A Dark Path #3
After unpacking, Tomasetti and I spent an hour walking the beach and exploring the labyrinth of trails around the cabin. We caught sight of two whitetail deer in a meadow to the south, and a fat raccoon waddling along one of the lesser paths. A short time before dusk, we venture inside.
“I’m starving,” I say as I go to the fridge.
“Let me dig into my chef’s bag of tricks and see what I can come up with.”
“Wine?”
“Some of Lovina’s Amish cheese?”
“And a fire.”
We’d 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.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, she covers it well. Hides it if she can. Doesn’t like people to know, I reckon.
She’s still in the early stages.” The old man’s face crumples.
“I’m afraid for her. There are so many trails in the area.
If she took a wrong turn … there are cliffs up to the north side.
” He falls silent, as if the thought is too unspeakable to entertain.
“She can’t have gotten too far,” I say, hoping to reassure him.
“I’m not one to ask for help, but I think I need it. With this snow moving in … I’m terribly worried.” Struggling to collect himself, Enos looks from me to Tomasetti.
“Of course we’ll help you,” I say.
“Have you called the police?” Tomasetti asks.
He nods. “After checking the cabin, I ran back to the house and called the sheriff’s office. They’re going to send a deputy as soon as possible. But the person I talked to said there’s a big truck jackknifed on the interstate, and they’ve got a pileup to deal with.”
Tomasetti is already reaching for his phone. “Mr. Nisley, do you know if a Missing Adult Alert was put out?”
The Amish man stares at him blankly. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll check. Let me make a quick call. Hang tight.”
While Tomasetti talks, I go to the linen closet in the hall and bring a towel back to Enos and help him blot melting snow off his coat and trousers. “Try not to worry, Mr. Nisley,” I tell him. “We’ll find her.”
The old man can’t seem to keep his eyes from the windows, as if he’s desperate to continue his search.
“Kate.”
I look over my shoulder to see Tomasetti approach. “Deputies are going to be tied up for a couple of hours. They’ve got six vehicles involved in the pileup and multiple drivers with serious injuries.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Mr. Nisley says. “I’ve got to get back out there.”
Hearing the panic in his voice, I move to keep him calm. “Mr. Nisley, Tomasetti and I are in law enforcement. We’re going to do our best to find her. Try to stay calm.”
The old man nods, but his expression is a mosaic of foreboding. “Dank.”
“The weather’s not exactly cooperating.”
I look up to see Tomasetti frowning at his cell phone.
“Snow squalls are moving in from the north.” He turns the cell toward us so that Enos and I can see the screen.
The radar is lit up in red. “The wind has kicked up and the National Weather Service is calling for lake-effect snow with blizzard conditions.”
“Oh, no.” Enos looks out the window, then divides his attention between Tomasetti and me. “I know God is looking out for her; I know He will keep her safe. Even so, I can’t stop thinking that the only warm thing she had on was that raggedy old sweater she wears. I’ve got to get back out there.”
“Mr. Nisley,” Tomasetti says firmly. “I think it would be best if you stayed—”
“No.” He starts toward the door.
“We know what we’re doing,” Tomasetti tells him. “The best way for you to help is to go back to the house and wait for her there.”
The old man shakes his head. “She’s all alone, probably frightened, and cold. I will not cower inside and leave her to this storm.”
“You set foot outside that door and there’s a good chance we’ll end up looking for you, too.”
“I’m not as agile as I used to be, but I know every inch of these trails.”
Muttering an expletive beneath his breath, Tomasetti strides to the coat tree, grabs our coats, and passes mine to me. “Mr. Nisley, do you have a map of the area?”
“I do.” Enos hurries to the kitchen. “A brochure. An old thing we had printed a while back.”
While the Amish man rummages around in a drawer, I turn my attention to Tomasetti. “How bad is it?”
“Temps are below freezing and expected to drop into the twenties in the next hours,” he says in a low voice. “Windchill is in the teens. We need to find her. Fast.”
“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.”