Featured Excerpt: Dark Storm Rising by Linda Castillo

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 chip 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.

***

The main house of the Sugar Maple Cabins is a picture-perfect two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and half a dozen cedar window boxes. Farther back is a horse barn with attached pens, and a pasture where a herd of sheep graze. Nearer the road, a big bank barn hulks over a garden the size of an Olympic pool.

“Nice-looking farm.” Tomasetti parks in the gravel area in front of the house and we get out.

“I remember that barn,” I say as we start toward the house, where a sign informs visitors that they’ve reached THE OFFICE.

A bell jingles cheerfully as we go through the door. The office is small with maplewood floors, a ragtag sofa draped with an afghan, and a vintage desk upon which a cat sits, eyeing us with suspicion. A cast-iron stove in the corner throws off a generous amount of welcome heat.

A tiny older woman wearing a gauzy white kapp, navy dress, and traditional halsduch, or apron, sits at the desk, fingers pecking at a typewriter. She looks up as we enter and beams a smile at us. “Well, hello there! You must be the newlyweds! Kate and John. Welcome to Sugar Maple Cabins!”

The sound of her voice conjures a flicker of memory and in that instant, I know I’ve met her before.

“Mrs. Nisley?” I stride to her, my hand outstretched.

“I’ve been known to answer to that.”

“I’m Kate Burkholder.”

“Well, now, there’s a nice Amish name for you.” She cocks her head as she takes my hand, looking at me a little more closely. “Used to have a Burkholder around here. Alva, I believe.”

“He was my datt’s cousin,” I tell her.

“Well, I’ll be. Always liked Alva. Could count on him to help us clear the lane when we got the big snows. Had two of the biggest Clydesdales I’ve ever seen. He passed a while back, didn’t he?” 

“It’s been about twenty-five years now.”

“Time gets away from us, doesn’t it?” She makes a wistful sound. “You must have been just a kid back then. I’ve got a knack for remembering faces; I thought you looked familiar.”

“I was twelve.”

She hefts a hearty laugh. “And now here you are, married and on your honeymoon. My goodness, how nice is that? Honey, you call me Lovina, you hear? My goodness, we’re practically family.”

“Kate speaks highly of Sugar Maple.” Tomasetti moves in, his hand extended. “We’ve been wanting to drive up, but never had the time.”

“Well, we’re certainly glad to have you,” the woman says. “Used to be a diner and a couple of cute shops in town. Things are a little quieter these days.”

“Are you talking to yourself again, woman?” comes a deep male voice from the back.

I look past her to see an Amish man come through the doorway behind her. He’s the size of a bear and wearing typical Amish garb: black jacket, flat-brimmed hat, dark trousers, and a white shirt. He’s carrying an armful of firewood and nearly drops it at the sight of us. “Oh! Didn’t realize we had company.”

“You drop that wood on the floor and you’ll find a broom in your hands,” Lovina says. 

“Better in my hands than on my backside.” The man winks at us. “Forgot we had customers coming today.”

Giving him a playful poke, she pulls out an old-fashioned motel register and sets it on the counter. “Just need you to sign in here and you’re all set.”

While Tomasetti fills out the form, the Amish man carries the firewood to the stove. “I was out checking the sheep when you pulled up,” he says as he stacks it in the rack. Approaching us, he sticks out his hand. “Enos Nisley at your service.”

We exchange handshakes. He joins his wife behind the counter. I don’t miss the way his fingertips graze her arm as he sidles past her. Or the way her mouth curves at his touch.

“Last time I was here, there were a lot of Amish in the area,” I say. “We couldn’t help but notice the vacant storefronts in town. And the abandoned farms.”

 Lovina shakes her head. “A lot of the Amish have moved away in the last five or six years. Developers buying up the land.”

“Paying a pretty penny for it, too,” Enos puts in. 

The Amish woman nods. “Youngsters are moving over to Kish Valley. A lot of work over there. Lumber, you know. Farmers are all about upstate New York where the land is cheap and the taxes are low.”

“Too cold up there if you ask me,” Enos mutters.

“We’re the last holdouts,” Lovina tells us. “Those developers are hungry for land. A lot of English, city folks you know, like to vacation up here by the lake.”

“Can’t see selling at our age,” Enos grumbles. “This land has been in the family for a hundred and fifty years. Passed down by my dawdi and his dawdi before that.” Grandfather.

Lovina gives him an elbow. “Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth.”

The statement brings a round of chuckles.

“My goodness, I miss all our good Amish neighbors,” she says. “We don’t even have worship in the area anymore.”

“We’ve been going to that little Mennonite church down the road,” Enos adds. “Nice folks, but we’re Amish, you know, and it’s just not the same.” 

Tomasetti finishes with the register and pushes it across the counter at her. “We passed by a structure that had burned. Was it one of your cabins?”

“Killdeer Cabin,” Enos tells us. “Hated to lose that one.”

“Most awful thing,” Lovina puts in. “One of our best cabins and it was a total loss.”

“Thank God there were no renters inside at the time,” her husband adds.

“How long ago did it happen?” I ask.

“Three weeks to the day,” Lovina replies.

“What was the cause?” Tomasetti asks.

The couple exchanges a look and I feel something uncomfortable slip between my shoulder blades. Next to me, Tomasetti goes still, noticing, too.

“Fire marshal said a stove burner was left on,” Lovina tells us.

“Nice family had just checked out that morning,” Enos adds. “Usually, Lovina cleans right away, but it was busy here at the farm that day. We raise Polypay sheep here on the farm, you know, and the lambs come in the fall.”

Lovina jumps in. “I figured I’d get in there bright and early the next morning. Cabin went up that night. We didn’t notice until it was fully engulfed. That fire lit up the whole sky, I tell you.”

“By the time the fire department arrived,” Enos says, “it was gone. Burned to the ground.” 

“Was there an investigation?” Tomasetti asks.

“Oh, they investigated all right.” Lovina tightens her mouth. “If you can call it that.”

Enos frowns at her. “Now Lovina . . .”

I look from husband to wife, feel a tinge of curiosity.

“You don’t believe the stove was the cause?”

The couple exchanges another look, this one darker and unhappy.

Lovina answers. “I went into the cabin right after that family checked out. Just to make sure everything was in order and the doors were locked until I could get in there to clean the next morning. That burner was not left on.”

“We were busy that morning, liebling,” Enos says gently. Darling.

“I would have noticed,” his wife maintains.

Enos sets his hand on her shoulder. “Little thing like that is easy enough to miss.”

Lovina clucks her mouth in irritation even as she pats his hand. “I know my memory isn’t what it used to be, old man, but I checked that stove and the burner was not on.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Enos soothes. “It’s done and we’ll get along just fine with the four cabins we have left.”

“My goodness, just listen to us.” Lovina hefts a self-deprecating laugh. “You give these kids their key so they can get to their cabin and enjoy some of this nice weather before it turns.”

Looking relieved to be off the topic of the fire—and his wife’s memory—Enos plucks a key from a drawer and slides it over to Tomasetti. “You’re in the Bluebird Cabin. Nice new roof on that one. Make yourselves at home. We’ve got a business phone here at the office. Number is on the card. You give a call if you need anything.”

“And the fridge is stocked with a few staples,” Lovina adds. “I put some Amish cheese in there, too.”

“Plenty of firewood in the rack.” Anos sobers. “Might need it by morning. Big Jim down to the general store told me there’s a storm brewing. Probably won’t amount to much, but you might want to get out and enjoy the beach while you can.”

***

He’d known for some time that the old Amish couple were going to be a problem. They were headstrong fools who didn’t know a good offer from a con. Evidently, they had no idea who they were dealing with or what was at stake. He’d been patient, after all. Charitable. Kind, even. He’d worn kid gloves and played by the rules—their rules—and still they’d defied him. In some ways, they’d disrespected him. Made him look incompetent to people whose opinions mattered. The time had come for him to remedy the problem once and for all.

As far as he was concerned, most Amish were as dumb as the farm animals they raised. This couple in particular were like sheep that had strayed from the safety of their pens. Time to herd them back where they belonged. Remind them that the wolf was in charge and if they didn’t fall in line, he would show his teeth. Once they caught a glimpse of those canines, they’d buckle. Just like the others. 

He hadn’t wanted to take the situation to the next level; things got messy when you crossed a certain line. But what were his alternatives? If the sheep refused to obey, the wolf got involved. It was the way things got done. He’d given them every opportunity, and they’d laughed in his face.

There was only one way to correct the problem. If someone got hurt in the process, then so be it. At this point, collateral damage was the least of his worries. 

***

If the Great Lakes were siblings, Lake Erie would be the sullen child, the one that rarely spoke, didn’t play nicely with others, and grew aloof—and dangerous—as an adult.

The Bluebird Cabin is nestled in a copse of trees thirty yards from the lake. The front faces the road. The rear of the cabin, with its big deck and stone firepit, looks out over the water. I know immediately the deck is where we’ll be spending most of our time.

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 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.”