Unit Two

The engine beyond the plant wall had not gone far when Ava climbed through the hatch.

“Stay here,” June called.

Ava ignored her. She dropped into the snow behind the maintenance garage and saw two red taillights sliding between the dead factory buildings. The vehicle turned toward County Road 6, too far away for a plate, but close enough for Ava to see its shape: a white box van with a dark stripe along the side.

Nick came through after her, one hand clamped over his shoulder. “You know, when somebody says stay here, they usually mean it.”

“Then they should stop saying it to me.”

The van disappeared behind the old paint shed. Ava ran three steps before the snow swallowed her boots to the ankles. By the time she reached the road, there was nothing left but windblown tracks.

June emerged from the hatch and stood beside the garage. Her face had tightened with recognition.

“White,” Ava said. “Box body. Dark stripe.”

“Not a police cruiser.”

“I know.”

“Not Ray’s truck.”

“I know that too.” Ava turned on her. “What did you see in 2009?”

June looked toward the road. “The same kind of vehicle. White body. Black stripe. Frosthaven’s seal near the rear door.”

Nick lowered his hand. Blood had worked through his fingers. “That narrows it down to every vehicle this town owned before it sold the roads to the devil.”

“It narrows it to the fleet records,” Ava said.

She took out her phone and called Dot Vance. Dot answered on the fourth ring with a voice thick from sleep or whiskey.

“Tell me you found the boy.”

“We found what took him.”

That woke Dot. “Where are you?”

“Plant maintenance garage. I need the town vehicle inventory from November 2009. Fleet assignments, fuel logs, repair records. All of it.”

“Town hall opens at nine.”

“We’re not waiting until nine.”

“Then you’ll need the basement key.”

“Do you have it?”

“I edit a newspaper in Frosthaven. I have every key except the one to my own front door.”

Twenty minutes later, Dot met them outside the municipal building with a ring of keys and a wool coat buttoned wrong. She took one look at Nick’s shoulder and said, “If you bleed on the archives, I’m charging you for paper.”

Nick followed them down the stairs. “Nice to see you too.”

The town records basement smelled of dust, furnace oil, and damp cardboard. Dot switched on the fluorescent lights. Several tubes flickered, then held.

Ava put the hospital bracelet on the nearest table. The faded word MORIARTY faced upward. Beside it she placed the scrap of Helen’s note marked 2B-17.

“We’re looking for a vehicle that could leave St. Agnes, reach the Marlow passage, and move through the plant without attracting attention,” she said. “Something with a medical or municipal appearance.”

“Town ambulance,” Dot said.

Ava looked at her.

“Frosthaven had one,” Dot continued. “Before the county took over emergency services. Old Ford E-350. Unit Two. It was used for overflow calls, winter rescues, factory injuries. The town sold it after the plant closed.”

“Who drove it?”

“Anybody with keys.”

Dot unlocked a filing cabinet. The drawer stuck halfway. She yanked it open hard enough to make the folders jump.

The fleet records had been maintained in triplicate until November 19, 2009. After that, several pages were missing from the mileage ledger. Ava spread the remaining sheets across the table.

Unit Two: white Ford E-350, municipal rescue van. Black horizontal stripe. Frosthaven seal on rear doors.

The description matched June’s memory exactly.

Ava found the vehicle assignment sheet. The driver column for November 19 had been blacked out with a marker, but the fuel card number remained. Unit Two had been fueled at 11:43 p.m. at the municipal garage.

The mileage before fueling was 88,014.

The mileage after was 88,061.

Forty-seven miles. Enough to reach St. Agnes, the Marlow house, and the plant-side road. Not enough to leave the county and return.

“Somebody tried to erase the driver,” Dot said. “They forgot the odometer.”

Ava traced the line with her finger. “Who signed the vehicle out?”

Dot pulled a second folder from the cabinet. “The key log was kept by the sheriff’s office.”

Ava opened it.

The page for November 19 had been torn out.

She smiled without humor. “Lucas.”

“He was not the only person with access,” Dot said.

Ava found a carbon copy beneath the next sheet. The ink was faint, but the names were readable.

Unit Two. Emergency transport requested. No patient listed. Key released by T. Greer.

Nick leaned over the table. “Pastor Tom?”

Dot said nothing.

Ava photographed the page. “Where is the van now?”

“Sold to St. Jude’s,” Dot said. “The church uses it for food deliveries.”

The basement door opened behind them.

Lucas Crane stood on the stairs. He had come without his winter hat, and snow melted in his gray hair. His gaze went to the bracelet first, then to the copied log in Ava’s hand.

“Put that down,” he said.

Ava turned the page over. “You tore out the key record.”

“I said put it down.”

“Did Tom Greer sign out Unit Two?”

Lucas stopped three stairs above the floor.

Nick moved between him and Ava, though his injured shoulder sagged. “Careful, Sheriff. We’ve had a long night.”

Lucas looked at Nick’s blood, then back at Ava. “You have no idea what you’re holding.”

“That is becoming your favorite sentence.”

“It was an emergency vehicle. People used it for everything. Snow rescues. Hospital transfers. Plant injuries.”

“Then why was the driver erased?”

Lucas’s mouth tightened.

Ava stepped closer. “Why did Tom Greer have the key?”

“He had church volunteers who used the garage.”

“Did he drive the van on November 19?”

Lucas said nothing.

Dot lifted her camera and took a picture of him beside the records. The flash struck his face.

“You can’t publish that,” he said.

“Not until I verify it,” Dot replied. “But I can print that you tried to stop us.”

Lucas came down the remaining stairs. “Ava, listen to me. The boy was not taken in that van.”

“Then you know which van took him.”

His silence answered before he did.

Ava gathered the documents. “Where is Tom?”

“Church.”

“Then we’re going.”

Lucas caught her wrist. Ava looked at his hand until he released it.

“If you walk into that church with this,” he said, “you will destroy people who did not understand what they were part of.”

“They understood enough to erase the records.”

His face changed. Not guilt exactly. Recognition.

“Who told you about Unit Two?” he asked.

Ava held up the cassette recorder from the passage. “The same person who keeps deciding which truth I get.”

Lucas stared at it. “That recording was not made in 2009.”

“I know.”

“Then whoever left it wanted you to find this vehicle.”

Ava slipped the recorder into her coat. “They got their wish.”

St. Jude’s food shed stood behind the church, its loading doors chained but not locked. The white Ford E-350 waited inside beneath a hanging crucifix. Its paint had yellowed. A blue-and-gold church decal covered most of the old municipal seal, but not all of it. Beneath the decal, the black stripe remained.

Tom Greer came out of the parish office as Ava crossed the shed.

He saw the documents in her hand. Then he saw Lucas behind her.

“Pastor,” Ava said, “who was in Unit Two on November 19, 2009?”

Tom’s expression stayed gentle. His fingers closed around the cross at his neck.

“No one,” he said.

Ava opened the van’s rear doors.

The cargo floor had been replaced, but two rusted bolts remained in the metal near the front wall. Between them, scratched beneath the paint, was a child-sized mark: 2B-17.

Tom took one step backward.

Ava pointed to the mark. “Then tell me why the missing boy’s room is written inside your van.”

Tom looked at Lucas. Lucas looked away.

Ava pulled the church decal from the rear door. Underneath it, the municipal seal emerged in torn blue fragments—and beside it, nearly hidden under the adhesive, a second inscription in Helen’s handwriting.

NOT THE BOY.

A WITNESS.

Tom reached for the door.

Ava caught it first. “You’re going to tell me who the witness was.”

Tom’s hand remained on the metal. “Not here.”

“Then where?”

He looked toward the church, where Sunday bells began ringing though it was still before dawn.

“In the sanctuary,” he said. “Before everyone.”