Page 10 of Dark Storm Rising

“Contractors. Casual labor.” Tomasetti shrugs. “Hired hands.”

Thugs.

Neither of us says the word. Not with an extremely worried husband standing next to us. But we’re both thinking it.

“We need to find Mrs. Nisley,” Tomasetti says.

The cabin shudders with a gust of wind. Enos startles, glances toward the door.

“Is there another cabin she might’ve gone to?” Tomasetti tugs the brochure from his pocket. “Maybe to take shelter from the storm?”

“The closest cabin to this one is the Bobwhite.” Enos indicates the location with his finger.

“How far?” I ask.

“Half a mile west.”

As we start toward the door, Tomasetti makes eye contact with me. “Eyes open. Watch for tracks. Vehicles.” He opens the door. “Let’s bring her home.”

A wind gust wallops me like a cold fist when I step onto the porch. Ahead, the men descend the steps side by side, moving fast. I see Enos motion toward the rear of the cabin. “Deahravayk,” he calls out. This way.

I start to follow, but something in the snow snags my attention. I go to it, set my beam on the disturbance. Trepidation quivers in my gut at the sight of the prints—and blood.

“Tomasetti!”

He jogs over to me, his flashlight beam joining mine. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Those are not the tracks of an Amish woman,” I tell him.

He kneels, studying the prints. “Waffle sole. Boot, maybe. Men’s size ten or eleven.”

Enos joins us, his eyes widening at the sight of the print and blood. “Deahra is so shlecht.” This is so bad.

Tomasetti straightens, sweeps the area with his beam, pausing in the direction we were heading. “More prints there.”

“They’re going to the Bobwhite Cabin,” Enos says.

“Nice of them to leave tracks,” Tomasetti growls.

We start off at a brisk pace with Tomasetti in the lead. Spurred by fear or adrenaline or both, the Amish man somehow keeps up. I take my place at the rear, keeping my eyes on the ground, my beam sweeping left and right, looking for tracks or any indication someone has left the trail.

Wind and snow thrash us as we head west. Twice, Enos is pushed sideways by a gust, but he recovers quickly and keeps moving forward.

“How much farther?” I shout to be heard above the roar of wind.

“The cabin is just around those trees!” Enos yells back.

I look past him, discern the silhouette of a structure. I spot the glow of light in a window and hope leaps in my chest. That hope transforms into alarm when I notice the front door standing open.

Ten feet ahead, Tomasetti unholsters his Kimber. “Stay alert.”

I set my hand on Enos’s shoulder. “Get behind me,” I tell him.

His eyes flick down to the .38 at my side and he lets me pass without argument.

Tomasetti enters the cabin. “Police!” he shouts. “Show yourself! Come out and talk to us!”

“Stay put.” I leave Enos at the foot of the steps that lead up to the porch. Raising my .38, I go through the door. A hundred details fly at me at once. The smell of smoke in the air. Mrs. Nisley on the floor, sitting up, looking dazed. Ahead, the back door swinging back and forth, the wind nearly wrenching it from its hinges.