A Dark Path
He parked in the stand of chinquapin oak trees, fifty yards from the mouth of the driveway, and killed the engine.
Grabbing the flashlight from the seat pocket, he got out and took in his surroundings.
There was no traffic on the main road. No one around.
From where he stood, he could hear the crash of the surf from the lake behind the cabin.
Above the trees, a yellow half-moon hovered; no need for the flashlight just yet.
Using the fob, he popped the trunk and reached inside for his backpack.
Hefting the strap over his shoulder, he walked along the road, turned in to the lane, and started toward the cabin.
The shadows cast by the trees blocked the moonlight, hindering his vision, so he flicked on the flashlight.
He knew from his recon excursion that there was no security system and there were no dogs in the area.
There were no streetlamps or game cams. The tourists liked their privacy, after all, and paid a pretty penny to get away from it all.
He slowed to admire the front porch with its Adirondack chairs and rough-hewn door as he passed.
One of these days, he thought, and continued on, taking the flagstone path around to the rear.
He was aware of the lake beyond, restless against the shore.
He took the steps to the deck and crossed to the door.
Locked, as expected. He glanced around, picked up a clay pot, and broke the glass.
A quick reach inside, a flick of the latch, and he was in.
Right on schedule.
The door opened to a small kitchen. The air smelled of woodsmoke and lemon oil. Setting his backpack on the table, he entered the living room with its stone hearth and braided rug. A single bedroom down the hall and to his left. A railed loft overhead.
His boots thudded dully against the hardwood floor as he strode to the firewood rack beside the hearth. Bending, he hauled the rack to the center of the room, then used his foot to shove it onto its side. Split logs and kindling scattered.
Leaving it, he took the hall to the bedroom.
It was a pretty space with Amish-set oils on the wall, buggies and farms and quaint still lifes vacationers gobbled up like candy.
A handsome quilt covered the bed. Lamps made of deer antlers rested atop rustic night tables.
A bookcase containing dozens of books flanked the interior wall.
He strode to the bookcase and, using both hands, pulled it over so that the tomes tumbled to the floor.
Back in the living room, he looked around, spotted the magazine rack next to the sofa. He went to it, picked it up, and upended it, watched the magazines scatter atop the firewood. It was the best he could do without things getting too messy.
He strode to the kitchen and ransacked the cabinets until he found the items he needed.
The skillet was an old thing, discolored from years of use.
He set it on the stove and turned the gas burner to high.
Digging into his backpack, he pulled out the plastic bottle of cooking oil.
He uncapped it and poured half into the skillet.
At the window above the sink, he yanked one of the curtain panels off its rod, soaked the fabric with oil, and draped it across the stovetop.
Working quickly now, he pulled the roll of paper towels from its holder, set it on a second burner, turned on the flame.
The paper grocery bag came next. He set it on the stovetop and watched it catch.
Time to go.
Picking up his backpack, he slipped the strap over his shoulder and backed away.
The orange flames crackled and hissed; warmth kissed his face, mesmerizing him.
For several seconds he watched the flames devour their fuel, climbing up the remaining curtain panel to lick the ceiling like fiery tongues.
Well done.
Turning, he walked to the door. There was no time to indulge.
Still, he slowed for a final look. The stovetop was fully engulfed.
The cabinets above it were catching fast and beginning to smoke.
Looking down at the bottle of cooking oil in his hand, he shrugged and tossed it.
The bottle struck a steel burner and tumbled, oil spewing.
Flames whooshed! with such force he felt the hot puff against his face.
Smoke billowed and curled against the ceiling.
Mission accomplished, he thought.
Satisfied, he went through the door and disappeared into the night.
The drive from Painters Mill to Ashtabula County took two and a half hours.
My new husband, BCI Agent John Tomasetti, is behind the wheel of his Tahoe.
I’m in the passenger seat next to him, watching the quaint farms and fallow fields fly by.
I’m still wearing my wedding dress. The one my Amish mother and grandmother wore before me.
The one my sister so capably modified so that I could wear it even though I left the fold nearly twenty years ago.
I’ve relived our simple ceremony a hundred times during the drive, and I still can’t quite believe we finally tied the knot.
Every fifty miles or so, I look over at Tomasetti and say, “I can’t believe we’re married. ”
Each time, he meets my gaze—Mr. Cool-Calm-and-Collected—and one side of his mouth hikes into a smile. “I can’t believe you married me.”
We exchange our umpteenth goofy grin and just like that I’m shocked all over again.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, a pretty little hamlet nestled in the heart of Ohio’s Amish Country.
For the next five days, Tomasetti and I are leaving our law enforcement occupations behind.
We’re newlyweds embarking on a new life together, and spending our honeymoon at the Sugar Maple Cabins on the shore of gorgeous Lake Erie.
Precious moments, I think, and I let this one soak in and put it to memory.
Around us, the October sun beams down in all her golden glory, thrilling us with the final remnants of fall color.
South of Conneaut, we leave Interstate 90 and head north.
Leaves scamper across the asphalt as we make the turn onto Lake Road.
I catch my first glimpse of the water through the trees, and I feel the same burst of excitement I’d felt as a kid.
“I was twelve years old last time I was here,” I murmur. “The sight of the lake still takes my breath away.”
Tomasetti slants me a look as he maneuvers the Tahoe onto a narrow gravel track and heads east. “Painters Mill to Lake Erie is a long distance for an Amish family to travel.”
“Yoder Toters aren’t exactly a new thing,” I say, referring to the English drivers hired by the Amish for travel that isn’t practical via horse and buggy.
“Who knew the Amish took vacations?” he says.
“My datt had a cousin here.” I think about that a moment, remembering.
“Back then, this area was a thriving Amish community. A lot of farms. A few businesses. We came for a wedding when I was eight. A funeral when I was twelve.” I catch another glimpse of the lake and sigh.
“That body of water made a huge impression.”
“I’m a born and raised city boy,” Tomasetti says. “Growing up in Cleveland, I have a slightly different perspective.” He shrugs. “Cold wind and lake-effect snow. If you’re a criminal, it’s a good place to dispose of a body. Tasty yellow perch, though.”
“At least we can agree on the perch.”
Around us, the trees thicken, arcing over the Tahoe, and it’s as if we’re driving through a cave. We pass by a vacant house and barn with a crumbling silo and low-slung hog barn.
“That’s the second abandoned farm we’ve seen,” Tomasetti murmurs.
I look out the window, recalling the conversation I had with my sister when she suggested we spend our honeymoon here. “Sarah mentioned most of the Amish are gone now.”
“Seems like a decent place to live and raise a family,” he says thoughtfully. “I wonder why they left.”
“Sarah wasn’t sure. She said a lot of the younger Amish moved away. To Holmes County. Kish Valley. Even upstate New York. The older generation is dying off.”
“Always a bummer to see the old-timers go.”
The trees part, like the curtains at some grand opera house, and Lake Erie makes her inaugural appearance, a superstar emblazoned in blue sapphire that stretches all the way to the horizon.
“Now that’s one hell of a view.” Tomasetti stops the Tahoe.
For the span of a full minute, we admire the beauty of the lake, the white sand beach, and grass-covered dunes. We listen to the pound of waves, the hum of wind through the trees, and the chirp of a cardinal outside my window.
“It’s stunning,” I hear myself say.
“Underappreciated to be sure.” Leaning, Tomasetti turns his attention to the dash and uses his thumb and forefinger to enlarge the GPS map. “A mile to the cabin,” he says. “Due east.”
The road we’re on runs parallel with the lake. The shore to our left. Trees as thick as a jungle to our right. Though the air holds a distinct chill, we keep our windows down, enjoying the smell of the surf, the damp and cool against our faces.
“What the hell?”
I glance right, spot the blackened mound of debris surrounded by the charred skeletons of trees.
The ground is scorched and crisscrossed with tire ruts.
A stone chimney juts from the pile of rubbish and ash.
A pyrographic sign, its black script seared onto weathered maple wood, identifies the structure as the KILLDEER CABIN.
“Looks fresh,” he murmurs.
I glance over at him. “Tell me that’s not ours.”
“It’s not.” He shifts his gaze to the GPS. “The main house is half a mile ahead. Our cabin is another half a mile past it.”
“I wonder what happened,” I murmur.
“Hard telling.” He shrugs. “Might be a good question for our hosts.”
He puts the vehicle in gear and we keep going.