What She Saw - 35

CJ Taggart

10 Days After

Following the press conference, the office was inundated with calls. Taggart recruited a half dozen volunteers to operate the phones so Brenda could do her job as a dispatcher. The office received at least thirty calls a day. A good portion were either crackpots, attention seekers, or the lonely. He’d known when he held the press conference the flood gates would open. But in the chaos, he had the chance for a lead that would help him find these women.

A knock on his door caused him to look up from his case notes. Brenda stood in his doorway. “I have another guy ready to file a missing person report.”

There had been four additional missing person reports in the last twenty-four hours. Paxton had interviewed all the family members and located the four additional missing women. In each case, there’d been no foul play. Finding these women gave him hope the others would appear.

“Who do we have?” Taggart asked.

“His name is Brian Fletcher. He said his daughter Tristan was at the concert, and he’s not seen her since the festival.”

Taggart pulled in a slow, steady breath. “Okay. Show him in.” He rose and straightened his tie. The man who appeared at his door was tall, lean, and fit. He had thick brown hair and faint lines feathering from his eyes.

Taggart came around his desk and extended his hand. Fletcher’s grip was firm, but his gaze darted down and then back up. Fletcher looked like the kind of guy who didn’t like to make waves.

“Mr. Fletcher? You’re here about your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Have a seat, and I can get the details from you.” He motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk. Both men sat. “Do you have a picture of your daughter?”

“I do.” His hand shook as he removed a photograph from his front coat pocket.

Taggart studied the image. This girl had a sweet smile and bright, expressive eyes. The Tristan he’d seen at the festival was seductive and edgy. “I remember Tristan from the concert. She’s a dancer.”

“That’s right. She’s a great kid. Loves to dance. Loves music.”

His impression of her had not been as positive. “And she went to the music festival?”

“I think now that she did.”

“Think?”

“She wanted to go, but I said no. So she went to stay at her friend’s lake house.”

“But she didn’t go to the lake house.”

“No. My youngest daughter, Lannie, knew Tristan was going to the concert, but she didn’t tell me or her mother. We only just found out that Tristan wasn’t at the lake.”

Taggart remained silent. Young girls and boys made dumb decisions. He’d seen his share in the military. “When did Lannie tell you the truth?”

“After your press conference. She called Tristan’s friend and discovered Tristan never made it back to the lake house. My youngest admitted that Tristan had gone to the concert.”

“How did Tristan get to the concert?”

“She caught a ride with her friend Callie. The girls separated at the front gate.”

“And the concert was overcrowded. Rain. Mud. They lost track of each other.”

“That’s what Callie said.”

Taggart ran through the standard questions: Did Tristan have a boyfriend? Had anyone been hassling her? Any threats or anything out of the ordinary? All no.

He wrote down a few of his impressions: Nervous. Fidgety. Tense. “There’s no other place she could have gone?”

Frown lines furrowed Fletcher’s brow. “I’ve called all her friends.”

“And everything’s all right in the home?”

Fletcher’s eyes hardened. “We have challenges, but we’re a happy family. My wife has terminal cancer. And Tristan would not run off knowing this.”

“But Tristan defied you and went to the concert.”

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

“I have to ask all the tough questions, Mr. Fletcher.”

“She’s a good kid. I know she snuck off to the concert, but that’s not like her.”

Fletcher loved his daughter but, like many parents, didn’t see the truth. “Okay. Let’s start from the top, and I’ll fill out the missing person report.”

“Is anyone out there searching?”

“We have volunteers walking the woods around the concert site. We’re doing all we can now.”

“How can so many girls go missing?” he asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Phones rang in the background. “All those phones you hear? They’re tips called into the office.”

Fletcher’s brow knotted. “Have you found the bodies?”

“Not yet. But we’re doing everything we can.” Taggart had learned a long time ago not to make promises he couldn’t keep.

Everything we can. Everything. Taggart saw a lot of activity, but no results. They were checking boxes. But was that everything?

His own words rattled in his head as he drove to Colton’s house. He shut off his lights as he parked across the street. Colton’s house was dark, and there was no sign of life.

The concert promoter had screwed up so much, but he’d had the site cleaned. Every bottle, sheet of paper, or discarded piece of clothing was gone.

The spring chill had given way to summer heat in a matter of days. The air in the car grew stuffy, so he rolled down a window. Crickets sang their night song.

He’d been on his share of stakeouts over his military career. He’d never liked sitting and waiting, but he’d learned sometimes patience paid off.

An hour later, headlights emerged in the distance. They grew closer, sweeping the road and slowing. Colton’s Jeep pulled into the driveway.

He was alone and carrying a brown bag twisted around a bottle. At the front door, he swayed as he fumbled with keys. After two attempts, the key slid into the lock. The door swung open. He stumbled inside. Lights clicked on.

Seconds later he passed the front window and stopped. He picked up his phone. He gripped the receiver and was soon shouting. The call lasted for over five minutes before he slammed the phone down. He paced the room and then picked up the phone, ripped the cord from the wall, and threw the phone against the wall.

Taggart sat up in his seat. What had pissed Colton off? He must’ve known by now about the press conference. The media was now paying more attention to the festival. Like sharks, they smelled blood and were ready to paint Colton’s day of peace and love in crimson.

Fifteen minutes later, Colton was showered and had changed into fresh clothes. He left the house and drove off in his car.

Taggart switched on his engine. He kept the headlights off as he followed Colton. He maintained a healthy distance and watched as Colton’s Jeep took a right at Route 158. The road led away from town toward the concert venue.

Following this late at night was difficult. He had to keep his distance, so Colton wasn’t tipped off. The man was edgy, angry, and if he was still buzzed, he could be paranoid.

Colton’s next left suggested he was driving to the concert site, so Taggart took a right. He stopped, turned his car around and, after waiting a beat, pulled back on the route to the concert site.

He drove past the entrance and took a right onto the fire access road. His lights off, he drove up the rutted road. His vehicle rocked when the front tire hit a deep hole. Cursing, he righted the car and stopped just short of the mountaintop. He shut off the car and walked through the woods toward the back entrance to the concert site.

As he moved through the woods, headlights washed over the field. The Jeep stopped, and the lights glared ahead into the empty, barren field now stripped of vegetation. Colton got out of his Jeep. He clicked on a flashlight and crossed to where the stage had been. He walked back and forth, flashing his light over the ground. His pace grew faster as he retraced his steps again. He stopped, knelt, and picked up a plastic grocery bag bulging with something.

He jogged back to his Jeep, tossed the bag inside, and nosed the car back toward the exit. Within minutes, the lights of his Jeep vanished down the hill.

Taggart walked through the woods to the spot where Colton had found his bag. What the hell had he taken? Who had called him?