"Hendo?! What's up? It's 2:30 in the fuckin' morning—you need a ride home or something?"
"Sorry, Jacks. I know it's late… early, whatever, but I need you on something. I can't talk about it on the phone. When can you meet me?"
Hendo wouldn't call like this unless he had to. My ex-brother-in-law is a deputy up in the Thumb. We married sisters who, let's just say, had different opinions about marriage than Hendo and I did. We took it upon ourselves to seek therapy. Once or twice a month our sessions had co-pays we took turns paying; one week I'd buy the first round of PBR or Velvet and the next week he'd switch.
"I can leave in twenty. Where?"
"The Kettle. I'll buy you breakfast and we can go over things."
"Bring your wallet this time—I'm gonna be real hungry."
"I have no doubt. See you in a bit."
The Country Kettle is an all-night diner about halfway between Dry Creek and Huron County. Their eggs are hit or miss, but their hash browns always land—golden brown and the right amount of crisp.
There won't be any traffic at this hour except for the occasional drunk, and it's a two-lane road most of the way. I can probably get there in forty if I push it.
Shit! Left my other set of keys in the truck—no remote start and a frosty windshield. Guess Brother Tom will be waiting a bit because I'm not jacking up my shoulder scraping the windshield in this weather.
For a Tuesday morning, there are more cars in the lot than I expected. I approach the Country Kettle and notice an old Buick Regal idling near the door. The bumper is held together by rust, with complimentary red duct tape over the driver-side rear tail light. The driver seems to be 'napping comfortably' behind the wheel.
I tap on the glass. The old codger opens his eyes, looks at me startled, and before I can say anything, he throws it in gear, backs out, and takes off.
Hope I don't see him later.
I walk in and notice Hendo waving at me from a secluded booth in the back.
"What took you so long?"
"Best laid plans…" We shake hands and I sit across from him.
Margaret appears with the pot. "Coffee?"
"Actually, a tall juice would be great, thanks."
"Sure thing, honey. Unless you boys know what you're having, I'll be back with your juice and take your order."
I am starving. "Two eggs over easy, links, and hash browns."
"Make that two," Hendo adds.
"Two Number 3's, you got it," Margaret says, scribbling on her pad. "Be right back with your juice, hon."
Margaret clears the plates and tops off Hendo's coffee. He waits until she's back behind the counter before reaching into the jacket beside him.
He slides a manila folder across the table. Doesn't open it. Just lets it sit there between us like something that might bite.
"Six months ago. Woman named Rachel Borowski. Thirty-three, dental hygienist out of Caro. Drove her mom to Bishop Airport, stopped for gas on her way home, never made it."
I don't touch the folder yet. "And?"
"Car found on M-24 south of Silverwood. Engine running. Wipers on. Her shoes were still inside. Purse on the passenger seat." He takes a sip of coffee. "No body. No witnesses worth a damn. A couple people saw a van parked behind her, maybe two men, maybe one. Descriptions were all over the place."
"Sounds like the department worked it."
"They did. Hit walls. No forensics, no real leads. It's not officially cold, but nobody's looking at it anymore."
I pull the folder toward me but don't open it. Hendo's got that look—the one he gets when he's about to say the thing he doesn't want to say.
"What happened tonight, Tom?"
He sets down his mug. Stares at it for a second.
"Got called out to a scene on 53, north of Bad Axe. Woman's car on the shoulder. Engine running. Wipers going." He looks up at me. "Her shoes were inside, Jacks. Purse on the seat."
"Shoes?"
"Inside the car. Heels this time—she'd been at some kind of work event."
"Who is she?"
"Emily Vance. Twenty-eight, lives in Caro. Works at the hospital in Marlette—she's an X-ray tech. Left work at 7:30, supposed to be home by 8:15. Her husband called it in at 10:45 when she didn't answer her phone."
"Same guy?"
"I don't know. I can't say that to anyone yet. I got nothing that ties them together except—"
"Except your gut."
"Except my gut." He taps the folder. "I need you to dig into this one. Quiet. Off the books. Find what we missed. Because if I'm right, he just took another woman. And he's going to keep going."
I open the folder. Photo of a gray Ford Escape on the shoulder of a rural highway. Next photo is the woman—smiling, dark hair, eyes that don't know what's coming.
"The witnesses who saw the van—were they driving past or stopped?"
"Driving. Both of them."
"So they saw what, five seconds? Ten?"
"If that."
Moving witnesses. They think they saw more than they did. "Anyone canvas the gas station? Last place she was seen."
Hendo nods. "Clerk remembered her. Said she bought a six-pack of Labatt and a pack of gum. Paid cash. Nothing unusual."
"Security footage?"
"Taped over before we got there."
Of course it was. "Her route home—was it routine? Same road every time she took her mom to the airport?"
"Far as we know. Mom said she always took M-24."
"So if someone was watching her, they knew where she'd be."
Hendo doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.
"The two men—descriptions say anything about how they carried themselves? One in charge, one following?"
"One witness said the bigger guy did all the moving. Other one stayed by the van."
"Stayed by the van like a lookout, or stayed by the van like he wasn't supposed to leave?"
Hendo pauses. "I don't know. That's not in the report."
Because nobody asked. "First responders—how long before someone worked the scene?"
"Car got called in as abandoned. Took almost three hours before anyone realized it might be something else."
"Three hours."
"Yeah."
Three hours. Engine running, wipers going, and the scene just sat there. By the time anyone took it seriously, every useful piece of evidence had either blown away or driven past.
I close the folder.
"What can you get me from tonight's scene?"
"What I can. Witness statements, vehicle description if we get one. I'll have to be careful."
"And if I find something?"
"Then I've got a reason to connect them. Something I can take upstairs." He leans back. "But until then, you were never here and we never talked."
I pocket the folder inside my coat.
"I'll see what I can find. But you know I'm going to have to talk to people, and people talk back."
"I know. Just keep it quiet as long as you can. I can't have this coming back on me until I've got something solid."
We both stand. He throws two twenties on the table—more than enough for eggs and hash browns.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did." He pulls on his jacket. "Watch yourself, Jacks. If I'm right about this, whoever took Rachel Borowski is still out there. And he just proved he's not done."
"I'll be in touch."
The cold hits me the second I step outside. The Buick is gone—old timer must've sobered up enough to find his way home. Small miracles.
I climb into the truck and set the folder on the passenger seat. The engine turns over on the second try, and I pull out onto the two-lane heading south.
Forty minutes of nothing but dark road and the questions already stacking up.
Two incidents. Same stretch of the Thumb. Six months apart. The car placement bothers me first. M-24 south of Silverwood—that's not nowhere, but it's close. Sparse traffic after dark. Long stretches between houses. If you wanted to take someone off a road without witnesses, you'd pick a road like that. But she pulled over. That's the detail that keeps turning in my head. No skid marks in the report, no indication she was forced off. She stopped. Why? Authority. Has to be. A woman alone on a dark highway doesn't stop for a stranger in a van. She stops for a cop. Or someone who looks like one. Lights. A uniform. Maybe just a flashlight and the right tone of voice. "Ma'am, you've got a tail light out. Step out of the vehicle, please." And she would. Because that's what you do. You comply. You don't assume the guy with the badge is the thing you should be afraid of. The shoes bother me too. She didn't run. She didn't fight—at least not in a way that left marks on the scene. Either she was controlled before she knew what was happening, or she was compliant because she still thought this was a traffic stop gone sideways. The purse on the seat. No robbery. He didn't want her money. He didn't want her car. He wanted her. Two men. Maybe. The witness said the bigger one did all the moving. The other stayed by the van. That's not two equals working together. That's a hierarchy. One acts, one watches. Or one acts and one's there because he doesn't have a choice. A witness? An accomplice who's in too deep to walk away? Or maybe there was only ever one guy, and a passing driver saw a shadow that looked like a second man. Bad data. The foundation of every case that goes nowhere. Three hours before anyone worked the scene. That's the part that would keep me up even if I wasn't already not sleeping. Three hours of wind and passing trucks and whatever evidence might have been there just bleeding away into the night. Whoever did this knew. He knew the car would sit. He knew no one would treat it like a crime scene until it was too late. He's done this before—maybe not here, maybe not in Michigan—but this wasn't his first time making a woman disappear. And now there's another one. Same highway. Same setup. Six months later. Hendo's gut says it's the same guy. My gut says Hendo's gut is right. Which means he's not done. He's patient, he's careful, and he's hunting in a place where the roads are empty and the response times are long. The Thumb isn't a dumping ground. It's a hunting ground. And I just agreed to walk into it.The lights of Dry Creek show up on the horizon—what passes for a skyline out here. A water tower, a church steeple, and the glow from the gas station that never closes.
I pull into my driveway and kill the engine. Sit there for a minute with the folder on my lap.
Rachel Borowski smiled in her photo. Dark hair, bright eyes. Thirty-three years old and probably thought the worst thing that would happen that day was traffic at the airport.
Who were you, Rachel? And who was watching you?
I grab the folder and head inside.
Sleep's not happening tonight.