wo hours later, frustration reigned.

We’d gotten nowhere with the directories and phonebooks. Ditto for birth certificates and marriage licenses. I began to accept the fact that F. Heaton wasn’t local after all.

Hi tried more online sources, but found squat. Shelton was searching newspaper obituaries, looking for a needle in a haystack. Our confidence was in the basement. The name Heaton was simply too common without more information.

The only thing left was the longest of long shots. Sighing, I starting thumbing through records of the Charleston Orphan House. A long shot was better than no shot at all.

Formerly the oldest orphanage in America, the state of South Carolina demolished the Orphan House in 1951. By law, records remained sealed for seventy-five years, meaning the files in the library stopped at 1935. I wasn’t holding my breath.

So my find came as a total shock: a musty file labeled Francis P. Heaton. Snatching the weathered folder, I rushed to a table.

“Guys! I’ve got something!” No need to worry about lowered voices. We were the only people left in the room.

Shelton and Hi crowded close as I opened our first lead of the day.

The contents were underwhelming. Two documents. The one on top appeared to be a standard intake form. I reviewed the scant information provided:

Name: Francis P. Heaton

Born: 1934

Parents/relations: unknown

Date accepted as ward of State: July 15, 1935.

Manner of acceptance: left on doorstep of Charleston Orphan House

“They left him on the freakin’ doorstep?” squawked Shelton. “That’s cold!”

“It was the Great Depression,” Hi countered. “That’s greatly depressing.”

“Enough,” I shushed. “There’s more.”

Below the typed information, someone had penned a few lines in an old-fashioned hand:

The infant was left outside the orphanage gates during the night of July 15, 1935. A note attached to the child’s swaddling provided only a name. Investigation failed to unearth any information regarding the child’s natural parents. The Board has therefore assumed responsibility for Francis P. Heaton as a ward of the State of South Carolina.

“Do you think it’s our boy?” asked Shelton. “Francis P. would’ve been in his thirties during the Vietnam War.”

“Could be,” said Hi. “What’s the other page say?”

The second document was a standard sheet of loose-leaf paper. I flipped it over, revealing a handwritten message in the form a journal entry.

The date scrawled on top read November 24, 1968. Although shakier, the penmanship matched that of the first document. The message had been written by the same person who’d completed the intake form thirty years earlier.

Terrible news for Thanksgiving. Frankie Heaton was killed in action last month fighting in the Mekong Delta. I’d not heard from him in years. A Gazette story reported that Frankie fought valiantly as his entire squad was overcome.

Biting my lip, I forced myself to keep reading.

What a wretched war! My heart breaks to think of Frankie’s daughter, Katherine. Only sixteen, and with her mother gone, now an orphan herself. May the Good Lord bless Frankie’s soul, and watch over his child.

The note was signed with an illegible name.

We all stared at it mutely.

Shelton spoke first. “What’s the Gazette?”

“A Charleston paper that went out of print in the early seventies,” Hi said.

“I think Frankie’s our guy.” Shelton sounded as downcast as I felt. “But if he died in the Mekong Delta, how did his dog tag end up on Loggerhead Island?”

“His daughter was fifteen in 1968.” Hi calculated in his head. “She’d be fifty-seven now.”

“Then the tag belongs to her,” I said vehemently. “We’ve got to find Katherine and give it back.”

Hi nodded. “Let’s try Google. We have a full name. It might work this time.”

Shelton and Hi moved to the computer bank, anxious to distance themselves from my emotional orbit. I didn’t follow. A tremendous sadness had enveloped me, more powerful than expected.

Across the span of decades, I empathized with Francis Heaton’s daughter. Like Katherine, I knew how it felt to lose a mother. She’d lost her father, too. The world could be very cruel.

And Francis himself? The child abandoned on a doorstep had grown into a man who fought for his country. And paid the ultimate price. Unspeakably sad.

“Tory!” Shelton sounded wired. “Oh man, check this out!”

Reading Shelton’s screen, my shock doubled.!!!Worse and worse.

Shelton’s keyword search had brought up a crime site exploring missing person cases. According to the information, sixteen-year-old Katherine Heaton disappeared in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1969, leaving no trace.

Vanished. Gone.

“This can’t be legit,” I studied the screen. “The Stab Network? What ridiculous blog is this, anyway?”

“Not exactly CNN,” Hi agreed. “Hit the sources page.”

Though the entry listed references, none of the links worked. But the story cited quotes from the Gazette.

We flew to the microfilm reader. Shelton located and spooled the reel containing Gazette issues from 1969. For the next hour we huddled together, absorbing the saga of Katherine Anne Heaton.

Katherine’s disappearance had captivated Charleston. On August 24, 1969, the young woman left home, headed for the docks at Ripley Point. She was never seen again. For weeks the police scoured the region, found nothing. In mid-September the search was called off.

During the investigation, the Gazette published several background pieces. Katherine grew up in West Ashley, a modest neighborhood east of the peninsula. She attended St. Andrew’s Parish High School, achieved excellent marks, even won a merit award for science. Friends said Katherine planned to attend Charleston University after graduation.

I skimmed through weeks of newspapers, desperate for a happy ending. Nothing. Katherine’s story simply ended.

Then, a bombshell.

In October of 1969, the Gazette ran a front-page story profiling Charleston County citizens killed in Vietnam. Among them was Francis “Frankie” Heaton. The reporter noted that Frankie Heaton was the father of still-missing Katherine Heaton, in whose disappearance police continued to have no leads.

“Guys, listen! According to an aunt, Katherine Heaton wore her father’s dog tags to honor him.”

“That’s it.” Shelton whistled. “We’ve got the right Heaton. I bet she dropped the tag on Loggerhead.”

“But why would Katherine be out there?” I wondered aloud. “Her bio suggests she wasn’t the party-island type.”

“Did they ever find her?” Hi asked.

“Not in 1969.” Shelton replaced that reel in its box. “Should we move ahead to 1970?”

“My word, you’ve been diligent! Any luck?” We all turned at the sound of Limestone’s voice.

“Yes, sir. We discovered quite a bit, but have more questions.”

“Splendid. The library closes soon, but perhaps I can be of additional help?”

Shelton took charge. “Have you ever heard of a girl named Katherine Heaton?”

Something flickered in Limestone’s eyes. Was gone. “What did you say?” The whiney voice had raised an octave.

“Katherine Heaton,” Shelton repeated. “Local girl, went missing in the sixties? Her pop was a soldier in Vietnam. Ever heard of her?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” A different Brian Limestone stood before us. The encouragement was gone. The man now seemed anxious. “I’ve got to close this room now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

“Sorry to be a pain,” I soothed. “We’d just like to know what happened to Katherine. We got caught up in the old newspaper articles. Can you show us where to find more of her story?”

“No, I cannot. I’m very busy. I thought you were doing schoolwork.” A bony finger pointed to the exit. “Please leave. You’ll have to return another time.”

We exchanged glances. Limestone was shutting us down. Bewildered, we gathered our things and hustled from the building.

Outside, I glanced back at the library. Limestone stood inside the door, watching us intently.

“What was that?” I asked. “An evil twin? The guy couldn’t cut us some slack?”

“For real,” agreed Shelton. “The minute I ask for something, he’s a grade-A dick.”

“Librarians,” remarked Hi. “Always hatin’ on the brothers. Good thing I didn’t open my Jew mouth.”

“No doubt.” Shelton chuckled. “Probably donning his bedsheet and hood as we speak, saluting a Nazi flag! Racist.”

I grinned. “He’s not a big fan of women, either.”

We were joking, of course. Whatever had gotten into Brian Limestone, it wasn’t bigotry.

When our amusement faded, anxiety settled in its place. The librarian’s sudden change of attitude was unnerving.

I remembered Limestone’s face just before he’d morphed into a jerk.

His expression.

Had that been... fear?