Page 93 of Fallen

Skid was well versed in all the ins and outs of police procedure. He’d had it drilled into his head since his first day at the academy a lifetime ago. He figured his finding the chief’s abandoned vehicle and .38 qualified as just cause to enter the premises sans a warrant. He didn’t bother knocking. It took him just a few minutes to ascertain there was no one in the house. He even went into the basement and attic. All to no avail.

“House is clear,” he said into his shoulder mike. “You got an ETA on County?”

“They’re ten-seven-six.”

“Put out a BOLO for Ben and/or Loretta Bontrager’s buggy.” The request didn’t feel right, because he’d seen a buggy in the barn. Did Amish people have more than one?

“Roger that.”

“Something’s wonky here, Mona,” he said. “I’m going to look around.”

“Pickles is ten-seven-six.”

“Ten-four.”

Skid left the house, jogged to the gravel area between the house and barn. There was a rusted steel gate next to the barn and a muddy two-track that ran toward the back of the property. He got into the cruiser, idled to the gate, and got out. Sure enough, marks in the dirt told him someone had recently opened the gate. On the other side were fresh horse tracks and the ruts of tires. He pushed open the gate. Back in the cruiser, he drove through.

At the top of the hill, he hailed Pickles. “What’s your twenty, old man?”

“I’m two minutes out.”

“I’m headed to the rear of the Bontrager property. Do you know if you can get in through the back? There a gate back there?”

“I think there’s an old two-track down where that old schoolhouse used to be. You want me to meet you back there?”

Skid didn’t know about the old schoolhouse. In fact, he wasn’t counting on much help from Pickles. The guy might’ve been a good cop back in the day, but he was almost eighty now and sneaking a smoke every chance he got.

“That’s affirm. Keep your eyes open, old man,” he said. “I’m pretty sure someone’s come back this way.”

I don’t remember falling or striking the ground. The next thing I become aware of is the press of damp earth against my cheek. Pain above my ear. The smell of dirt and decaying organic matter. I can’t move my arms.…

I open my eyes to find myself staring at a wall of dirt and concrete block, dangling roots, and nondescript vegetation. I’m prone, the ground cold and wet beneath me. Raising my head, I look up to see Ben Bontrager slide a shovel into a pile of loose dirt.

It’s a surreal scene. So strange that for a moment, I wonder if I blink, it’ll go away. A shovelful of earth clatters onto my back. I try to sit up, but I’m tied to something heavy. I twist my head, smell the creosote an instant before I recognize the railroad tie.

A hot flare of panic courses through me as the hopelessness of the situation hits home. A railroad tie weighs about two hundred pounds; there’s no way I can move it. I’m lying in the base of a deep pit and from all indications Ben Bontrager is planning to bury me alive.

“Loretta!” I look around for the Amish woman. “Don’t do this!”

She looks down at me, then walks away without speaking, leaving my line of vision.

“Help me!” I work at the wires binding my wrists, no longer noticing the pain. My feet aren’t bound, so I use the strength in my legs to try and disengage myself from the railroad tie. I dig my toes into the dirt. I grunt and scramble, like an animal snared in a trap. All to no avail.

A torrent of earth rains down. It goes into my hair. Down my collar, into my eyes. I look up to see Ben upend a wheelbarrow. “Stop!” I scream.

Blinking dirt from my eyes, I see Loretta come up beside him, pushing a second wheelbarrow. Ben usurps the handles and upends it.

Dirt and small stones come down atop me. It gets into my mouth. This time, there’s so much, I feel the weight of it on my back.

I struggle mindlessly against the bonds, twisting. Back and forth. Back and forth. I kick my legs, throwing off the dirt. I buck against the railroad tie, clods rolling off me. Another wheelbarrow full of dirt plummets. I suck in dust and begin to cough. Panic smolders inside me, but I tamp it down, knowing it will do nothing but hinder my efforts.

Abruptly, I go still. I take a deep breath, release it slowly. I close my eyes. Grapple for a calm that isn’t there. I hear the rattle of the wheelbarrow. The hiss of the shovel penetrating earth. I focus on the wires at my wrists. Try to pinpoint the weak point. I go at it again. Ignoring the steel slicing my flesh.

I remind myself Skid is on his way. He’s a good cop; he’ll find me. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath and scream at the top of my lungs. “Skid! I’m here! Help me! Help!”

My cries echo against the walls of the pit. I quash another wave of panic. A payload of earth hits my back, the weight pressing me down. I kick my legs, twist to rid myself of it. But the railroad tie locks me down tight. The dirt stays, and I can’t help but wonder: How long before my face is covered? How long until I can’t breathe? How long until I’m completely buried and even if someone comes, they won’t find me?

Another volley of dirt pours down, strikes my face. It goes into my left ear. My eyes. My nose. Grit in my mouth.