A Dark Path #6
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.”
“Not to mention a Kevlar vest,” I mutter. “Backup.”
Approaching a suspect who may or may not be armed without cover or backup and in extreme weather conditions is every cop’s worst nightmare—and exactly the kind of situation that could go south quick.
The only things we have going for us are the element of surprise and the relative cover of darkness and the weather conditions.
“Looks like his back is to us,” I say. “Can we reach him without being seen?”
“If we can see him, he can see us.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m fresh out of magic tricks.” He sends me a sober look over his shoulder. “I’d ask you to stay put, but I suspect I’ll get an argument.”
“You’re right.”
Grimacing, he looks toward the Zodiac. “The dock is the only way to reach him. Water’s too cold to go that route. I say we go in fast. Hit him hard. Take him down.”
“I’m in.”
His gaze lingers on mine a moment and then he starts toward the dock. Staying low and moving quickly, we emerge from the cover of the trees, step onto the dock, and start toward the Zodiac. Our suspect hasn’t spotted us; he’s busy with the mooring rope and outboard. But if he turns around …
I feel vulnerable and exposed as we move along the dock. Beneath my feet, I discern that the planks are buckled and loose; some are rotted through, a few missing altogether.
Crouching, Kimber at his side, Tomasetti moves like a big cat, sure-footed and with laser focus. I follow, dividing my attention between the figure in the Zodiac and the hit-or-miss planks beneath me.
As we draw near, I see the man messing with the outboard motor. Then he turns his attention to the mooring rope. Preparing to untie the craft, which gives us scant seconds to stop him.
“Halt!” Tomasetti calls out. “Police! Get your hands up! Do not move!”
The figure straightens and whirls, thrusts the light directly at us. He’s wearing a parka with the hood up. His mouth is open. Right hand reaching …
“Let me see your hands!” Tomasetti roars. “Get ’em up!”
The suspect’s hand slams down on the throttle. The engine screeches. The Zodiac leaps forward. The mooring rope snaps taut. Without warning, the piling tilts, planks splinter and give way. Tomasetti plummets feet-first into the water.
Shit. Shit!
I scramble over the destroyed planks, set my foot against a beam that’s still secured to the piling and pray it holds. I catch a glimpse of Tomasetti beneath me, head and shoulders above water, and I launch myself onto the Zodiac.
I land on my feet, too hard, off balance. The craft’s floorboard dips beneath me. I stumble, struggle to find my balance. “Police!” I scream. “Release that throttle! Show me your hands!”
Free of its moorings, the inflatable raft rocks violently as it scuds toward the mouth of the inlet. Waves pound it with such force that I go to one knee to keep from being pitched into the water. I bring up my .38 and level it at the man. “Do not move!” I tell him.
His head swivels left. Contemplating going into the water, I realize.
“Don’t do it!” I shout. “Put your hands up! Do it now!”
As if realizing there’s no escape, the man raises his hands to shoulder height. “I didn’t do anything!”
“I’m a police officer and I am armed,” I tell him. “Do not move. Do you understand?”
He seems to sag inside his parka. “You got nothing on me.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I warn.
Wind and snow buffet us, pushing the vessel toward the mouth of the inlet. Waves rock the craft violently. I point my flashlight beam at the outboard. “Turn off that motor!” I yell at the man. “Do it now.”
A moment of hesitation, a string of expletives directed at me, and then the man obeys.
I point at the small bench seat. “Sit down and do not move.”
“You’re making a big mistake.” But he lowers himself onto the seat.
I glance over my shoulder toward the place where I last saw Tomasetti, and experience a rise of concern when he’s not there. I know all too well that hypothermia can sap the life from a man in minutes.
I startle when a hand comes up over the side of the craft. I glance down, see Tomasetti grab on, spit water. “Use the oars. Get us to shore.”
Even through the snow slashing down, I discern that he’s shivering. “Hang tight.”
Tomasetti brings up his right hand, gripping the Kimber, and levels it on the perp. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man snarls a curse. “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he says. But his hands inch up.
Spotting the aluminum oars set into the oarlocks, I tuck my sidearm into my waistband and position the flashlight on the seat. I snatch up the oars. Never taking my eyes from my suspect, I set the blades in the water. While Tomasetti clings to the side, I row to shore.
It takes several minutes for us to reach the bank near the collapsed dock. When Tomasetti’s feet make contact, he pushes through the water and wades toward the bank. I watch as he takes hold of the mooring line and hauls the raft onto the snow.
His movements are jerky; his entire body quivers violently. Hypothermia, I think. The urge to go to him is strong; we both know I’ve got to deal with our perpetrator first.
I get out of the raft and turn to see the man stepping out. Out of habit I reach for my duty belt. Of course, it’s not there. No cuffs.
“Kate.”
I turn to see Tomasetti brandishing a length of the mooring rope. “I got it.” Despite the shivering, he goes to the perp. “Hands up, Einstein.”
Quickly, he pats the man down. “You’re not under arrest,” Tomasetti tells him, “but you are being detained.”
“For what?” the man cries.
“For being stupid,” Tomasetti tells him. “Turn around and put your wrists together.”
A moment of resistance and then the man acquiesces. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Says the man who was just bested by an elderly Amish woman.”
I help Tomasetti secure the rope. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Always wanted to take the polar bear plunge,” he says.
“You can check that off your bucket list.” I set my hand against his cheek. “Your lips are blue.”
“That’s probably not the only thing that’s blue.” A half smile curves his mouth. “What do you say we get back to the cabin and warm up?”
“Best idea I’ve heard all day.”
An hour later, Tomasetti and I are standing in the kitchen of the main house, clutching mugs filled with blessedly hot coffee.
Upon our arrival, Mrs. Nisley supplied Tomasetti with dry clothes: a plain Amish shirt and coat, and trousers that are a couple of inches too short.
I can hear his clothes and coat rolling around in the dryer.
Across from us, the Nisleys sit at the kitchen table, giving their statements to an Ohio State Highway Patrol trooper.
The perpetrator—a twenty-six-year-old felon by the name of Thomas Pawtowski—is handcuffed and perched on the living room sofa, awaiting a trip to the Ashtabula County jail for an array of charges, a list that will likely grow as the investigation progresses.
Trooper Jackson closes his notebook, gets to his feet, and addresses the Nisleys.
“Thank you for all the information, folks,” he says.
“Storm is supposed to clear out in the morning. We’ll get someone out here to process the scenes at the cabins and marina.
In the interim, I would ask that you not venture inside either cabin. ”
“We’ve no plans to leave the house.” Enos sticks out his hand for a shake. “We’re glad to do our duty.”
Mrs. Nisley nudges her husband’s arm. “And we’re certainly glad we don’t have to worry about that young man setting another cabin on fire.” She sends a disapproving stare at Pawtowski. “I can’t imagine how disappointed his parents will be when they find out what he’s done.”
The trooper clears his throat. “Hopefully, this will be a lesson learned for him, ma’am.”
Because of the storm and the pileup on the interstate, Trooper Jackson was the only law enforcement official able to respond. With the suspect in custody and the cabins secured, the rest of the investigation can wait until morning.
Tomasetti approaches the trooper. “We appreciate your driving up when you’ve got your hands full with the rest of the county.”
“I don’t think I’m speaking for just myself when I say it’s part of the job, Agent Tomasetti.”
The men share a smile.
Tomasetti relays the information about the developer, Louis Devlin. “At this point, it’s just a theory, but I don’t believe Pawtowski came here to set fire to that cabin on his own.”
The trooper’s eyes sharpen. “You think Devlin’s involved?”
“If Devlin is after the land,” I put in, “and the Nisleys are the last holdouts, it’s a viable theory.”
The trooper nods. “I’ll give the prosecutor a heads-up.”
“If you need the names of the Amish who’ve already moved away,” I say, “we can help put you in touch with them.”
Trooper Jackson sighs. “Used to be a lot of Amish in this area,” he says.
“When I was a teenager, they hired me a couple of summers to bale hay. Paid for my first muscle car that way. I’m not against progress or community growth, but I sure don’t like the idea of the Amish being forced out of their homes by intimidation. ”
“Especially when the land has been passed down for generations,” I add.
Trooper Jackson slides his notebook into the pocket of his uniform coat. “We appreciate the assistance from both of you. I think it’s lucky for everyone you were here.” He grins. “Not an ideal situation to encounter when you’re on your honeymoon.”
“We’re glad no one was hurt,” I say.
“And no cabins burned.” Tomasetti slips his arm around my waist. “Best of all, we’ve still got four days left.”
At that, the trooper tips his hat and, with his prisoner in tow, heads for the door.