Page 13 of Dark Storm Rising

“Same waffle pattern,” he tells me.

“Definitely came this way.” I shift my light to the trail, see another print ahead. “Gotta be going to the marina.”

“Hell of a day for a boat ride,” Tomasetti growls.

We continue our course at a brisk pace.

The trail is narrow and crowded with tree branches and low-growing brush. Tomasetti is five or six feet ahead of me. Snow sandblasts my face, making it nearly impossible to see. I focus on his dark silhouette and the bob of his Maglite, and I keep pushing.

A half mile in and we round a curve. I catch sight of more footprints, and Tomasetti picks up the pace. I can feel my heart laboring from the physical exertion. The thrum of adrenaline beneath the surface. Despite the cold, sweat breaks out beneath my coat.

“Tracks are fresher here,” Tomasetti says.

“We’re gaining on him,” I tell him. “He’s not far ahead.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

The snow is four or five inches deep now and piling up fast. For the tracks to be so fresh, we’re mere minutes behind our quarry.

The trees thin and we enter a clearing. The black expanse of the lake hulks to my right. Above the roar of the wind, I hear the waves thundering against the rocky shore. No sign of the marina. Or our perp.

Tomasetti leans close and says in a low voice, “Water’s too rough to park a boat here.”

“No place to tie off.”

We keep going. The trail veers left, taking us away from the beach, and back into the forest. Visibility is nearly zero now; I stick close to Tomasetti as he pours on the speed. It takes every ounce of energy and strength I possess to keep up. I lengthen my strides, loosen and pump my arms, trying to find my rhythm—and hope like hell I don’t trip over a rock or log beneath the snow. Or God forbid walk into an ambush.

Tomasetti stops abruptly, and I nearly plow into him. A rough-hewn sign with the pyrographic lettering TURKEY CREEK MARINA hangs from a post at a cockeyed angle. We’re still within the relative cover of the trees. Ahead, I discern the vague outline of an inlet. Half a dozen posts jut from the water’s surface at varying angles. I can just make out the silhouette of a dock.

Keenly aware that we’re likely not alone, we douse our flashlights.

“Can’t see a damn thing with all this snow,” Tomasetti mutters.

“Wind isn’t helping.”

I look past him, squinting into the maelstrom. A few feet away, I see what looks like the mast of a sunken sailboat sticking out of the water at a forty-five-degree angle. Next to it, the hull of a long-abandoned pontoon. A few yards to my right, a stone jetty separates the inlet from the lake beyond.

“There’s a light ahead,” Tomasetti whispers, and motions left. “Ten o’clock.”

Sure enough, I can just make out the bob of a flashlight. A ghostly figure moving around. The dull yellow glow of a craft in the water.

“Looks like a Zodiac,” Tomasetti says quietly.

“Inflatable raft?” I whisper.

“With an outboard motor. Fast as hell. Easy to maneuver. And perfect for rough water.”

“He came prepared.”

“This was planned.”

I’m thinking about the implications of that when the whine of an engine screams over the wind.

“Son of a bitch is leaving,” Tomasetti hisses.

“We don’t know if he’s armed.”

“This is one of those times when you have to assume he is.” Sighing, he looks around. “Some cover would be nice.”