Jacob waves to let me know they’re cognizant of the urgency of the situation.
In the few minutes since I received the call, the wind has kicked up. The sky to the west roils with black clouds tinged with an odd shade of green. The tablecloth whips up. A bag of chips flies off. Holding my niece, my sister goes after it, but I call out and stop her.
“Leave it! Take Hannah inside and get into the basement. Now.” I glance toward the barn to see Jacob and William leading the horse toward the gate. “I’ve got to go.”
Surprising me, Sarah trots over, steps close, and presses her cheek against mine. “Be careful, sister.”
I give her my best smile. “You, too.”
“Kate!”
I glance to my right to see that Tomasetti is already in the Tahoe. Window down, he’s turned the vehicle around and is waiting for me. “We’ve got to go!”
I dash to the SUV, yank open the door, and climb inside. “Where is it?” I ask without preamble.
The tires spew gravel as he starts down the lane. “It just leveled Spring Mountain.”
“Shit. Shit. That means it’s heading northeast.”
“Toward Layland. Then Clark.”
“And then Painters Mill.” I snatch up my phone and speed-dial Glock. “Where are you?”
“I just hit the Stutz place.”
“It’s headed this way.”
“I know.”
“Sirens up?”
“Screaming like banshees.”
I think for a moment, aware that the engine is groaning, Tomasetti pushing the speedometer to seventy. The wind buffets the vehicle and yanks at the power lines overhead. “I wanted to get down to the mobile home park on the southeast side of town.”
“Too far away, Chief. Gotta let it go.”
“Shit.” Frustrated, I look out the window to see that the trees alongside the road are getting pounded by wind, leaves being torn from branches. It’s not raining, but visibility is down due to dust. “I’m going to hit a couple of farms out this way then head to the station.”
“See you there.”
Outside the vehicle, the wind goes suddenly calm. The leaves of the maple trees shimmer silver against the black sky. Small debris litters the road. Gravel and leaves and small branches with the leaves still attached. Humidity hangs in the air like a wet blanket. I don’t have my police radio with me, but Tomasetti has his tuned to the channel used by the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” he says.
I point to a narrow gravel lane shrouded by trees. “Turn here.”
He hits the brakes and makes the turn—too fast—down the gravel lane and around the curve to the rear. I’m out of the vehicle before it comes to a complete stop. The first thing I notice are three Amish children playing with a big lumbering puppy in the side yard. The barn door is open, and I see the silhouette of Jonas Miller inside. I run toward the barn while Tomasetti turns the Tahoe around.
“Mr. Miller!” I’m breathless when I step into the doorway of the barn.
The Amish man drops the pitchfork he’d been using and runs out to meet me. “Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?
“There’s a tornado on the way,” I tell him in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Get your family into the basement. Nau.” Now.
Lightning flashes overhead, so close both of us duck. The wind has picked up again, groaning as it whips around the eaves. Fat drops of rain splat against the gravel and the side of the barn.
“Danki.” He brings his hands together and calls out to the playing children. “Shtoahm! Die Zeit fer in haus is nau!” Storm! Time to go to the house now!
I run to the Tahoe, wrench open the door. “There’s another farm next door.”
“No time,” he says. “We have to get to the station.”
“Tomasetti, half the people in this town don’t know there’s a tornado on the way.”
“We’re not going to be any help to them if we’re dead.”
The tires spin and grab, and then we’re barreling down the lane. Too fast. Tires scrambling for traction in loose gravel. The trees on either side of us undulate like underwater plants caught in a white-water rapid. I glance to the west. A swirling black wall cloud lowers from the sky like a giant anvil about to crush everything in its path.
By the time we reach the end of the lane, the first hailstones smack hard against the windshield and bounce off the hood. Tomasetti hauls the wheel left. The Tahoe fishtails when he hits the accelerator, and then we’re flying down the road at double the speed limit.
I see his phone lying in the console and snatch it up. The tiny screen blinks on. He’s pulled up the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration Web site with a live radar image of Painters Mill and vicinity. I see the flashing red of TORNADO WARNING at the bottom of the page and the magenta-colored mass of the storm moving across the map.
I set down the phone and look around. “It’s right on top of us.”