Virals(29)

Though the entry listed references, none of the links worked. But the story cited quotes from the Gazette.

We flew to the microfilm reader. Shelton located and spooled the reel containing Gazette issues from 1969. For the next hour we huddled together, absorbing the saga of Katherine Anne Heaton.

Katherine's disappearance had captivated Charleston. On August 24, 1969, the young woman left home, headed for the docks at Ripley Point. She was never seen again. For weeks the police scoured the region, found nothing. In mid-September the search was called off.

During the investigation, the Gazette published several background pieces. Katherine grew up in West Ashley, a modest neighborhood east of the peninsula. She attended St. Andrew's Parish High School, achieved excellent marks, even won a merit award for science. Friends said Katherine planned to attend Charleston University after graduation.

I skimmed through weeks of newspapers, desperate for a happy ending. Nothing. Katherine's story simply ended.

Then, a bombshell.

In October of 1969, the Gazette ran a front-page story profiling Charleston County citizens killed in Vietnam. Among them was Francis "Frankie" Heaton. The reporter noted that Frankie Heaton was the father of still-missing Katherine Heaton, in whose disappearance police continued to have no leads.

"Guys, listen! According to an aunt, Katherine Heaton wore her father's dog tags to honor him."

"That's it." Shelton whistled. "We've got the right Heaton. I bet she dropped the tag on Loggerhead."

"But why would Katherine be out there?" I wondered aloud. "Her bio suggests she wasn't the party-island type."

"Did they ever find her?" Hi asked.

"Not in 1969." Shelton replaced that reel in its box. "Should we move ahead to 1970?"

"My word, you've been diligent! Any luck?" We all turned at the sound of Limestone's voice.

"Yes, sir. We discovered quite a bit, but have more questions."

"Splendid. The library closes soon, but perhaps I can be of additional help?"

Shelton took charge. "Have you ever heard of a girl named Katherine Heaton?"

Something flickered in Limestone's eyes. Was gone. "What did you say?" The whiney voice had raised an octave.

"Katherine Heaton," Shelton repeated. "Local girl, went missing in the sixties? Her pop was a soldier in Vietnam. Ever heard of her?"

"I'm sorry. I can't help you." A different Brian Limestone stood before us. The encouragement was gone. The man now seemed anxious. "I've got to close this room now, if you'll please excuse me."

"Sorry to be a pain," I soothed. "We'd just like to know what happened to Katherine. We got caught up in the old newspaper articles. Can you show us where to find more of her story?"

"No, I cannot. I'm very busy. I thought you were doing schoolwork." A bony finger pointed to the exit. "Please leave. You'll have to return another time."

We exchanged glances. Limestone was shutting us down. Bewildered, we gathered our things and hustled from the building.

Outside, I glanced back at the library. Limestone stood inside the door, watching us intently.

"What was that?" I asked. "An evil twin? The guy couldn't cut us some slack?"

"For real," agreed Shelton. "The minute I ask for something, he's a grade-A dick."

"Librarians," remarked Hi. "Always hatin' on the brothers. Good thing I didn't open my Jew mouth."

"No doubt." Shelton chuckled. "Probably donning his bedsheet and hood as we speak, saluting a Nazi flag! Racist."

I grinned. "He's not a big fan of women, either."

We were joking, of course. Whatever had gotten into Brian Limestone, it wasn't bigotry.

When our amusement faded, anxiety settled in its place. The librarian's sudden change of attitude was unnerving.

I remembered Limestone's face just before he'd morphed into a jerk.

His expression.

Had that been . . . fear?





CHAPTER 20


My body dozed on the boat ride home.

Not so my brain. It kept a half-open eye on my surroundings, and on my bench position between Hi and Shelton.

We'd barely caught the last ferry. Thankfully, Ben's dad had waited an extra ten minutes before making his final run from the city.

Dusk gave way to night as we bounced across the chop obscuring the shoreline, the harbor, and Fort Sumter.

My sleeping psyche meandered through visions and memories. Dreaming, but aware at the same time.

In my dream I wandered deep woods at night. Alone. The midnight air infused me with a bone-deep chill.

I wasn't afraid, but felt an urgent compulsion to search. Though undefined, the drive was all-consuming. A massive, essential something was missing, and everything depended on my finding it. I needed, but didn't know "what."

Knee-high fog wafted among the trees, thick and soupy. Pale moonlight struggled, but failed to penetrate the gloom. Direction-blind, I lurched through the vapor, eyes probing my surroundings, sifting for clues. Nothing.

The formless urge grew stronger--to trace, to determine, to ask. But what was the question?

After stumbling a few more yards, I halted. Recognized the terrain. I was in Y-7's clearing. Right where we'd found the dog tag.