Chapter 4 - The Vanishing Son
The sky over the riverfront was the color of bruised slate. A low, freezing mist hung over the Ohio River, clinging to the rotting wooden piers and rusted corrugated metal warehouses that lined the old industrial sector.
Two sheriff’s cruisers sat with their emergency lights flashing, casting eerie red and blue pulses across the wet pavement.
Daniel’s black F-150 was parked at an awkward angle near the edge of an abandoned barge slip. The driver’s side door was wide open, exactly as the deputy had described. The headlights were still on, cutting two dull yellow cones through the rising fog.
I slammed my sedan into park and leaped out, running toward the tape.
“Sir! Step back!” a tall deputy with a mustache shouted, resting a hand on his belt.
“I’m Michael Vance!” I yelled, holding up my driver’s license with trembling fingers. “I’m Daniel’s father! The officer called me!”
The deputy’s demeanor softened slightly, though his eyes remained guarded. “Mr. Vance. I’m Deputy Collins. Over here.”
He led me to the passenger side of Daniel’s truck. On the worn cloth seat lay Daniel’s brown leather wallet, his cell phone—completely dead, screen dark—and a half-drunk cup of gas station coffee, stone cold.
“We ran the plates about an hour ago after a dockworker reported the truck idling unattended,” Collins explained. “The keys were still in the ignition. The engine was running until it ran out of gas about twenty minutes before we arrived. No signs of a struggle. No blood. But people don’t typically leave their vehicle running with the door wide open unless they stepped out for just a second—or were pulled out.”
“He wasn't pulled out,” I said, my chest heaving. “He came here to meet someone.”
Deputy Collins cocked an eyebrow. “You know what he was doing down here?”
I hesitated, Daniel’s letter burning against my ribs. If I told the police about an illegal, off-the-books hazardous transport job, they might treat Daniel as a suspect rather than a victim. But if I hid it, they wouldn't know where to look.
“My son was in severe financial trouble,” I told the deputy, choosing my words carefully. “His six-month-old baby was admitted to St. Jude’s pediatric intensive care three hours ago with a life-threatening metabolic crisis. Daniel was desperate for money to pay for Ethan’s specialty medication. In a note he left behind, he said someone offered him five thousand dollars cash for a hazardous cleanup or haul job today near the rail yards.”
Deputy Collins swore under his breath and turned toward his partner, who was speaking into a radio mic.
“There’s no legitimate industrial operations active on this pier, Mr. Vance,” Collins said grimly. “Most of these warehouses have been condemned for five years. But the abandoned chemical terminal down at Pier 9—we’ve had reports of illegal salvaging and scrap stripping out there for months. Shady contractors hire desperate day laborers for under-the-table demolition, asbestos removal, toxic tank draining. No safety gear. No liability.”
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. “Could he be down there?”
“We’re waiting for backup before we sweep the terminal,” Collins said. “It’s two hundred thousand square feet of unstable flooring, flooded basements, and rusted structural steel. If someone got hurt inside, it’s a death trap.”
“I’m not waiting for backup,” I said, stepping forward.
Collins grabbed my arm firmly. “Mr. Vance, you cannot go in there. It’s an active scene, and it is structurally dangerous.”
“That is my boy in there!” I shouted, the fury and terror of the last four hours erupting from my throat. “He’s thirty-four years old, he thinks he’s worthless, and he’s out there trying to kill himself so his kid can have medicine! You wait for your cars, Deputy, but I’m looking for my son!”
Before Collins could tighten his grip, a familiar voice cut through the damp fog.
“Michael!”
I spun around.
A silver sedan had pulled up behind the cruisers. Claire stepped out, followed by Daniel’s lifelong best friend, Marcus. Marcus was a heavy-set diesel mechanic who had known Daniel since Little League.
“Claire? What are you doing here?” I gasped. “Who is with Ethan?”
“My sister arrived from Columbus twenty minutes ago,” Claire said, her voice shaking but resolute. “She’s at his bedside. I couldn't sit there, Michael. I couldn't let Daniel die thinking I hated him.”
Marcus stepped up beside me, nodding respectfully to the deputies. “Officer, Daniel called me at six this morning. He asked to borrow my heavy-duty respirator and chemical work boots. He said he had an industrial tank job at the old Apex Chemical site on Pier 9. He was supposed to meet a subcontractor named Griggs.”
Deputy Collins’s face hardened. “Ray Griggs? The scrapper?”
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“Yeah,” Marcus said grimly. “Griggs has three outstanding warrants for safety violations and illegal dumping. If Danny went into the storage vats with Griggs, he’s in serious trouble.”
***
