Page 12 of Dark Storm Rising

He groans. “Oh no.”

She huffs. “He tried to take it from me. The broom, you know. Cursed like a rough man. Pushed me into the wall. And then he ran out the door and didn’t look back.”

“But there was blood,” Enos interjects.

“I bumped my nose is all. Bled just enough to make a mess of things.”

“But how did you get here?” I ask.

“Well, I followed him, of course.”

Enos gapes at her. “Ach du lieva.” Oh my goodness.

“What else was I going to do?” She waves off his concern. “Let the fool burn another cabin? I think not!”

“Mrs. Nisley, can you tell us what he looked like?” I ask.

She doesn’t hesitate. “He’s twenty-five or thirty years old. Skinny. Black coat. Black ski mask. Not too tall.”

“Do you have any idea where he was going?” Tomasetti asks.

“All I know is that he went out the back door a few minutes before you arrived.”

Reaching into his pocket, Tomasetti pulls out the brochure. We study it in silence a moment.

“Lake Road is too far to make on foot in heavy weather,” I say.

Tomasetti looks at Enos. “Is there another road?”

“No.” The Amish man shakes his head. “There’s only one. Lake Road.”

Eyes narrowed, Tomasetti sets his finger against the map. “How far is the Turkey Creek Marina?”

“At least a mile,” Enos tells him. “It’s closed. Been abandoned for going on four years now. Docks are crumbling.”

I raise my eyes to Tomasetti’s. “You think he’s got a boat?”

“If he’s got a Zodiac or some other craft that’s small and maneuverable and doesn’t require a lot of depth, all he needs is a protected place to tie up.”

“It could be done.” The old man nods. “I walked over there last summer. Water’s plenty deep. The main dock is still standing.”

I look at Tomasetti. “Worth a look.”

He’s already pulling on his hat and gloves. “Yep.”

I turn my attention to the couple. “Stay here. Lock the doors. Don’t let anyone in.”

“Ja.” Enos gets to his feet, looks from me to Tomasetti. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to go get the son of a bitch,” Tomasetti tells him, and we go through the back door and into the storm.

Conditions worsened in the minutes we were inside the cabin. With the wind cranking to forty knots and the snow coming at us like darts, visibility has dwindled to just a few feet. Side by side, Tomasetti and I fly down the steps and ease into a ground-covering jog. We traverse the yard and enter the trail that will take us to the marina.

I set my flashlight beam on the ground, sweeping left to right, looking for any indication that our suspect came this direction.

“Kate!”

Ahead, Tomasetti stops. I come up beside him to see the partial print illuminated by his beam.