The Last Eighty Dollars

Scott Hanley had forgotten about the impact driver. He had listed it on Facebook Marketplace in June after buying a DeWalt combo kit on sale. He needed nearly everything in it: The circular saw, reciprocating saw, and batteries. The only duplicate was the impact driver. Scott already owned the exact same model, and the old one worked perfectly.

He listed the extra for $120.

Open box. Never used. Battery not included.

Then he waited. Three people asked if it was available and disappeared after he answered. One offered $50. Another wanted Scott to drive it to Gillette.

The last one irritated him enough that Scott nearly deleted the listing. The buyer had offered $70 if Scott would meet him halfway to Casper. By the time Scott figured gas, time, and the aggravation of driving more than two hours round trip, he would have been better off giving the damn thing away.

By September, the box had migrated beneath his workbench. In October, Scott received another message.

Still have this?

He almost ignored it. The profile belonged to Orville Jensen. The picture showed an older man wearing a faded Wyoming Cowboys cap. Gray hair, heavy glasses, smile lines around his eyes.

Sure do.

Would you take $100? I'm over in Sundance but can come your way Thursday.

Scott considered it.

Yeah. $100 works.

They arranged for 4:00pm Thursday afternoon. Scott sent his address.

At 4:07pm, an older Ford pickup turned into his driveway. Scott watched from the garage as the driver climbed out slowly. The man planted both hands on the door frame, lowered one boot to the gravel, then dragged his other leg behind him.

He caught Scott looking.

“New knee.”

Scott laughed. “I was going to ask if you needed a hand.”

“If I need help getting out of a pickup, just shoot me.”

The old man limped toward the garage and extended his hand.

“Orv Jensen.”

“Scott Hanley.”

Orv's handshake remained surprisingly strong.

“Sorry I'm late. Construction outside Moorcroft.”

“Seven minutes isn't late in Wyoming.”

“That attitude is why I still live here.”

Scott liked him immediately. He retrieved the yellow DeWalt box from beneath his workbench.

“Never used.”

Orv inspected it. “You buy the big combo?”

“Yep.”

“And already had one.”

“Same model.”

Orv laughed. “That's how they get you.”

“Every damn time.”

“I've got three drills because of those packages. Somehow, I keep convincing myself the batteries make it worth it.”

“They know exactly what they're doing.”

“Bastards probably have psychologists designing the boxes.”

Scott laughed.

Orv noticed the tool wall. Scott had spent two winters getting the garage exactly how he wanted it. French cleats covered one wall. Clamps hung by size. His table saw occupied the center bay on a rolling base. Lumber racks stretched nearly to the ceiling.

“You built those cabinets?”

Scott nodded.

Orv forgot about the impact driver. He walked toward them, running his fingers along one of the doors.

“Maple?”

“Hard maple. Made the doors myself.”

“Router table?”

“Mostly.”

Orv opened a cabinet and examined the joinery.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

Scott smiled. Compliments meant more when they came from someone who knew what he was looking at.

“You do woodworking?”

“Used to do quite a bit. Can't stand at the bench like I used to.” He tapped his knee.

“Replacement?”

“Six weeks ago.”

Scott winced. “That's still pretty fresh.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I had shoulder surgery a while back. Thought I knew what pain was until they started physical therapy.”

Orv pointed at him. “That's where they get you. Surgeon tells you everything went beautifully, then sends you to some 25-year-old sadist who bends things God didn't intend to bend.”

Scott laughed hard enough that Orv joined him.

“Mine's a girl named Kelsey,” Orv continued. “Probably weighs 110 pounds. Sweetest thing you've ever met until she gets hold of my leg. Then she turns into Satan.”

“How far can you bend it?”

“Hundred and twelve degrees Tuesday.”

“Is that good?”

“They tell me it is. Doesn't feel good.”

They compared sleeping in recliners because beds had become torture devices, ice packs, pain pills, shower chairs, and the humiliating experience of needing help with things they had done without thinking their entire adult lives.

Orv shook his head. “Getting old isn't for cowards.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventy-six.”

Scott stared at him.

“What?”

“I would've guessed late sixties.”

“Now I know that $20 discount you're about to give me isn't charity. You're flirting.”

Scott laughed again.

The sale stopped being a sale. Orv had remodeled most of his house himself. Scott had done the same. They compared flooring mistakes, drywall repairs, cabinet construction, plumbing disasters, and the peculiar ability of a simple Saturday project to become three weekends and six trips to the hardware store.

Scott told him about replacing a bathroom vanity and discovering that the previous owner had apparently considered construction adhesive an acceptable substitute for screws.

Orv had one better. “I pulled paneling off my basement wall in '91 and found a beer bottle inside.”

“That's not unusual.”

“Wasn't empty.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Still had beer in it?”

“That's what I thought until I opened it.”

“What was in it?”

“Piss.”

Scott stared at him. Orv maintained a straight face for perhaps two seconds.

Both men broke.

“Some carpenter left you a time capsule?”

“Apparently.”

“Did you drink it?”

“That's why my kidneys are failing.”

Scott laughed until his shoulder hurt. For a man Scott had met 20 minutes earlier, Orv was remarkably easy to talk to.

Orv had built furniture for years. Tables. Cedar chests. Gun cabinets. Toy boxes for grandchildren.

“Still have pictures?”

“Probably.”

Orv pulled out his phone. Scott stood beside him while he scrolled. There were dozens. A walnut dining table. Oak bookshelves. A gun cabinet with glass doors. A cedar chest with a mountain scene carved into its lid.

“You carved that?”

“Long time ago.”

“That's beautiful.”

Orv swiped again. Another chest appeared. Smaller. Dark wood with a distinctive diamond pattern across the lid.

“What's that?”

“Jewelry box.”

“You made that too?”

“Made a bunch of them. Used scraps. Waste not, want not.”

Scott enlarged the photograph. The craftsmanship was excellent. Four lighter strips of wood intersected at the center, surrounded by darker walnut.

“You ever sell these?”

“A few. Mostly gave them away.”

“That's a lot of work to give away.”

Orv shrugged. “Can't take it with you.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

They talked another 20 minutes. Eventually Orv glanced toward his truck. “I better quit bothering you.”

“You aren't bothering me.”

“My wife used to say I could turn buying a screwdriver into a social engagement.”

“Mine says the same thing.”

Orv pulled out his wallet. “Hundred, right?”

Scott looked at the old man, then at the impact driver. “Give me 80.”

“We agreed on a hundred.”

“I know.”

“I've got it.”

“So do I.”

Orv stared at him.

“Eighty.”

“You sure?”

“Consider the other 20 payment for the physical therapy joke.”

Orv grinned and handed him four twenties. “Appreciate it.”

Scott carried the box to the pickup despite Orv insisting he could manage.

At the driver's door, Orv paused. “You've got a nice place here.”

“Thanks.”

“Quiet.”

“That's why we bought it.”

“You from Wyoming?”

Scott shook his head. “Moved here five years ago.”

“Where from?”

“Several places before that. Never found anywhere I wanted to stay.”

“What brought you here?”

Scott looked beyond the house toward the open country. “Wanted somewhere that still felt like people mostly left each other alone.”

“Politics?”

“That was part of it.”

Orv nodded.

Scott continued. “Mostly I wanted room. I've lived places where I could stand at the kitchen sink and see what the neighbor was watching on television.”

“You picked the right state.”

“That's the plan. Forever home.”

Orv looked toward the empty road. “Wyoming's good for that.”

He extended his hand again. “Good meeting you, Scott.”

“You too.”

Scott watched the Ford disappear down the road. He went inside and told his wife he'd accidentally made a friend selling a tool.

Two nights later, Scott noticed the coincidence. He was sitting in his recliner scrolling through Facebook when a post from a Wyoming history group appeared.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MARLENE VOSS: 41 YEARS LATER

Scott normally would have kept scrolling. The photograph stopped him.

It wasn't Marlene. It was the box.

The article included a photograph of several items recovered from Marlene's abandoned car outside Buffalo in 1985. Purse. Coat. Paperback novel. And a wooden jewelry box. Dark wood. Diamond pattern across the lid.

Scott enlarged the photograph. His first thought was that Orv had made dozens. His second was that plenty of woodworkers used geometric inlays. His third was that the box looked exactly like the one on Orv's phone.

Scott read the article. Marlene Voss had been 31 when she disappeared after leaving work. Her car was found two days later. There had been no sign of violence.

She had never been found.

The jewelry box had contained a necklace, two rings, and a receipt from a Casper department store.

Scott stared at the picture. Strange coincidence. Nothing more.

He almost sent it to Orv.

Hey, is this one of yours?

His thumb hovered over Messenger. Then he noticed the date.

1985.

Orv looked to be in his seventies. He would have been a young man then. Possible.

Scott opened Google instead. He searched Marlene Voss Wyoming jewelry box. Several old articles appeared. One mentioned that investigators had never determined where the box came from.

Scott changed the search.

Wyoming missing woman wooden box

The results shifted. A 1992 disappearance near Gillette. Denise Harper, 27. Her vehicle had been discovered at a rest area. Among her possessions was a handmade wooden box her sister didn't recognize.

Scott felt something move in his stomach.

He found a photograph. Different box. Same diamond.

He sat forward. “That doesn't mean anything,” he said.

His wife looked over from the couch. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Scott searched again. He found an archived newspaper story from 1978. Then one from 2003. Not every disappearance involved a box. Most didn't.

But Scott found four. Four women. Four handmade boxes. Four variations of the same diamond pattern. Over 25 years.

He searched Orville Jensen. Nothing.

That should have relieved him. Instead, it bothered him. Orv had no meaningful internet footprint beyond Facebook. No newspaper articles. No arrest record Scott could find. Just an old man in Sundance who liked woodworking.

Scott opened Orv's Facebook profile. Most posts were public. Pictures of mountains. Political memes. Old trucks. Woodworking. A photograph from his knee replacement with the caption Got some new hardware installed.

Scott smiled despite himself. This was ridiculous. He was turning a pleasant old man into a serial killer because of a woodworking pattern.

He scrolled farther. Orv beside an elk. Orv standing beside an old Ford. A photograph of his late wife.

Scott stopped. The caption read:

Forty-eight years wasn't enough. Miss you every day, Carol.

There were 63 comments beneath it. People calling Orv a good man. Former coworkers. Neighbors. Someone thanking him for building a wheelchair ramp for her father.

Scott felt ashamed. He closed Facebook.

The next morning, he reopened it. He told himself he wanted to prove himself wrong. Instead, he searched the victims.

Marlene Voss. Denise Harper. Tanya Wilkes. Rebecca Ames.

Different ages. Different towns. Different decades. No obvious connection.

Then Scott noticed another coincidence. Rebecca Ames disappeared in 2003 after responding to a classified advertisement for a dining table.

Scott stared at the sentence. He remembered Orv standing in his garage.

Marketplace sure makes things easier.

Had he said that? Scott tried to reconstruct their conversation. They had discussed Marketplace. Craigslist. Hardware stores. Maybe newspapers. Something about classifieds.

Scott searched Denise Harper. Her sister had told police Denise planned to look at a used dresser advertised in the newspaper.

Scott's mouth went dry.

He searched Tanya Wilkes. No classified ad. For several minutes he felt relieved. Then he found a scanned newspaper clipping. Tanya had told a coworker she was going to purchase a cedar chest from someone outside town.

Scott stood. His recliner bumped backward.

Three women. Three pieces of furniture. Three boxes.

He searched Marlene again. Nothing. Then he found an interview with Marlene's sister from 2015. Marlene had been furnishing a new apartment. The week she disappeared, she had answered several classified ads.

Scott walked into the kitchen and poured coffee he didn't want. Four coincidences. He carried the mug back without drinking it.

He searched for more disappearances. The pattern widened. Sheridan. Casper. Newcastle. Gillette. Buffalo.

Not every case fit. Some were clearly unrelated. Scott forced himself not to make everything evidence. But six did. Maybe seven.

Women who disappeared after arranging private purchases. Furniture. Tools. Household items.

One in 1976. Another in 1981. Then 1985. 1992. 1993. 1994. 1995. After that, nothing.

Scott calculated Orv's age. If Orv was 76 now, he'd been 26 in 1976.

Scott whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Then he remembered something Orv had said.

My wife used to say I could turn buying a screwdriver into a social engagement.

Buying. Not selling.

Scott sat very still. He opened the old cases again. He had assumed the women went to the seller. What if the seller went to them?

Scott reread everything. The 1997 victim had advertised a dining set for sale. He had missed that. The 1981 victim had placed an advertisement for a refrigerator. Denise Harper's dresser wasn't something she had been buying. A later article clarified that Denise was selling it before moving.

Scott felt cold. The pattern reversed.

They weren't buyers. They were sellers. People who gave a stranger their address. People who let him onto their property. People who talked to him because he seemed harmless.

Scott looked toward the garage. Orv had been there nearly an hour. They had talked about everything. His renovations. His family. How long he'd lived there. The nearest neighbors.

Scott remembered saying they loved the isolation. Remembered pointing toward the open country.

Wanted somewhere that still felt like people mostly left each other alone.

He remembered Orv's answer.

Wyoming's good for that.

Scott's phone vibrated. He jumped.

Messenger.

Orv Jensen.

Scott stared at the notification before opening it.

Impact works great. Thanks again for treating me right.

Scott exhaled. His hands were trembling.

Another message appeared.

Been thinking about that garage of yours.

Scott didn't answer. Three dots appeared.

You said you built those cabinets yourself?

Scott stood and walked toward the window. The driveway was empty. He typed:

Yeah. Why?

Orv answered almost immediately.

Just admiring the work.

Scott stared at the screen. Then:

Hope the shoulder doesn't give you any more trouble. Surgery's hell at our age.

Scott didn't respond. He called the Newcastle Police Department.

The explanation sounded insane before he'd finished the first sentence. He didn't accuse Orv of anything. He said he'd noticed similarities between several old missing-person cases and a man he'd met.

The dispatcher transferred him. Scott repeated everything. The officer listened politely. Boxes. Classified ads. A woodworker from Sundance. Decades-old disappearances.

When Scott finished, silence followed.

“Mr. Hanley, do you have any evidence this man was involved?”

Scott looked at his phone. “No.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“No.”

“Did he do anything illegal while he was at your residence?”

“No.”

Another pause. “I can document the call.”

Scott understood. He sounded crazy.

“Please do.”

After hanging up, Scott locked the garage door. Then the front. Then the back.

His wife watched him. “Scott, you're scaring me.”

“I'm probably being stupid.”

“About what?”

He told her. She didn't laugh. That made it worse.

They spent the evening searching together. At 10:18pm, his wife found the first thing Scott couldn't explain away. “Come here.”

Scott leaned over her laptop. She had found a digitized photograph from a 1976 newspaper. A young woman stood beside a pickup at a county fair. Behind her were several people. One was a young man.

The photograph was grainy. But Scott recognized the eyes.

His wife whispered, “Is that him?”

Scott enlarged it. The caption identified the people.

Orville Jensen, 26, Sundance.

Scott's heartbeat thudded in his ears. The woman beside him disappeared 11 days later. Her name was Linda Carver.

Scott searched her. Linda had been selling tools after her father's death. The case had never been solved.

His phone vibrated. Orv. Scott didn't touch it. Another vibration. Then another.

His wife whispered, “Don't open them.”

Scott did.

Funny thing about getting old.

Second message.

People start thinking old means harmless.

Scott stopped breathing.

The third message contained a photograph. His garage. Not from that afternoon. Nighttime. The photograph had been taken from outside the window.

His wife made a sound behind him. Scott called 911.

As the dispatcher answered, something struck the garage floor. Metal against concrete.

Scott turned toward the hallway. Another sound.

His wife whispered, “Something's not right.”

Scott already knew. He opened Orv's final message.

You were right about Wyoming, Scott. People leave each other alone out here.

The garage door creaked. Scott backed toward the kitchen.

Five years earlier, he had chosen Wyoming because he wanted distance. Open land. Quiet roads. A house where nobody could look through his windows from the next yard. A forever home. The nearest neighbor was almost a mile away.

Scott listened as the door from the garage opened. A slow footstep entered the house. Then another. Uneven. Dragging slightly between each step.

The limp was unmistakable.

Scott looked at his wife. Then at the dark hallway.

Of all the people in Wyoming who could have wanted a DeWalt impact driver, Scott thought, it had been him.

What a strange fucking coincidence.