Page 5 of Dark Storm Rising

“Wine?”

“Some of Lovina’s Amish cheese?”

“And a fire.”

We packed a cooler with some of our favorite culinary pleasures, including two rib eye steaks, a few vegetables, salad, and wine. While Tomasetti grills, I put together a salad, set up the outdoor table, and pour. With the sun blazing on the horizon in hues of purple and red, we raise our glasses in our first toast as husband and wife.

“To our honeymoon,” Tomasetti says.

I clink my glass to his. “And a future that starts right now.”

I startle awake to the bam! bam! bam! of pounding. I sit bolt upright, out of habit reaching for my .38, only to realize I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa in our honeymoon cabin. Next to me, Tomasetti is already on his feet, his Kimber semiautomatic pistol in hand.

Discombobulated, I rise. “What is it?” I whisper.

“Someone at the door.”

“What time is it?”

“Too late for company.”

I can hear the wind tearing around outside the cabin. Rain or sleet striking the windows on the north side. Tomasetti sidles to the front door. I keep my eyes on the window, watching for movement, listening. Standing to one side, he uses the Kimber to part the curtains.

“Hmmm,” he mutters.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Mr. Nisley.” He opens the door. “Is everything all right?”

“No.” The old man shakes his head. “Please. May I come inside?”

“Of course.” Tomasetti ushers the Amish man into the living room.

I switch on the lamp. The sight of our visitor shocks me. Enos is disheveled and shivering. A dusting of snow covers his hat, his beard, and the shoulders of his coat. His expression tells me the shaking has more to do with fear than the temperature.

“I can’t find Lovina,” he blurts.

“She’s missing?” I ask.

“I don’t know where she could have gone.” Enos closes his eyes tightly, shakes his head. “She left earlier this evening to clean one of the cabins. I was in the barn; two more lambs came and Mama was having a difficult time. It was nearly ten P.M. when I got back to the house. Lovina wasn’t there. I looked everywhere. I called for her. I checked the cabin where she’d gone to clean. I was out on the trails, searching for her, when the storm blew in.”

A glance at my cell phone tells me it’s now midnight, which means the woman has been missing for two hours. Not a terribly long amount of time, but too long for an elderly woman after dark and in deteriorating weather conditions.

“Which cabin did she go to?” I ask.

Enos shifts his gaze to me, his expression anguished. “The Hummingbird. I ran over there first thing, but she wasn’t there. No sign that she’d even been there. That’s not like her.”

“Any chance she lost her way with this storm moving in?” Tomasetti asks. “Maybe she made a wrong turn on one of the trails?”

“Maybe, but…” The old man makes a sound of dismay. “This is my doing. I shouldn’t have let her go alone.”

“Is she familiar with the trails?” I ask.

“Yes, but … she used to know these trails like the back of her hand.” Enos scrubs a hand over his beard. “Before the Alzheimer’s set in, anyway.”

Alzheimer’s.

The word hangs in the air, a dark cloud filled with dreadful possibilities.