Chapter Two Sloane #2
I parked in front of the grocery store, grabbed my backpack, and hurried inside.
I somehow picked the one cart with a bad wheel that turned backward as I moved up the center aisle.
Mac and cheese, cookies, soups, luncheon meats, coffee, and Stove Top stuffing were my go-to travel work foods.
I always argued that carbs fueled my brain when I was pulling a lot of facts together.
I grabbed a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts and a six-pack of soda.
At checkout, the clerk rang up my purchases. She was in her mid-fifties and had pulled her gray hair back in a ponytail, unable to contain all the flyaway hairs. “You have any coupons?”
“No coupons.”
She looked up at me. She’d pegged me as a tourist. I expected no privacy in a small town. If this lady didn’t ask questions about me, Bailey would.
“If you come back on Thursday, we have a five-percent discount.”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind.” I swiped my credit card and said a small prayer that I’d not hit the limit.
The transaction went through, and she handed me my receipt. “Where are you staying?”
“Up the road.”
“One of the old properties or a new one?”
“Old.” Before she could ask anything else, I grabbed my groceries and left the store. Maybe if I’d come during the high season, I’d have blended better, but the shoulder-week rates were hard to beat.
With Bailey’s directions pulled up on my phone, I drove west toward the mountains. I passed the convenience store and took the right up the mountain road. But I almost missed the blue Taggart Cabin sign. My tires kicked up dirt as I stopped and took a right onto a narrower road.
For another mile I wound up the road curving around the mountain. The pitch grew steeper, and in several spots the shoulder half slid off the mountain. It didn’t take many guesses to figure out why someone who had no interest in people chose this location. No one ever dropped by here by accident.
As my Jeep engine strained up the hill, the red light on my gas gauge caught my attention. Bailey had told me to tank up, but I’d calculated I had another fifty miles of driving. If I didn’t press too hard, I could still make it if I coasted downhill back toward town tomorrow.
I spotted the last blue arrow and took another left.
Minutes later, the narrow road opened to a small field with a log cabin in the center.
Gravel popped under my tires as I drew closer to the porch, which looked as if a strong wind would topple it.
I shut off the engine, knowing I didn’t have the gas to waste.
I reached into the back seat and grabbed my groceries. My stomach grumbled, and I fished out the box of Pop-Tarts and unwrapped a sleeve. I took a few bites, then climbed the three stairs to the porch.
I fumbled with the key and shoved it in the old lock. Door hinges groaned as I kicked open the door. The cabin was dark. The remaining daylight leaked through the thick canopy of trees and smudged windows. Bags slid to the floor, and I fumbled around the wall until I found the light switch.
The overhead bulbs didn’t give off much light. But it was enough to see a large stone fireplace, recliner, couch, TV/VCR, small round dining table, and galley kitchen beyond. Off to the left was a bedroom with a small double bed.
I set the groceries on the yellow countertop and finished off my Pop-Tart.
I drew in a breath as the sugar, fat, and chemicals hit my stomach and brain.
Whatever vague promises I’d made last week about clean eating were too much of a reach now.
As soon as I settled, I’d order eggs and whole wheat toast at the Depot. Protein was brain food, right?
The refrigerator was working and the interior clean.
I unloaded the carton of milk, deli meat, and bread before lining up the rest of the nonperishables on the counter.
As a kid, I’d liked the look of a full refrigerator.
The sight had eased the faint anxiety always in my belly.
A full fridge promised that tomorrow was going to be a good day.
I moved from lamp to lamp, turning all five on. The extra light didn’t chase away the gloom, but there were fewer shadows for the ghosts.
Outside, I opened the Jeep’s tailgate and unloaded a single box filled with color-coded files.
Most of my work was in the cloud. But I still made paper copies because when the dots didn’t connect, I pinned the papers on a wall, and the different perspective always revealed something new.
From the glove box, I retrieved my holstered handgun, an accessory I always traveled with.
I set the box near the recliner. The kitchen table wasn’t large, but I dragged it to the center of the room. It would be my makeshift desk.
My life had been crazy when I was a child, and it hadn’t changed much since. To combat the chaos, I kept my physical world very organized. Because I traveled constantly for work, my life often narrowed to my desk and laptop. My happy place was sharpened pencils and a sunrise screen saver.
I closed and locked the front door and sat in the recliner.
Silence settled over the room. City life was filled with everyday sounds, but up here, there was nothing except the rustle of leaves and the chirp of birds. It was Taggart’s decompression pod.
Sheriff Charles James “CJ” Taggart had taken the job as Dawson sheriff in the spring of 1994.
When he was hired, he’d recently left the marines, where he’d worked twenty-seven years as military police.
Civilian law enforcement would have been a natural choice.
He’d said in several interviews that he’d expected his duties would shift among speeding tickets, barking dogs, and the occasional drunk in town.
He’d been looking forward to a slower pace because the work he’d done on the bases included rapes, assaults, and murders. Drunk marines found trouble easily.
When he’d first accepted the job as sheriff, he’d rented a house in town near the police station. From what I’d read, he’d adapted with ease. Originally from the area, he loved rural, small-town living.
The town council had approved the Mountain Music Festival six weeks before he’d taken the job.
Mayor Mike Briggs, a tall, imposing man, made his money in construction and real estate.
He had painted the festival as a well-organized, family-friendly event during Taggart’s job interview.
The promoter, Rafe Colton, had a long, solid history of event planning.
Taggart had told the sheriff’s search committee that he’d looked forward to working the event.
And a week after he was on the job, shit went sideways.
And his life was fucked forever.