“Just leave those,” said Caren. “I’ve got them.”

He stood up, surprisingly a little dizzy. Ben didn’t see things. The world had order as far as he was concerned. “Thanks, Caren.”

Once outside, he realized how shaken he was. It had to be lack of sleep.

At the courthouse, Ben had offered to let himself into the file room, but Esther Hurston assured him it was her job to open the door. She led him down the hallway… well, led was a strong word because Esther waddled very slowly on her bad hips. After she got him to the door, Ben could do what he wanted.

Esther opened the old-fashioned door with a large frosted-glass panel adorning the upper half. It reminded Ben of those old ones from Philip Marlowe. PRIVATE DETECTIVE could be etched on the glass. Ben felt a little like one today. It was tough being a police chief in a town where nothing happened. This mystery held more excitement than he’d had in a long while.

Something about the endless stack of 1944 cases made Ben a little discouraged. The place wasn’t air-conditioned, so he cracked a few windows and a nice breeze made its way in. Dust particles swirled as they hit the sunlight. The files were in chronological order by the date the case was opened, starting with December 1944 and working backward. Opening the first file, he had a hunch and found the October batch. About ten files in, he found what he was looking for. He didn’t even have to go through the pile any further. This was it. “Ah shit.”

Desmond “Dez” Bennett, 19. Missing on Duvall Road on October 10, 1944.

Bennett’s car was found abandoned with the engine running and the driver’s-side door open the morning of October tenth. There were no photos of the scene in the file, but Ben didn’t need any; he’d witnessed the same crime scene twice and bet the car was found at an angle. Yet, he’d never heard of Duvall Road. What was it about this date that was so important? Was there some type of ritual killing happening every thirty years? That had to be it. He even had to admit that Caren’s coven theory was beginning to have merit.

And the Ouija board. As much as he wanted to write it off as lack of sleep, it had spelled out Dez on its own.

God, he wished his father were still alive. He was in over his head with three cases. These disappearances went back sixty years now. Assuming the same person was responsible for all three incidents, that person would have to be eighty years old. Not that it was impossible, but it wasn’t likely. So what did that mean? There was always the supernatural theory, but he still couldn’t accept it. So were these ritual killings or serial killings committed by multiple people? Those ideas frightened the hell out of him.