“It’s Chet all right,” Dolly said without preamble. Her voice, over the library phone, unemotional and flat.

I thought I would be safe at the college library. There had been the hope that for a few hours I’d be left alone, unreachable, and I could search the back issues of the newspaper on microfilm the way I used to do research at the University of Michigan libraries, with no one watching me, everyone intent on their own thing. I had looked forward to this morning. Just me. Alone.

But I was wrong. As if I’d been fitted with a tracking device, she had found me where I’d told no one I was going. At least, no one I remembered telling. But maybe I had been seen in Traverse City, seen entering the library of the college campus on Front Street. Maybe some Leetsvillian had followed my yellow Jeep into town. Had I mentioned to Crazy Harry, as we’d planted pumpkin seeds in little hills that morning, that I was going to the college library to look up girls who had disappeared thirteen years ago?

“Brent found an old silver belt buckle, like clasped hands. Parts of a cowboy boot with a spur on it. Chet loved how he jingled everywhere he went, got looked at. His pride and joy—that belt buckle and those boots.”

“I’m so sorry …”

“Yeah. Well. What I expected.”

“Still …”

“I know. Can’t say it doesn’t hurt. Guess I was hoping somebody else ran off with that girl. Somebody who stole Chet’s dog tags.”

“I don’t suppose there’s still a …”

“Not with that buckle and those boots to top it off.”

“Guess not.” I had run out of condolences. “If you need to talk or … anything …”

“Nope. Just need to find the son of a bitch who did this. Now it’s really personal. Even Detective Brent’s feeling bad. Said we should go on ahead, find any missing girls from that time; start following up; look for Chet’s friends. I got a dog bite I gotta get to right now. After that I’m going over to the wood products place where he worked. See if anybody remembers anything from back then. Maybe get some names. I don’t know. Whatever. How about EATS tonight? We’ll figure out what we got to do and divide up the work.”

“I have the old newspapers on microfilm now. Should have a list by then.”

“Me, too. Went through the records. Found only one possible. But he was a guy. Let’s take a look at what you got.”

I agreed we had a plan for later. “Hey, by the way, how did you find me here?” I asked.

“Eugenia told me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone but Bill, my editor at the paper.”

“You know how they are in Leetsville. I think Harry was in. Oh, and Eugenia said to tell you that Annie really needs to talk to you.”

“Forgot.”

“She’s got some big plan to make money for new library books. Guess she figures on you to help her out.”

“Oh.” I felt the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

“Won’t kill you to do something for Leetsville once in …”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You talk to Eugenia about Chet?”

“Yup. She’s going to ask around but she didn’t remember anything from back then. Not him and any certain woman.”

“OK. Brent wants us to go on looking into the murders? What happened to make him so nice all of a sudden? Is he going soft?”

“Nope. What I heard was there’s a big trial in Midland. A couple of his investigators had to go down to testify. Gonna take about a week. He’s shorthanded.” She hesitated a minute. “And I think he’s feeling sorry for me.”

“Good man,” I answered, oddly happy that somebody treated Dolly with respect.

“I just started here,” I said. “Shouldn’t be too long.” I smiled at the librarian who tapped her watch pointedly. “I’ve been to the magazines, drumming up work. Northern Pines assigned me a story on the bones, and one on Indian cemeteries. One of them, up near Alba, sounds interesting. Dark Forest Cemetery.”

“You talk to Bill about full time?”

“Not yet, but I’m going back there when I finish here. Might pick his brain—where else to look for missing girls.”

“Don’t forget to ask about that job.” She thought a minute. “You know, I’ve been thinking. There’s always Avon. You could sell door to door. Or maybe scrap booking—everybody’s into that now. Or, you know what? I hear there’s home parties where they sell sexy lingerie, things like chocolate underpants.”

“Hmm.” I pushed the phone tight against my ear so the librarian couldn’t make out what Dolly, in her strident voice, was saying. “You want to be my first customer?”

“Me? What the heck would I do with chocolate underpants? Sounds messy. I sweat too much.”

“I get the picture, Dolly. Think I’ll keep hunting for a writing job.”

“There’s real estate. You’re good with people.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Oh, can I run Chet’s name in my next story? As one of the murder victims?”

There was a long pause. For a minute I thought she’d hung up on me. “Dolly?”

“Not yet, Emily. You never know. Brent wants to see if forensics can get DNA from bone marrow, or from his teeth.”

“They’ll need something of his …”

“Hairs. I kept those whiskers of his out of the sink. And I called his sister. She’s finding dental records. When they’re positive about a match … I’ll let you know.”

“OK. I’ll wait until then.”

“’Preciate it. See you about six?”

“Sure. And Dolly, I’m really very sorry that Chet ended … well … the way he did.”

“I know. Me, too.” No cool voice this time. Dolly choked.

___

Back at the microfilm machine, I found that back in 1994 and 1995 the newspaper ran a regular police blotter. Three counties reported. I went through issue after issue. A couple of men disappeared while out hunting. Another, a Matthew Conklin in Alba, had gone out for a quart of milk one evening and never returned to his wife and nine kids.

A Jarvis Wargin left work at Crispin Tool and Die, said to be off to a poker game, and was never seen again.

Another man. Nobody really knew his name but he’d just disappeared. He’d been staying with a Jonas family in Leetsville and then was gone. Report stated the social worker who reported him missing said he was a wanderer and probably just left for southern Michigan.

There were six women. Two were elderly. I skipped over them.

Four were young girls:

Lisa Valient, age sixteen, five foot two, blond—short hair, blue eyes. Last seen on Front Street in Traverse City talking to an unidentified male. The report came from her mother, Fern Valient, of Washington Street.

Tricia Robbins of Kalkaska. Eighteen. Five-seven. Brown hair and eyes. She went missing in April 1994. Her father said she’d run off before but never for this long.

Bambi Lincoln of Mancelona. Seventeen. Five-six. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Last seen on her way to school. Reported missing after a week by her sister, Tanya Lincoln, of Elk Rapids.

June 1994: Mary Naquma. Nineteen. Five foot two. Long, dark hair. Dark eyes. Reported missing by a friend: Lena Smith, of Peshawbestown. Last seen at the Tracy Beauty School in Traverse City where both girls were enrolled. Mary never came back to school. Never called anybody. Her friend said it was not like her. All Lena Smith knew about Mary was that she’d once said she lived out on a lake beyond Leetsville.

I went back to the general news for April, May, June, July, and August. There were no stories about any of the missing people. No follow-ups. No bodies found. As if they’d simply fallen in some huge cosmic crack, they were all gone.

It gave me the shivers. Like most disappearances, they had to be somewhere. And it wasn’t a distant planet. I once did a story on early disappearances in the Ann Arbor area—back when Michigan was founded. Eighteen hundreds. Kids disappeared. Indians were blamed, but knowing what we know now, there had to be perverts around even back then, or really sick parents.

Today girls got abducted. They ran away. They went to live with another parent. And men still ran from responsibilities. The old “out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back” still held. People left their lives for all sorts of reasons. What Dolly and I would have to find out was what happened to this group of young women. My money was on Mary Naquma, but I’d been a reporter long enough to know that what looked like a sure thing rarely was.