Page 16 of Dark Storm Rising

“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.

Certain places make an imprint on your life. They stay with you long after you’ve left. No matter how many years pass, all it takes is a smell or play of light or even a song to take you back. And for an instant, time ceases to exist; you’re back in that place, and it’s as if you’ve never left.

The power of a young mind, I think.

After breakfast, Tomasetti and I spent the day walking the trails. We saw our whitetail deer again and eventually made our way to the beach. From there we headed west, toward the cabin where my family and I stayed when I was a kid, some twenty-three years ago. It’s chilly this afternoon, and some of the snow still covers the ground. But the sun is shining, the sky is brilliant and blue, and I didn’t want to leave without seeing this place one more time.

“That’s what I call rustic,” Tomasetti says.

We’re standing on the beach at the back of the Meadowlark Cabin. According to Lovina, they retired the aging structure nearly a decade ago, when a spring storm damaged the roof. From the looks of it, nature is slowly reclaiming what was hers to begin with.

I’ve looked back on this place a thousand times over the years, imagining what it would look like and how I would feel seeing it again. As a kid, I couldn’t put into words exactly what it meant to me, how much I loved it, or even why. Standing here today, I still can’t. All I know is that this cabin, the forest, the majesty of the lake, and those carefree days I spent with my family made one hell of an impression on the twelve-year-old Amish girl I’d been.

“Brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘shabby chic,’” I add, feeling the one-two punch as the memories strike me.

“Not much left,” Tomasetti says.

“Enos says they’re going to salvage everything they can this spring.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Repurpose all that gorgeous wood.”

Twenty years ago, the cabin was run-down. Of course, I didn’t notice the 1970s stove or the faux knotty-pine paneling, or floors that weren’t quite level. In my mind, the cabin was fanciful and exotic; it held mysteries I was destined to explore and the promise of endless adventures.

I study the ramshackle rear deck, the broken windowpanes, the siding that has been left unpainted and peeling. “A few more storms and she’ll be gone.”

“Must have been pretty back in the day,” Tomasetti says. “Big lot. Huge trees. Nice beach.”

I gesture to the side yard, which is now overgrown and wild. “Used to be a tire swing on the lowest branch of that oak tree.” The memories come fast and furious. “Jacob showed me how to lean back and stretch out my legs so I could swing higher.”

“Good to know he wasn’t always such a surly guy.”

“Stoic,” I say. “It just took him a little while to warm up to the Englischer I was living with in sin.”

“I stand corrected.”