“Sometimes I think you were born without the ability to jump to conclusions.”
Riker almost smiled.
“It's a terrible affliction.”
Then his phone rang.
The caller was Sheriff Brooks.
“Riker, I need to update you on Maria Montgomery.”
He sat forward.
“Have you found her?”
“Not yet. But we have identified the vehicle she was last seen entering.”
“Whose vehicle?”
“An SUV registered to a private security company. The company has confirmed that the vehicle was assigned to Martin Vale.”
Riker closed his eyes.
“Where was it seen?”
“Near the old railway station.”
The sheriff paused.
“We have also received a report that a woman matching Maria's description was seen entering a storage building near platform three.”
“Was she alone?”
“The witness couldn't tell us.”
“Is the building secure?”
“We are working on that now.”
Riker looked at the clock.
“Can you get to her?”
“We're assembling a team. The station contains old service corridors, electrical rooms, and restricted areas. We are not going to rush in without understanding the layout.”
“Understood.”
The sheriff's voice softened slightly.
“I know this is difficult.”
Riker stared at the map.
“Her son is nine years old.”
“I know.”
“He thinks this is his fault.”
“Then we need to bring his mother home and make sure he understands that it wasn't.”
Riker swallowed.
“Yes.”
The call ended.
He remained seated for a moment, then stood and walked to the clubhouse window.
Outside, the parking lot was filled with motorcycles.
Some riders had left after Moose explained the situation. Others remained, determined to help in whatever way the authorities permitted.
The number of engines gathered across the wider region continued to rise.
Eight hundred was no longer merely a figure in a dramatic story.
It was a real possibility.
Riker knew that if he gave a single instruction to ride toward the industrial district, hundreds of people might obey before anyone had time to consider the consequences.
He could use that power to create a spectacle.
He could make the mayor nervous.
He could force Northstar to react.
But he could also create precisely the confrontation the other side wanted.
He turned away from the window.
“No one moves,” he said.
Moose nodded.
“No one moves.”
For the moment, that was the most important order Riker could give.
At 9:47 p.m., the sheriff received authorization to enter the railway station's restricted storage area.
At 10:02 p.m., investigators found the white utility van Leo had described.
It was parked behind the building beside platform three.
The rear compartment contained tools, cable spools, and several sealed equipment cases.
One case bore the logo of Northstar Municipal Solutions.
Another contained a portable computer and a set of access credentials assigned to the emergency power facility.
The van was empty.
Maria Montgomery was not inside.
Neither was Daniel Hargrove.
But a station employee remembered hearing a woman arguing with a man shortly before the freight train passed through.
The employee had assumed they were private contractors involved in the redevelopment survey.
He recalled one sentence clearly.
The woman had said, “You can't erase the original.”
The man had answered, “We don't have to erase it if nobody can prove it existed.”
The employee had not reported the exchange because he believed it was an argument about construction paperwork.
Now the sentence took on a different meaning.
Investigators expanded their search.
They examined the storage building, checked the basement entrance, and inspected the service corridor leading toward the industrial district.
At the far end of the corridor, they discovered a steel door with a recently replaced lock.
The door led to the west service chamber beneath the railway bridge.
The chamber had been sealed for years.
Someone had opened it recently.
A maintenance log indicated that a Northstar contractor had requested access to the chamber six days earlier, claiming that a drainage inspection was required before the emergency power upgrade could proceed.
The request had been approved by a municipal administrator.
The inspection had never appeared in the utility's official work records.
And the contractor's name was Martin Vale.
At 10:31 p.m., Sheriff Brooks called Riker again.
“We have located the service chamber.”
“Is Maria there?”
“Not in the portion we've inspected.”
“What about the key?”
“We have not found it.”
Riker looked toward the map.
“Then they may have moved it.”
“Possibly.”
“Or they may still be looking for it.”
The sheriff paused.
“That is one of the possibilities we're considering.”
Riker studied the red circle marking the chamber.
“Did you find anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Evidence that the door was opened from the inside after it was supposedly sealed.”
Riker's expression hardened.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning someone may have had access to the chamber through the drainage system. We have requested a structural assessment before entering the lower section.”
He understood the danger.
The chamber was old, damp, and connected to a network of drainage channels beneath the railway bridge. If the structure had deteriorated, a rescue attempt could place officers at risk.
But the discovery also meant that someone might have been using the old infrastructure as a hidden route.
The factory.
The station.
The chamber.
The reservoir.
The locations were connected by more than a contract.
They were connected by a system of passages and service corridors that most residents had forgotten existed.
“Sheriff,” Riker said, “if the original key is in that chamber, it may be the only evidence that can authenticate Hargrove's archive.”
“I understand.”
“And if Maria knows where it is, that's why they're keeping her.”
“That is a possibility.”
“Then you need to find her before they move her again.”
“We are doing everything we can.”
Riker closed his eyes.
He wanted to tell her that everything was not enough.
He wanted to demand that the search move faster.
But he knew the sheriff was facing the same impossible calculation he was: how to move quickly without creating another disaster.
So he asked the only question that mattered.
“What do you need from me?”
The sheriff was silent for a moment.
“Nothing at the scene. But I need you to prepare Leo for another interview tomorrow, if he is willing and if the child-protection specialist agrees. We need his recollection documented carefully.”
“Of course.”
“And Riker?”
“Yes?”
“Tell your people that nobody is to approach the station or the factory. We have reports of motorcycles gathering, and I cannot afford a confrontation tonight.”
“I'll make sure they understand.”
“Thank you.”
The call ended.
Riker immediately contacted Moose.
“Tell every rider that the sheriff has established a restricted area around the station and factory. Anyone who enters it risks compromising the investigation and endangering the people we're trying to protect.”
Moose relayed the instruction.
Then he turned back to Riker.
“What happens if the authorities don't find Maria tonight?”
Riker looked at the dark map.
“Then we keep helping them look.”
“And if the people behind this get away?”
“Then we make sure the evidence doesn't.”
Moose stared at him.
For the first time that evening, he seemed satisfied with the answer.
Not because it promised victory.
Because it gave them something they could actually do.
At 10:58 p.m., a new message arrived at the clubhouse.
It came from the same anonymous address that had sent the Project Lantern document.
This time, the subject line contained only one word.
MIDNIGHT.
The message body was brief.
The original key will be destroyed at midnight. If the archive cannot be authenticated, the city will never know what happened. The mayor will blame the Steel Saw riders. Northstar will receive emergency authority over the reservoir. And Maria Montgomery will disappear.
Beneath the message was a photograph.
It showed Maria sitting in a metal chair in a room with concrete walls.
Her hands were tied in front of her.