Just past the bridge, his car approached the sharp turn in the road that was Wickelow Bend. Beyond the bend began the tree line leading to a strange patch of land aptly named Wickelow Forest. At night, especially in the summer, Ben knew it was hard to see the moon, so thick was the canopy of tall trees. Even now the bright-yellow and red leaves were still lush.

He pulled in behind Doyle’s patrol car. As he stepped out of the car, his foot sank deep into a chocolate-colored mud puddle. “Shit!”

Doyle Huggins pointed at the ground. “I should have told you not to park there.” His deputy was leaning against his cruiser. Six-foot-two and rangy with bulging eyes, Doyle Huggins was a man no one would have ever called handsome. He motioned to the car. “The gas company crew found it this morning.”

And there it sat. Todd Sutton’s white Mustang with the navy-blue center stripes rested cocked half on and half off the road. He’d been looking for this car until two this morning, when he’d finally given up and fallen into bed. God, he dreaded having to call Lara Barnes to tell her this news. There had been whispers that Todd had fled his wedding in this car yesterday; to find it here, abandoned, seemed to change things.

“Damned gas company nearly smashed into it. Sutton’s registration is the glove compartment.” Doyle was writing something like he was actually attempting to take notes.

“And Sutton?” Ben angled to get a look at what Doyle was scribbling, convinced it had to be a grocery list.

Doyle shook his head. “No sign of him.”

“Call the hospitals,” said Ben. “See if he’s shown up there. I’ll call his parents.”

“Someone needs to tell Lara Barnes.”

“I’ll do that,” Ben snapped.

“I figured.” Doyle spit on the ground. “It’s a nice car.” Doyle was wheezing slightly. His shoes squeaked as he walked over and stood beside him. “The gas company driver says it’s a 1977. He knows stuff like that.”

“It’s a ’76, Doyle,” said Ben. “Ford Mustang Cobra Two. Same car driven by Jill Munroe on Charlie’s Angels.”

“A fucking chick car?” Doyle inspected the body of the vehicle with a scowl.

“It’s a classic, Doyle.” It was as though his deputy was trying to get under his skin this morning. He looked out at the white forest of Wickelow Bend. It was quiet, eerie even, like the forest was holding its breath, waiting for him to leave so it could find peace again. “Have you searched those woods for a body?”

“A little,” said Doyle. “We need to do a more thorough search, though. We’ll probably need some volunteers.”