. One of his responsibilities had been to go into the Amish community and secure information about transgressors. He’d also been charged with meting out admonitions, usually at worship. They were burdensome duties, but his datt had borne them with courage and fortitude.
Noah would never be the man his father had been; he’d made too many mistakes—sinned too many times—most of which he was not repentant for. That was why he’d had to live in the tunnel, why his father had chained him and used the whip. It was why he’d been denied food and, sometimes, water. His datt had loved him and wanted only to ensure his son’s place in heaven. Noah understood that. He’d accepted his punishment with the same strength and grace with which his father had doled it out.
As part of his penance, his datt had sent Noah into the Amish community sometimes to seek out the rebellious members, the ones who’d fallen into sin. Noah had brought them home, where his father had meted out the appropriate punishment.
Noah had decided early on that, while he would never be a deacon, he could continue his father’s work. His father had taught him well, after all, and Noah had been an astute student. His datt, he mused, would be pleased.
Noah had worked hard through the summer. Held down two jobs. But he had a place now. A little house set on two acres. He’d bought a nice young gelding for his buggy, and also a cow. By spring, he’d have a calf, the beginning of a herd.
Rachel stood at the kitchen counter with her back to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a white T-shirt, both of which hugged her female curves. He loved the way her long brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. He loved the feel of it in his fingers, the way it smelled when he brought it to his face and breathed in her scent.
Yes, he thought as he drank in the sight of her, she is the one. He knew she would make a good wife. She would bear him children. She could be saved, and he was just the man to do it.
“Rachel,” he said.
She turned. Her eyes widened, as if she was surprised to see him, which was silly, since he’d been coming for a month now. She held a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Then she smiled, and he was so dazzled by her expression, he forgot all about her vices. With patience and admonition, they would be eradicated.
“Hey, Noah.” She shoved a can of beer at him. “Want a Bud?”
“Sure.” He popped the tab and sipped, uncharacteristically nervous. “What are you up to?” he asked.
“Just trying to cop a buzz.”
He fingered the syringe in his pocket. “You want to take a drive out to see my new place?”
Her eyes lit up. “I’d love to,” she said, and they started toward the door.
gone missing
Bestselling author Linda Castillo has always known she wanted to be a writer and penned her first novel at the age of thirteen. She is the winner of numerous industry awards, including the Holt Medallion, the Golden Heart, the Daphne du Maurier and a nomination for the prestigious Rita. She lives in Texas with her husband, four loveable dogs, two barn cats, and two Appaloosa horses.
ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO
Sworn to Silence
Pray for Silence
Breaking Silence
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A writer spends months on end writing a book, but there are many other behind-the-scenes individuals whose effo
rts, talent, dedication, and heart go into the publishing of it. I’d like to acknowledge a few of the people who helped bring this book to fruition. First and foremost, I wish to thank my editor, Charlie Spicer, for sharing so much of his talent, being such a great listener, and always urging me to go that extra mile. I’d like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, whose brilliance never ceases to amaze me. I’ve learned much from you. Many thanks to my editor in the UK, Trisha Jackson, for always making the books better. I’d also like to thank the entire team at St. Martin’s Press for their continued support, confidence in me and in this series, for working so tirelessly to get the books into the hands of readers—and for making it fun! Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Shear. Matthew Baldacci. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. There are many more individuals who contributed much, but remain unnamed due to space constraints. I’m incredibly lucky to write for such a dynamic publishing house.
I’d also like to thank my critique group for all of those Wednesday night marathons when I kept you up late. Jennifer Archer. Anita Howard. Marcy McKay. April Redmon.
Heartfelt thanks to fellow authors, Ellie James and Catherine Spangler, for the years of friendship and support. You gals rock!
Last, but not least, I’d like to thank the love of my life, Ernest, for his unconditional love and support through all the ups and downs of cohabitating with a full-time writer.
First published 2012 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2012 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-1-4472-1355-0 EPUB
Copyright © Linda Castillo 2012
The right of Linda Castillo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
EPILOGUE
Linda Castillo, Gone Missing
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