The bell above the diner door didn’t just jingle, it felt like it screamed when they walked in. The whole club, maybe twenty of them, filling every booth with the smell of leather and road dust. My boss took one look, muttered something about needing to check inventory in the back, and disappeared.
Just me and them. For the first hour, it was almost normal. They were loud, laughing, ordering burgers and milkshakes like a high school football team.
One of them, a man with a beard down to his chest, even complimented my coffee. It was just enough to make me unclench my fists. I was just a waitress, this was just another table.
A very large, very intimidating table. Then, as I went to clear some plates from the main booth, the leader leaned in close to the man across from him. Their voices dropped, a low rumble beneath the jukebox.
I shouldn’t have listened, but I heard a name that made the plates in my hand rattle. They said “Henderson Creek.”
My heart stopped. That’s the abandoned quarry just outside of town.
The place people go to disappear. The leader looked around, his eyes scanning the diner before landing on me for a split second. I tried to look busy, wiping down a clean spot on the counter.
He then reached into his vest and slid a small, folded piece of paper across the table. The other man picked it up, unfolded it just enough for me to see what was on it. It wasn’t a map or a note.
It was a photograph of a child. A child I recognized from the posters stapled to every telephone pole in the next county over. His name was Daniel.
He was eight years old. He’d been missing for three days. My blood ran cold.
The plates in my hand felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. So this was it. This was the transaction.
They had him. They were talking about the quarry. My mind filled with horrible, unspeakable images.
I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there and pour more coffee. I ducked into the kitchen, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.
My boss, Mr. Henderson, was nowhere to be found. He’d slipped out the back door.
The coward. I dialed 9-1-1, my thumb hovering over the call button. But what would I say?
“I think the scary bikers in my diner kidnapped that boy from the news?” They’d think I was a hysterical waitress profiling her customers. They’d need proof, something more than a whispered name and a glimpse of a photo. I took a deep breath and walked back out, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I had to get closer, see more, hear more. I grabbed a pot of coffee, my hand wrapped in a towel to hide the trembling. “More coffee, gentlemen?” I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.
The leader, the one with the deep voice and eyes that seemed to see right through me, nodded. As I leaned over to fill his cup, I let my eyes drift to the photograph, which was now lying face up on the table. It was definitely the boy, Daniel.
He was smiling, a gap-toothed grin that tore at my heart. The man sitting across from the leader saw me looking. His face hardened.
“Something you need, sweetheart?” he growled. “Just making sure you’re all set,” I squeaked, pulling back quickly. I retreated behind the counter, my mind racing a mile a minute.
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