Page 7 of Dark Storm Rising

“Found it.” Brandishing a colorful trifold brochure, Enos dashes back to the living room. “All the cabins are labeled. The trails are mapped.”

“That’ll help.” Tomasetti plucks the brochure from his hand and studies the map. “What’s the distance between the main house and the Hummingbird Cabin?”

“Half a mile, give or take,” Enos tells him. “The trails are overgrown. Never got around to cutting them back over the summer. The surrounding woods are thick.”

After pulling on his coat, Tomasetti sets his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Nisley, can you find your way back to the main house?”

Irritation flashes in the man’s eyes. “I may be old, but I’m not blind,” he snaps. “I have no intention of going back to the house when I know she’s not there.”

“You’ll slow us down,” Tomasetti snaps back. “We don’t have time to waste.”

“I may be a half-moon past eighty, but I still know how to move my damn feet.” He makes the statement with such tenacity that I believe him.

I look at Tomasetti. “There’s something to be said for determination.”

Tomasetti isn’t impressed and glares at the older man. “You got a flashlight to go with that bad attitude?”

Enos glares back at him in kind, and I think I see the glint of victory in his eyes. “I got two.”

Growling beneath his breath, Tomasetti pulls on his hat and gloves. “Let’s get out there and find her.”

It’s a quarter past midnight when the three of us embark on the trail to the Hummingbird Cabin. Wind buffets us, bringing with it a windchill that cuts to the bone. Snow slants down sideways, hard enough to sting exposed flesh. Tomasetti grabbed his Maglite from the Tahoe. Enos and I make use of the smaller flashlights he had on hand. Still, visibility is dismal.

The trail is a narrow footpath crowded with overgrowth. The Amish man leads the way, not quite fast enough to quell my sense of urgency—or Tomasetti’s. Despite his age, he is, indeed, in good physical condition.

It takes us ten minutes to reach the cabin. It’s a pretty structure not much larger than a tiny home. Enos goes directly to the front door, twists the knob, and swings it open.

“Lovina!” he calls out.

We enter a small living room with a cast-iron stove in the corner. A loveseat and single chair. The interior is cold and smells of old wood and uncirculated air.

“Lovina!” Bending, Enos turns on the lamp and looks around. “I can tell by the smell she didn’t clean. She never made it.”

“Let’s take a look around.” Tomasetti starts toward the kitchenette. “Make it quick.”

“I got the bedroom,” I say as I stride to the hall. I hear Enos behind me, and I motion him left to the restroom. I enter the bedroom, turn on the light, looking for any sign of Lovina: a dustrag or broom or vacuum cleaner.

I’ve just opened the closet door when I hear Enos gasp. “Chief Burkholder!”

I rush from the bedroom, find him standing in the bathroom, his face ashen. “What is it?” I ask.

Even as I ask the question, I spot the blood. It’s stark and looks out of place on the white porcelain. Several drops mar the front of the vanity. More on the floor.

“Mein Gott.” My God. “She’s hurt.” He chokes out a sound of distress. “I didn’t notice this earlier when I was here.”

“Maybe she cut herself or slipped in the snow and cut her knee,” I offer.

I can tell by the man’s expression that neither of us believes it.

“What happened?”

I glance toward the hall to see Tomasetti come around the corner.

“There’s blood.” I motion toward the bathroom.

His expression darkens when he spots it. He looks at Enos. “Does your wife have a cell phone?”

“We have a landline at the house,” he replies. “In the office. For business, you know.”