The stories of theThreshing Manhad been told throughout the generations to keep children from wandering too far into the woods, to explain crop failures, and to give shape to the community's deepest fears.
But a trench coat didn't fit the legend.
Only one man used to wear a trench coat, but he was dead.
Gus stuck the toothpick back in between his teeth before struggling to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. His joints protested every movement. He made his way slowly toward the wall-mounted phone near his usual stool. The phone was cool against his palm as he lifted the receiver and dialed a number he knew by heart. The line clicked as someone at the sheriff's office answered with their usual greeting.
“Sheriff's department, can I help you?”
“This is Gus Jenkins. I need to speak with Sheriff Turner.”
“He's not available right now, Mr. Jenkins. Can I take a message?”
Gus surveyed those in the bar before responding to the question. This town was his home. These patrons were his family. And every now and then, a wolf would disguise itself as a sheep, walking among them with blood-stained teeth hidden behind neighborly smiles. The fields had fallen silent this evening, and theThreshing Manwas about to collect his due.
“Tell Turner he needs to come to the Watering Hole,” Gus said firmly. “Right now. I know who abducted those young women in Cane County.”
31
Hadley Dawkins
October 2025
Tuesday – 6:11pm
Hadley studied the cabin tucked in among the pines. The structure seemed to crouch rather than stand, its weathered frame almost camouflaged against the night-darkened woods. No proper road led to it, just a narrow path barely visible in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy.
She kept her flashlight off, acutely aware that even the drone she'd planned to pick up from the department later this evening wouldn't have penetrated the dense cover from above. Whoever built this place had chosen isolation with deliberate purpose.
The owl's questioning had ceased, leaving only the rhythmic pulsing of crickets and her own heartbeat in her ears. Logic told her to retreat, return to her vehicle, and call for backup. But a deeper instinct—the same one that had led her through countless investigations—kept her rooted in place.
She scanned the treeline, plotting a path that would allow her to circle the cabin while remaining hidden. Taking a steadyingbreath, she moved forward, placing each foot with careful precision to avoid the scattered twigs and dry leaves that could betray her presence. The first tree provided momentary cover, its bark rough against her palm as she leaned against it, her vision continuously adjusting to the darkness.
From this angle, she could better estimate the cabin's dimensions. Small, maybe five hundred square feet at most. Smaller than her apartment. A structure this modest likely contained only one or two rooms, along with a small bathroom.
Hadley cautiously moved to the next tree, keeping her silhouette broken by shadows. The thin sliver of light escaping between the cabin's curtains was more noticeable now.
A shadow passed by, momentarily interrupting the light.
Someone was inside, moving between rooms.
She continued around, reaching a position that allowed her to view the eastern side of the cabin. A stack of firewood leaned against the wall, covered with a dark tarp. No windows on this side, allowing her to breathe a little easier.
Circling to the back required crossing a small open space. Hadley paused, listening intently for any sound that might suggest she'd been detected. Hearing nothing but nature's nighttime chorus, she jogged across until she reached a very tall and thick pine tree. The air around it smelled of resin and damp earth.
When she finally edged around the tree, the sight that greeted her sent a shockwave through her system that was half vindication, half dread.
Ty Hobbs' truck was parked behind the structure.
Hadley would recognize that F-150 anywhere. The distinctive rust pattern along the driver's side, the dent in the rear bumper, the Cane County Harvest Festival sticker from five years ago still clinging to the tailgate window. It was unmistakably the same vehicle she'd spotted Ty driving when she first met him.
Allen Hobbs had lied.
Ty wasn't camping at Buffalo River. He was hidden away in a cabin on the farthest side of his neighbor’s property, raising questions about whether the owner even knew of its existence. She squinted in the darkness, noticing that there was a wide opening on the other side to just barely allow for a vehicle.
She also couldn’t dismiss Ramos’ theory.
What if Thomas Hobbshadbeen responsible for the first seven disappearances? What if, after his death last year, Ty had continued his father's legacy? One couldn’t argue with the timing of it all. Thomas died just before Missy Claymont vanished.
