Page 17 of Dark Storm Rising

I give him a gentle elbow to the ribs anyway. “I’m glad I got to see this place one last time. With you.”

“Me, too.”

Turning, I look out at the lake, and for an instant I’m that Amish kid again, seeing the endless expanse of water for the first time, wondering about all the things beneath the surface, realizing just how big the world really was, and feeling the knowledge take the breath from my lungs.

“The lake was a far cry from our farm pond in Painters Mill,” I say.

“A little less muddy.”

“Fewer hogs.”

We grin at each other, then Tomasetti takes my hand and we start down the beach toward our cabin.

It’s been three days since the debacle at the marina. The snow is nearly gone and the sun has raised temps to a more seasonal fifty-two degrees. This is our last full day here. I wish we could stay another week, but I’m also anxious to get home. There’s a new life waiting for us there, too.

We’re enjoying the view, the rolling waves, the cries of the gulls when Tomasetti’s cell chimes. Giving me an I’ll-get-rid-of-them-quick look, he fishes it out of his pocket. His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller.

“I appreciate the update,” he says after a moment, and ends the call.

“News on the case?” I ask as we continue down the beach.

“That was the Ashtabula Sheriff’s Office,” he tells me. “Evidently, our friendly neighborhood firebug, Mr. Pawtowski, isn’t enjoying his accommodations at the county jail and asked to speak with the prosecutor this morning.”

“That’s an interesting development.”

“I thought so. According to the lieutenant, Pawtowski sang like a canary and has already starting naming names.”

“I wonder if he included Louis Devlin.”

“First name out of his mouth.”

“So we were right,” I say.

He nods. “Pawtowski asserts Devlin hired him to set fire to the cabin that burned a few weeks ago. When that didn’t work, he asked him to do it again. Evidently, Pawtowski is an accomplished pyromaniac with enough experience to cover his tracks so that the fire marshal ruled the cause of the blaze as undetermined.”

“Is it enough to implicate Devlin?” I ask.

“The lieutenant wasn’t at liberty to get into the details.” Tomasetti clears his throat, telling me he was indeed briefed on the details. “But he intimated there’s a money trail. He thinks they’ll have enough to get a warrant and charge Devlin by week’s end.”

“Not quite a happy ending, but close.” I think about the Amish families that already sold their land and left. “At least the Nisleys can live out their golden years without the threat of someone burning down their cabins.”

“If it’s any consolation, the sellers were generously compensated for their land.”

“That helps,” I say. “A little.”

“It’s nice when justice prevails.” Tomasetti looks over at me. “I think there’s a moral in there somewhere.”

“I think there are a lot of morals to this story. Don’t ever forget about those special places. Don’t compromise when your heart tells you not to.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t mess with an Amish woman when she’s got a broom in her hands?”

I laugh. “If the broom fits…” Then I think about all the other ways the situation could have played out. “It took a lot of courage to do what Mrs. Nisley did.”

“It did,” he agrees. “I suspect Pawtowski didn’t stand a chance.”

Sharing a smile, we join hands and look out across the impossible blue of the lake. I’m considering taking off my shoes and braving the ice-cold water when Tomasetti speaks.

“Okay, Chief, since this is our last night, what do you say we break the seal on that bottle of Sangiovese and grill those nice yellow perch filets chilling in the fridge?”