What She Saw - 42

Sloane

Susan was missing. The word came in from local police, who’d done a welfare call at her house. They’d pounded on her door, and when she didn’t answer, they entered the residence. She did have a second car. And it was gone.

Grant had confirmed my interview with Colton was still a go. And now Grant, Cody, and I were on the road.

The drive to the deepest edges of southwest Virginia was a good three hours. Time to organize my thoughts. I knew this case inside and out, but I would have to pick and choose my questions if I wanted any meaningful response from Colton.

“Do they know when she left?” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Cody was snoring.

“No.”

“Why take off?” I asked. “Did the medical examiner confirm Brian Fletcher’s time of death?”

“Based on Fletcher’s liver temperature, he died at approximately six a.m.”

“That leaves a gap between Susan vanishing and her father dying.”

He sipped his coffee. I looked out the window at the passing line of trees that were thinning as we hit this patch of I-81 south. “What are you saying?”

“All she needed was three hours to drive from Northern Virginia to Dawson.”

“Are you suggesting Susan shot her father? Christ, he hid her secret for thirty-one years.”

I shook my head. “And then he made a mistake, and I found her.”

“So she drives to Dawson and kills him? That’s a big leap.”

I sipped my coffee. I didn’t feel great. “Maybe.”

Grant watched me closely. “You are pale.”

“I get this way when I work a story. Mind stays sharp. Body falls apart.”

“You were working this case when we met at the conference. You drank coffee like it was water,” he said. “What’s changed?”

“I’ve lost my taste for it.” Never to this extent, but this case carried higher stakes. “I’m sure it’ll return.”

“When my ex-wife was pregnant with our son, she couldn’t drink coffee,” Grant said.

“Pregnant?” I’d have laughed if his comment didn’t strike a deep chord. “I don’t have a taste for coffee, but that doesn’t mean I’m pregnant.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m careful.” When we’d ended up in my hotel room, the hormones had been raging in us both. We’d not used protection the first time. Stupid, but I refused to worry about it.

He tightened his hand on the steering wheel. “Have you had a test?”

“No. Why would I?” I glanced at his coffee. My stomach tumbled. “I mean, it was only one time when we got a little careless.”

“Once is all it takes.”

I shook my head. I didn’t need this now.

“Sloane, it wouldn’t hurt to check.”

Pregnant. A baby. My eyes closed. Fear and worry rushed me, knives out and screaming. I wondered if this sense of disbelief was how Patty had felt. Sara said that Patty at eighteen had accepted me onto her ragtag team without question. She’d had no idea how to make it happen. But she had. And if it came to it, so would I.

Damn it. This was the last thing I’d expected today. “Let’s talk about this after the interview.”

“Is the baby mine?” he asked.

“You’re jumping ahead. There is no baby.”

He nodded. “But if I’m not wrong . . .”

“Is this conversation really necessary?”

“It is.” Dark glasses made it hard to read his expression as he stared ahead.

I plucked at a loose thread on my shirt hem. “Then you would be the daddy.”

He drew in a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Just like that? You look so calm.”

“I am. What about you?”

I sighed and glanced back out the window. I drew in several deep breaths. “Team Outcast might get a new member.”

“Okay.”

We didn’t talk anymore. And did my best to forget about what we’d just talked about.

Rafe Colton was not on death row. Because the bodies had not been found, their absence had planted enough doubt in the jury’s minds. They’d sentenced him to life in prison, but not to death. That made today a little easier. Visiting a lifer was difficult, but not impossible.

From the moment Rafe Colton had entered prison, he’d put his charm to good work. He’d been a model citizen for almost thirty-one years, and everyone from the guards to the warden liked him. They enjoyed his easy demeanor, his talent for defusing tense situations, and his ability to mix with any of the prison gangs. His Friday guitar concerts had always been a hit. A few times, visiting artists who’d at one point done prison time paired up with him, and they’d jammed for the prisoners. He was the cool everyman, just like he’d been on the outside. In a world of violent offenders, he’d used his charm to win hearts and minds and whitewash over dead women, rapes, and lies.

Grant and Cody dropped me off at the front door. Grant promised to wait. I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked him. As I walked toward the prison gates, I didn’t dare look back at him or Cody. This moment was as close to domesticated as I’d ever come. And it scared the shit out of me.

I went through the security routine, and forty-five minutes later, I sat at the small desk on the other side of a glass partition. The seats to my right and left were filled with two women. Each looked as if she was in her fifties or sixties. Gray hair, skin deeply lined, and resigned expressions testified to the weight of having an incarcerated loved one.

My father had been imprisoned in Tennessee since 1996. I had never asked Sara if I could visit him. I knew her well enough to realize she’d have said no. But for all the fights we’d had, that one never came up.

Once, I’d bribed a police clerk to let me read Larry’s criminal file. My bio dad had walked into a Chattanooga bar, gotten drunk, and then, with lightning speed, gutted three men with a hunting knife. The patrons had subdued him, the cops came, and his life on the outside ended.

In prison, Larry had a record of violence. He’d never get parole, and he’d never see the outside again. Suited me just fine. I’d never missed him, and the way I saw it, if Patty was dead, he had no right to walk around free after how he’d treated her.

Kids had teased me about not having parents. Their smug expressions and know-it-all tones had pissed me off. Why were they better than me because their mothers hadn’t gotten murdered, or their fathers hadn’t sliced three men to death?

When the playground turned ugly, I struck back. After I punched the first boy in first grade, I got suspended, but few tested me after that. And for those who did, I found more subtle forms of revenge. I had my faults, but I knew how to protect what was mine.

The door on the other side of the glass opened, and three prisoners were escorted to their seats. Two were hulking men in their thirties or forties. Their arms and necks were covered in tattoos. If anyone conjured an image of a lifer, it would be these two.

The third man was different. He was trim, fit, and his thick hair, now gray, skimmed his shoulders. The gray didn’t make him look old but cooler, hipper, in a Bon Jovi kind of way. If he were on the outside, the ladies would still be chasing him.

His gaze skimmed the interview tables and their occupants. Without hesitation, he moved toward the seat across from me. He sat, grinned, and studied me. He reached for the phone on his side of the glass. I did the same with mine.

“Sloane, I feel like I know you.” Colton’s voice rattled like smooth gravel.

Charm was one of the coping techniques I’d learned on the first-grade playground. And because I didn’t feel guilt, I could smile. Hours of practice had forged the perfect grin. “I could say the same.”

“I’ve read all your articles. You’re a terrific writer.”

“Thank you.”

“You do an excellent job of getting into the minds of killers.”

“The victims, too, I hope.”

“Of course. But all writers start with victims. They gloss over what drives the killers. And let’s face it, without the killer, there’s no story.”

I thought about Patty staring into Colton’s eyes as he drove into her while another person watched the scene. “They’re people, too. They have needs, wants, and desires.”

“Exactly.” He threaded his fingers, flicking a thick shock of gray hair off his forehead. “So, after all these years, you’re here. What took you so long?”

“I’m writing about the Mountain Music Festival.”

“Ah, the Festival Four. The Lost Ladies. A great deal has been written about that case. I’ve been interviewed by a few writers over the years.”

“The story comes and goes in popularity. People are fickle. They care about a case one day and not the next. I try not to chase the trends.”

“Most writers tried to link me to the victims. They were very predictable. Finding the smoking gun was their ticket to stardom.”

“What brought you to Dawson? What was it about that tiny town that was so appealing?”

He relaxed back in his seat. “Beautiful setting. The mountains are stunning. And it’s close to Roanoke, Charlottesville, Richmond, and DC. It made sense.”

“You organized other festivals before this one.”

“I did. They didn’t do as well. But I was learning.”

“You don’t know what you don’t know, right?”

“Exactly. A little like writing?”

I chuckled. “Read any of my early stuff, and you’ll see I had a few things to learn.”

We chatted about my career. He was interested in the Susie Malone case. He smiled when he mentioned the random fire in the storage unit that had exposed the pastor’s cache of trophies.

I shrugged, smiled.

He laughed. “You’re a pistol.”

“You had casual relationships with the Festival Four, right?”

He didn’t shut down but, instead, seemed ready to talk. “I didn’t really know these women.” He held up a hand. A handcuff rattled. “I’ll amend that. I did know your mother. I saw her a couple of times at the diner. And at the hamburger stand. She was always hustling. I admire that kind of work ethic. It’s rare. Especially today.”

“That’s not what you told Taggart.”

He looked amused. “Seems fitting I’d tell you more about Patty.”

Tell more or lie more. “You’d have to work hard to make it in the music industry.”

“You do. That business chews up and spits out people all the time.” He tapped his finger to the side of his head. “You also must keep a positive mindset. You let the negative thoughts in, and you’re cooked.”

“Everyone comments about how positive you are. You’re popular here.”

He raised a brow. “Not sure if that’s saying much.”

“It is. Negotiating all the groups is tricky, from what I hear.”

“People just want respect and attention.” His head cocked. “How do you think that pastor is faring?”

“I’m sure he’s made new friends.”

His laugh was so natural and easy. “I’ve always built alliances. Never burned a bridge.” His words were softened with a self-deprecating vibe.

“That’s what I’ve heard about Patty. Positive, I mean. I don’t remember her.”

“She always had a kind word and a smile on her face.” He leaned forward. “She wanted out of Dawson. Odds are against girls like her, but she was going places.”

Girls like her. Outcasts. The ones no one remembers. “Tell me about her.” My curiosity was genuine.

“You look so much like her. The dark hair. The shape of your face.” He leaned closer. “But your eyes are different.”

My eyes were the same color as Patty’s. A bright blue. Sara had said that enough times. But I understood what Colton was saying. When I looked at the few pictures of Patty, I could see they were always bursting with emotion. She wore her heart on her sleeve, Sara used to say. Patty could never hide her love, fear, or laughter.

Yeah, I had the same color eyes as my mother, but my eyes never reflected true feeling. I would stare in the mirror for hours, trying to mimic those emotions. I never managed it. My version of happy or sad always looked like a cheap knockoff.

“But you know that, don’t you?” he asked. “You know you’re different than her.” He sighed. “She never could have written the articles you have. The facts of those horrific cases would’ve crushed her. That’s the downside of feelings. They can cloud judgment and weigh you down.”

“You should be a writer. You’ve spun an interesting story around my eyes.”

He didn’t laugh this time. “It’s been a long time since I stared into the eyes of a young woman. Most of my visitors are grizzled cops. They try to hide their anger toward me, but they’ve never managed it. Like I said, feelings can be a burden.”

This intellectual exercise/discussion was not productive. “Tristan Fletcher’s father died early this morning.” Susan had not called me since I’d texted her. And she was missing. The local police had contacted Lannie, and they’d asked her about her father’s mental health. She had been crying by the time the call ended.

“Tristan.” No hints of remorse softened his sharp eyes. “The dancer.”

“You remember her?”

“I remember the stories I’ve read about her. She was one of the Festival Four. I read all I could about her and the others.” The cuffs on his wrists shifted as he flexed his fingers. “There wasn’t much to find about Patty. Your grandmother, Sara, gave a couple of interviews in the beginning.”

I steered us back to the topic at hand. “Are you going to ask how Brian Fletcher died?”

“Does it matter? Or do you want this to be a guessing game?” He grinned. “I’m open to anything.”

“No games today. His death looks like suicide, but the medical examiner has not issued a ruling.” Murder, suicide, undetermined. The undetermined always caught my attention. Shouldn’t the medical examiner know how someone died? Turned out, it wasn’t always so clear cut. Even natural deaths couldn’t always be nailed down.

“After all this time?” Colton said. “And he decides to end it. Seems a little foolish.” An amused brow lifted. “Say what you want about me, but I’m no quitter.”

“Cops are saying you put a lifetime of burdens on the man’s shoulders. They say, if Tristan was still in his life, he wouldn’t have shot himself.”

“Shot? He meant business, didn’t he? No false attempts to stir up drama from that old boy.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “Try living in a max prison for thirty years. There are lots of reasons to give up here. But I never once considered it. Not once. You can’t let those kernels of doubt in your mind, or they root and sprout.”

“Positivity, right?”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward a fraction. “I’m curious. Why did Brian buckle now? Was he sick?”

“There’s a new witness.”

“For the Festival Four case?” He looked expectant. “Was it your mother? Did she decide to reappear in her baby girl’s life?”

“Not Patty. She’s still MIA.”

“That’s too bad for you. Little girls need their moms.”

“This witness says you weren’t working alone. You had help.”

“I did?” He waggled his eyebrows. “All this time, and now you have evidence that I had an accomplice. Sounds compelling.”

“It makes sense, if you think about it.”

“How so?”

“You never told anyone where the bodies were buried because I don’t think you know where they are.”

“Really?”

“Without the bodies, you stayed off death row. You get lots of media and law enforcement visitors over the years hanging on your every word. You stay a little relevant. And I hear you’re a big deal here.”

He looked amused. “Is this the moment you ask me where they are?”

“You aren’t listening. I don’t think you know where they are. Whoever helped you knows, but that person never told you.”

He grinned. His teeth weren’t as white as in his old promo pictures, but the smile was still electric. “Then if I’m so worthless, why come here?”

“I wanted to meet you.”

“Why?”

“I’m using every new detail I’ve learned to find those bodies.”

He bunched up his lips as if stifling a laugh. “You’re so sure of yourself, Sloane. Positivity is good, even if it’s misguided.”

“I don’t do false bravado, Mr. Colton. This story isn’t my first rodeo.”

He shook his head. “You remind me of him.”

“Who?”

“Your daddy. You don’t look like him, but you’re as cold as he was. Guy had a lead heart.”

“Ah, dear old Dad. Serving life for a triple murder. When did you meet Larry?”

“I was at the diner. The festival was just an idea, and Patty was pregnant with you. Larry came in.”

His lawyers had told the story of Patty and Colton’s first meeting. According to the defense attorneys, Larry had been harassing Patty, but Colton had come to her aid.

If Patty had been the only missing woman, that tidbit would’ve helped Colton. But Patty wasn’t the lone victim. “Let me guess, he was mean to her.” I’d heard enough war stories from Sara.

“She wanted to make it work with him. But he was too nasty.”

I let him talk. I knew he was manipulating me, but I was curious about Larry. His DNA mattered more now.

“Did you know I helped Patty name you?”

I still didn’t respond.

“I grew up with a kid named Rick Sloane. I liked the guy. But he was a hell-raiser. Anyway, I must have been thinking about him when your mother was asking everyone in the diner for name suggestions. I tossed out Sloane. To my surprise, she grabbed it.”

“Good for her.”

“Rick died when we were about sixteen. He drove too fast and took too many chances. Took a curve too fast. Hit a tree and died on impact. There wasn’t much left of him to bury.”

“Burned to ashes.”

“That’s about right.”

The room was warm, but my skin was chilled. I searched for sadness or remorse but couldn’t find either. I wasn’t so different from my old man. Was I on track to screw up the next generation? Or was there enough of Patty in me to make a go with a kid?

“I watched Patty tell Larry she was pregnant with his child. He showed no feelings. He did not care. His callousness hurt her. She was crying and ran to the back room. He tried to follow her, but I stopped him.”

“Hero to the rescue.”

“I’m like you. I don’t like bullies, Sloane.”

Was the emphasis on my name supposed to be a bonding moment? “All the girls were similar. Young. Attractive. Vibrant. You have a type.”

“We all do.” He sat back. “Let me guess. You go for guys that are sensitive and in touch with their emotions. Makes you feel like you’ve got a connection. But after a few weeks, you realize that you’re incapable. So you lose interest and move on.”

The arrow hit the bull’s-eye. He was right. I reached for long-term implications but couldn’t grasp them.

The woman sitting next to me chuckled softly and raised her hands to the thick, smudged glass. The man on the other side did the same. Their grins were sloppy, but in this moment they felt genuine.

“I love all women,” he said.

“You love them so much you hide them and keep them all to yourself forever.”

“You just told me I don’t know where they are. Which is it?”

“The point is no one else can have them. And one day you believe you’ll stand over their remains.”

“You mean their naked, stripped bones? I imagine all the flesh is gone and the bones are discolored.”

The truth always leaked out. “When you drift off to sleep at night, do you dream about their bones?”

Dark eyes glistened with amusement. “Dancing like marionettes on a clear day in the mountains?”

“I bet it’s a rush. To know their flesh and bones are nearly dust.”

He chuckled. “You’re clever.”

“Not really. I tend to be very direct.”

“I’m sure you’ll have lots of good theories as you hammer out your word count.”

“I don’t want theories. I want the truth.”

Colton leaned forward, closed his eyes, and sniffed. “God, but I wish I could smell you. I love the scent of a woman. Especially after she’s had sex. When’s the last time you got some?”

Three decades hadn’t softened him. He was enjoying my attention. “Do you ever dream about Tristan Fletcher or Cassidy Rogers?”

His eyes brightened. “Cassidy is a bitch. Tristan is dead. I like my women willing and alive.”

“You liked Cassidy at one time?”

“Sure. She was hot.”

In the reflection on the glass barrier, I caught the deputy’s tight-lipped expression. I think the officer’s outrage was as much for himself as it was me. Not everyone was charmed by Rafe Colton.

“And you don’t dream about Tristan even though she’s dead.”

He grinned. “Give me a picture of her at the festival and I will.”

I reached in my bag and pulled out a picture of Tristan at the festival. “Like this?”

His eyes darkened and he leaned closer. “Yeah.”

“She had a thing for you, didn’t she?”

“A lot of chicks did.”

“But she hung out with you in the weeks leading up to the concert, didn’t she?”

“Sure. No law against that.”

I laid the picture face down in front of me. “I forgot to tell you. Tristan is still alive.” I smiled. “I’m not going to lie. Finding her alive and well threw me for a loop. Who would have thought that one of the Festival Four was alive?”

“Is that the best you got?”

“Tristan remembers the inside of a container and seeing the other bodies. She remembers the second person in the trailer.”

“Nice try, Sloane.”

I could not name the feeling unfurling inside me. It was acrid and angry. “She said all the girls around her were dead when she startled awake. I guess you didn’t strangle her well enough. Oh well. Either way, she’s going to testify that she saw the bodies.” I smiled. “No release for you.”

His grin vanished. But surprise darkened his gaze. “Good story.”

Did he not know about Tristan’s escape? “All these years the cops were searching for bones. And little did they know that a living witness was right under their noses.”

He shook his head. “For a girl who doesn’t like games, you’re good at it.”

The deputy’s slight surprise told me he was paying close attention. “I thought seeing you would be interesting. But I’m bored. I don’t need the bodies anymore. I have Tristan.”

His face hardened. “Why did you come here if you don’t need me?”

“To see your face when I told you.”

“If I did have a little helper, and I’m not saying I did, but if I did, doesn’t that worry you? That person has everything to lose and will be freaking out.”

He was right. Coming here could very well have put a target on my back.

“Then I’ll have to be extra careful, won’t I?”