What She Saw - 10

Sloane

“When did you realize the concert was going south?” I asked Paxton.

He drew in a breath and shifted in his chair. Thirty-one years and the question seemed to still annoy him. “I’ve been asked that question so many times.”

“It irritates you,” I said.

“It does. Reporters are Monday-morning quarterbacks. None of you were on the field making calls and dealing with the mayhem.”

“You have a point. All of us have twenty-twenty vision in retrospect.” I wasn’t here to piss him off and shut him down. “I’m not judging. I’m trying to see the scene as you did.”

“No matter how long we talk, you never will.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s your angle?”

“No angle. I want to find the victims’ bodies.”

That softened his frown a fraction. “Thirty-one years in these mountains is a lifetime. You’ll never find them now.”

“The earth never completely swallows everything. There’s always a trace or a clue.”

The black leather of his chair creaked as he leaned back. “That’s a nice thought, but the world is a big place.”

“No one noticed that the women had disappeared.”

“No wonder. By midnight, people had packed the field. It was shoulder to shoulder. Rafe Colton said there’d be a few hundred people, but there had to be two thousand or more. People had hiked up the fire road and slipped into the venue through the woods. The music kept amping up the crowd. The promised large security turned out to be just three guys in black security T-shirts who didn’t arrive until eleven. We were all in over their heads. Honest to God, I was never so glad to see the sun rise. Unless you had someone watching your back, anyone could’ve been swallowed up by that mess.”

“Taggart made multiple statements to that effect. He said halfway through the night he couldn’t find Rafe Colton.”

“That’s right. He was impossible to find for a couple of hours.”

“Could he have driven off the mountain?”

“No way. The roads were jammed.”

“And the mayor? Where was he?”

Paxton shook his head. His mouth tightened. I suspected he was chewing on a few choice words. But politics got the better of candor. “Mayor Briggs was a good man. He wanted the best for this town. Dawson was hurting financially then. Folks were out of work, and he wanted to help.”

“He thought the festival would be a success,” I said.

“He did. He thought it would be over and done with before anything bad happened.”

On the fifth anniversary of the festival, Mayor Briggs had shot and killed himself. He was found lying in his backyard, a .45 by his right hand and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s by his left. The concert that was supposed to solve so many problems condemned the small town to fifteen years of purgatory.

“Bailey Briggs Jones took over the family business.” I’d not asked Bailey about the concert yet, but that would come soon.

“That’s right.” He leaned forward, threading meaty fingers. “You’re on a fool’s errand, Sloane. You’re going to stir a lot of bad memories, get a few clicks, and then you’ll move on. You won’t be around to see the wreckage.”

“The wreckage has followed me ever since.” I drew in a breath and met his gaze. “I’ve spent my entire life wondering if she’s dead, alive, suffering, or living a better life without her child.”

Paxton sat back in his chair. “I’d think this would be the last place you’d ever want to be.”

“I tend to run toward trouble.”

“There’s no trouble here,” he said. “Dawson is a peaceful town.”

“It looks very serene.” Not all murder scenes were dark alleys. Some were nice homes. They were places of work, favorite neighborhood parks, or tree-lined jogging trails. Murderers didn’t need to set the stage to do their thing. Anytime, anywhere.

He settled his elbows on his desk. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“A week or two. I want to get to know Dawson and talk to the folks who were at the festival thirty-one years ago.”

“They aren’t as easy to find.”

“I’ve found a few.”

“I heard someone rented Sheriff Taggart’s cabin.” Sharp-eyed and a little flushed, he seemed annoyed. “Was that you?”

I focused on an award behind him on a credenza. A service award from the Rotary Club. The year was 2022. There was a framed image of a football team. 1988. I suspected Paxton was in the cluster of boys somewhere. He was as much a part of this town as the roads and bridges. “That was me.”

“Why? Sheriff Taggart’s been dead five years.”

“Thought I’d get a little insight into him. Maybe I’ll catch some of his vibe.”

“You know he shot himself in that cabin. He sat on the front porch and put a revolver to the side of his head.”

“That explains why the place is haunted, right?”

Paxton shook his head. “I’m not giving you access to the sheriff’s case files.”

“I’d be surprised if you did,” I said. “Most jurisdictions don’t welcome me.” My research often began with one cop who’d never been able to forget a case.

Paxton rose. “Thanks for coming, Sloane. But I think we’re finished here.”

I stood, taking a moment to settle my bag on my shoulder. “Thanks for your time, Sheriff Paxton.”

“Best of luck to you,” he said. “Don’t speed in my town.”

As I made my way down the hallway, I caught Paxton’s reflection in a framed picture in front of me. He had stepped out into the hallway, and he watched as I reached for the security door. It was locked, trapping me inside.

I glanced to Jennifer, but she didn’t meet my gaze. Irritated, I stared at her as I rattled the door. When she set down the receiver, she exhaled a breath and pressed the buzzer.

I crossed the lobby and stepped outside. The sun was bright and the sky clear. The mountains, now my temporary home, skidded across the skyline. The distance didn’t feel that far as I stared at the ridge. But as I drove out of town, I realized how isolated I was in Taggart’s cabin.