What She Saw - 31

Sloane

I liked cemeteries. I didn’t have a lot of bandwidth for the living, but the dead were okay. They were quiet, undemanding, and patient. The four women I was searching for weren’t pestering me or calling out for help. My driving force was me. But it always had been.

As I walked the rows of tombstones, I inhaled the scent of cut grass. The land stretched out over the rolling hills toward the mountains in the distance. I guessed if you cared about where you ended up, this place was okay. Me, I didn’t want to be in the ground. Who wants to be locked in the same space forever? Nope. Burn me and sprinkle my ashes.

I’d searched for a grave marker on the cemetery’s website, but here now, it took me a moment to orient myself. When I spotted a few landmarks, I moved west. It took five minutes to find the right grave.

I glanced down at the brass plate. The marine logo followed by CJ Taggart, 1944–2020 .

“Figured I should stop by and pay my respects. But I’m not sure how me standing here accomplishes that.” I knelt and brushed the leaves from the plate. “It’s taken me a while, but I’m working the case now. No one wants me here.”

Wind whispered through the trees.

“But that pretty much sums up my life.” The irony was amusing.

“You talking to him?”

The question came from a man standing at a fancier grave up ahead. He appeared to be in his late seventies. He had gray hair, a weather-lined face, and a thick mustache. He wore khakis and an ironed white shirt.

“I am. Who are you?”

“Mitch Lawson. I come each day to visit my wife.” Fresh flowers filled the vase at the grave. Wilted ones of the same variety were discarded on a sheet of newspaper.

I looked behind that to the gravestone of Daisy Lawson. She’d died ten years ago. “Did you know CJ Taggart?”

“We often found ourselves at the diner for supper. You must be the reporter.”

I rose. “I’m not a reporter. Just a writer.”

“Aren’t they the same?”

“Reporters recite the facts. I’m trying to re-create the story.”

“What’s that mean?” Mr. Lawson asked.

I’d explained this distinction before, but most didn’t understand that my work was more of a calling than a paycheck. “I don’t want a headline or clicks. I’m looking for the missing women.”

“They aren’t missing. They’re dead.”

“Still missing.” He was right. Finding bones in the ground wouldn’t change much in the grand scheme. But all answers, even the bad ones, were better than none.

“Any leads?” Mr. Lawson asked.

“Not yet.” I stepped toward him. “Did Taggart ever talk about the case?”

A hint of shaving cream was smudged on the skin under his ear. Back in the day, his wife probably would have wiped it away before he left the house. “If he did, it was always around an anniversary, when a reporter showed up to ask questions.”

“I’ve read all the articles on the case. The last anniversary article was ten years ago.”

“That’s right. My wife, Daisy, had just passed about that time. And I was in the diner often. The reporter was interviewing Taggart in the back booth.”

The last article had been a predictable rehashing of old facts. Nothing new. “Did Taggart remark on the interview?”

“He didn’t like the guy quizzing him. Said he hadn’t done his homework.”

The reporter had no curiosity about the missing victims. “Did you know any of the women?”

“My daughter went to high school with Debra.”

“What was your daughter’s impression of Debra? She the kind of gal who would just take off?”

“Carrie said Debra was focused. She had her sights set on college. Carrie always said Debra was going places.”

“I’ve heard that. Did Carrie know Kevin?”

The old man shifted, drawing attention to his bony shoulders under his shirt. “She said Debra could do better.”

“Kevin told Taggart he was cool with the breakup. Said he had moved on.”

“That’s not how I heard it. Carrie was out with Debra one evening. Kevin was following them.”

“Following them? Maybe it was a one-off?”

“Debra commented that she was tired of him always being there.”

“Kevin was a stalker?” The picture on his mantel proved he hadn’t forgotten her.

“I don’t think it got that bad. We live in a small town. But Carrie said Kevin tended to be around.”

Taggart had pulled Kevin in for questioning. He had been cleared of all charges. “Do you remember where Kevin lived then?”

“Close to the furniture factory—now the computer company—where he works.”

“That factory closed, correct?”

“About thirty years ago.”

“How many jobs were lost?”

“Fifty or so. It was a hard blow to the town.”

Kevin had left town after the trial. Folks treated him differently. Not everyone thought he was blameless. He’d moved back several years before Taggart died. “Did Carrie go to the concert?”

“No. I wouldn’t let her go. No good comes out of young people fueled on booze and music.” Mr. Lawson shook his head. “She was mad as a hornet.”

Patty had been a year or two older than Carrie. She’d been at the festival for work, not fun. Sara, when she drank, grumbled that she’d told Patty not to take the job. But I’d never blamed Patty for chasing the money that could set her free. “Did you follow the trial?”

“Everyone did. Hard not to. That consumed us all for almost eight months. Reporters flocked to town.”

“That would’ve meant a local revenue bump,” I quipped.

He grunted. “Mayor Briggs said as much once.”

How much money had been made off the backs of those dead women? “Any theories about the location of the bodies?” It was a Hail Mary kind of question. They rarely worked, but every so often I scored.

“I always thought they were close. So many hiding places then. Old wells, rock quarries, sheds, barns.”

“The search crews spent months combing the area.”

“They didn’t start up for a good ten days after the festival. And we were going through a hot spell that year. Human remains don’t look human after a week or two in the heat.” Mr. Lawson sniffed. “Have you talked to the man serving life in prison for four murders? Rafe Colton knows.”

“Working on getting that interview. But I’m not in a rush.”

“Why not?”

“Everyone hangs on his every word. And he likes that. I’m in no rush to dangle the bait only to have him snatch it away.”

“I’d let him rot. He’s been in prison for almost thirty-one years and will die there.”

“He’s up for parole. He’ll get out if I don’t find those bodies.”

Mr. Lawson muttered an oath. “Wouldn’t that be something. He gets out because Taggart didn’t find the bodies.”

I wondered if Taggart was turning over in his grave. “Colton’s aware that I’m working on this article. It’s nice to think he has plenty of time in his cell to think about what I’m writing about. I want him to wonder and maybe worry a little longer.”

He chuckled. “You don’t look troubled.”

“I’m not.”

“Taggart used to say his greatest wish was five minutes inside Colton’s mind.”

“Do you think that’s what got to Taggart?”

“He never uncovered all his answers, and it really bothered him. Maybe the thinking did him in.”

How many times had I wished for deeper insight into a killer’s head? Maybe one day, I’d find that insight and still hold on to my less-than-normal life. “Did he think Colton could have had help with the bodies?”

“He never mentioned that until the very end. A couple of weeks before he died, he thought he might have a lead.”

“Did he say what?”

“No. Said it could be nothing.”

Five years ago, I had Taggart’s case files, but I was ignoring them. Maybe if he’d reached out sooner, Taggart might have talked to me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What do you think the chances of finding those bodies are?”

I wanted to find them, but what I wanted didn’t always jibe with what the universe doled out. “Bad odds have never stopped me before. In fact, I like them.”

“I almost hope you don’t find them.”

“Why?”

“They’re dead. No unearthed bones will change that. And finding the bodies will tear open old wounds in this town. That case just about did us in. Took years for people to forget.”

I had no problem tearing Dawson in two if it meant finding the bodies. “That’s what I keep hearing.”

“Be careful. A lot of money was lost after that festival, and folks are real protective of what they have rebuilt.”

I drove out to where the old furniture factory had been located and found myself staring at PH Puckett Computers, Kevin Pascal’s employer. The building was an island of reflective glass and metal. Surrounded by a mile of asphalt parking, it was a guidepost to Dawson’s future.

The furniture company had failed, but the land remained in a prime location off Interstate 64 between Dawson and Staunton. Made sense it would get reused.

Kevin drove here five days a week. Time had allowed people to forget an old arrest and the festival, making it easier for his return. He’d come full circle.

I was convinced the abductions were a two-person job. For years, Taggart had not second-guessed his investigation. He’d locked on his target, didn’t look left or right, and never considered other scenarios. However, if Lawson was correct, maybe something had changed Taggart’s mind.

Whoever had helped Colton had been an unexpected accomplice. There’d been a report of a scream from the woods. Multiple people had seen Colton at one point or another during the evening. There’d not been long enough gaps for him to abduct four women.

I crossed the lot and walked into the glittering lobby. Finding a smile, I crossed to the reception desk. “Is Kevin Pascal here?”

The woman looked up at me. Brown eyes narrowed behind thick lenses. “Who are you?”

“Sloane Grayson.”

She nodded. “The reporter.”

Writer, but why bother to correct her. “That’s right. Is he here?”

“I’m not sure.”

I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “His car is in the lot.”

She glared as if the death stare would make me vanish. When I remained intact, she reached for a pen and pad. “I can leave him a message. He’s working now.”

“Patrolling the mean streets of Puckett Computers? I’ll wait until he can take a break. I’ll just sit over there.”

She frowned. “I’ll call the police if you don’t leave.”

“Okay. Call them. It’ll make for good fodder for my article.”

“I’ll buzz him again.”

Three minutes later, the side door opened. Kevin appeared. He wore his dark uniform, starched and crisp. This close, I could see he was heavier and his hair thinner than the young man in the picture with Debra at the festival. Frown lines etched heavy grooves around his mouth.

“Mr. Pascal,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He didn’t speak but guided me outside, away from the receptionist. “Why did you show up where I work?”

“It’s a good place to find people.”

His fingers tightened into a fist. “I don’t want any trouble.”

I smiled. “Neither do I. I just want to talk.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been all over town asking about the festival.”

“I’ve been busy, yes.”

He slid his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have anything to add. Why are you here?”

“You were part of the security team at the festival. You had a ringside seat to the chaos.”

“I barely remember the festival.”

“And Debra. Do you remember her?”

Hearing her name darkened his eyes. “I’ll never forget her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She was by the stage. She and Bailey were drinking and dancing.”

“She and Bailey were close?”

“As close as Bailey could get to anyone. Debra thought they were friends. But Bailey hung out with Debra to piss off her dad.”

“I thought Bailey was close to her father.”

“No. She hated the old man.”

“Why?”

He rattled pocket change. “You’d have to ask her.”

“You never saw anything suspicious at the festival?”

He looked over his shoulder to the company’s front door. “I saw a lot of trouble that night. But I put it all in a report to the sheriff.”

“Taggart searched your truck?”

He shoved out a breath. “He didn’t find anything.”

“That piss you off?”

“I didn’t like it, but I knew he’d find nothing. Cops got to do what they got to do. Part of the job.”

“What about Colton?”

“Colton. He was charming. Fun.”

A car drove past, and the driver glanced in our direction. Kevin shifted, uncomfortable. “I drove Debra to the festival, saw her once at the stage, and then lost track of her. That’s all I have.”

“Why did you leave town for twenty years?”

“Hard living here after the festival. The festival was a raw wound for a lot of years.”

“And you came back when the coast was clear?”

His lips thinned. “Yep. This place is home.”

“What’s the deal with the barn on Miller Road?”

His jaw pulsed. “What do you want to know? It’s falling in on itself. Used to be part of a large farm.”

“You used to go there when you were younger?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just asking. Did you take Debra there when you dated?”

“Sure. We camped out there a couple of times. Why does that matter?”

“Was it searched when the women vanished?”

“I’m sure it was.” He shifted. “I hear the land has been purchased, and the barn is going to be torn down.”

“Who bought it?”

“I don’t know.” He took a step back.

“Seen Marsha Sullivan since you returned home?”

“No.”

I enjoyed watching the tension ripple through his body. “I like her. We had a nice conversation.”

“Okay. Great. If that’s all you got, I’m done. And going forward, leave me alone.”