Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,97

was concerned about the welfare of the children, if she thought Rosanna was somehow unfit, I can understand her going to the bishop. I can see the bishop stepping in.”

He looks away as if digesting the dark undercurrents, his eyes skimming the surrounding land, the fields, the woods beyond. “We don’t know what happened here.”

“No, but we have a theory.” A theory that’s so hideous, neither of us says the words aloud …

Tomasetti’s phone chirps. He looks down at it. “Kentucky Department of Criminal Investigation. Hang tight.” Turning away, he sets it to his ear.

I glance toward the barn. The big sliding door stands open. There’s no sign of the deputy. I leave the cemetery and walk back to the house. The curtains at the window are parted by a couple of inches, so I go to it and peer inside. The interior is murky. I see light blue cabinets. An old-fashioned porcelain sink. Gas stove. Farther, I can just make out the corner of a kitchen table. I’m about to turn away when I hear a resonant thump from inside the house.

Turning my head, I set my ear against the glass. I hold my breath and listen. The faint sound of pounding reaches me. Cupping my hands, I look, try to see past the grime and dim light. There’s no one there, but I’ve no doubt I heard something.

Muttering a curse, I try the knob, find it unlocked. I push open the door and step inside. There’s a row of windows to my right. A bench seat to my left. The room is dirty. There are clumps of dried mud, leaves, and grass on the floor.

“Hello?” I call out loudly. “I’m a police officer. Is someone there?”

The house reeks of mildew and dust and day-old garbage. I continue on, enter the kitchen. It’s tidy and a bit cleaner, with a table and four chairs. A dozen or so mason jars sit on the counter next to an old-fashioned bread box. A towel is draped over the edge of a sink.

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