Chapter Thirteen Sloane #2
“Did you see Bailey at the concert?”
“I saw her about nine. She was buying a burger.” The words sounded automatic, as if the repeated words were etched into his brain.
“How did she seem?”
“Distracted by the bands and the crowds.”
“When’s the last time you saw Bailey that night?”
“About midnight.”
“She said she left before then.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, she says a lot of things.”
“Thirty-one years ago, I bet Bailey was hot and got lots of attention.”
“She was smoking. And high-maintenance. Never worth the trouble, as far as I was concerned.”
High-strung and privileged. Not much had changed with Bailey. “Did you see Laurie at the tent?”
“Sure. For a little while. Then she left to go sing onstage.”
“That would’ve been about eleven p.m.?”
“That’s right.”
“How long did you work the tent with Patty?”
“A couple of hours. Then Patty said she needed a quick break, so I hung around a little longer.”
“Were you surprised Patty didn’t return to the tent?”
“Pissed mostly. By two a.m., I was tired and running out of food. So I shut the stand down and went looking for her. I thought I’d find her near the toilets or the woods getting high.”
“She used drugs?”
“Everyone that night was. I could see her needing a line or two to keep her energy up.”
“Did she use coke often?”
“No. But that night was hard. I figured she’d gotten a boost and lost track of time.”
Buddy had created this story about Patty to justify his inaction for over two hours. “When did you tell this story to Taggart?”
“After Sara called in her missing person report, he came looking for me.”
“Anyone else I should be talking to about Laurie?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I got nothing for you.”
Taggart had talked to all the band members during his investigation. They had all been busy getting on with the show. In my files and papers, I had a list of the band members and the road crews. No one had noticed her leaving after her set.
The forensic investigators found a set of partial prints on the guitar.
But none were linked to anyone in the national fingerprint database.
One partial print belonged to a Terrible Tuesdays band member.
But video footage showed him touching the guitar onstage as she sang.
Taggart had also run fingerprint searches against all the men associated with the case.
“There’s a theory that Rafe Colton was working with someone. What do you think?”
“I didn’t know the guy that well. When he brought his posters in the diner and was hanging them, we shot the shit. He was fun. Had great jokes. But I never saw him with anyone else.”
“Did he flirt with Bailey?”
“Sure. She loved it.”
Buddy returned to his kitchen. I took several bites of the burger. It tasted good, but my stomach quickly filled. I never could eat much when I had a problem I couldn’t solve.
The sun dipped toward the mountains. The light shone into the diner and reflected off mirrors behind the bar.
I had maybe two hours of sunlight left. The dark never scared me, and I wanted to see the site of the festival after the sun had set.
I wanted to see what the concertgoers had seen.
Yes, they’d had some light from the stages and the temporary lights near the first aid trailer, but large pockets of the field had been dark.
I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar and left.
In my car, I cranked the radio, and I drove the ten miles west toward the Nelson farm, the site of the festival.
The old woman who’d leased the land to the festival had died fifteen years ago.
Records showed that her grandson had inherited the house and the land.
He lived in Washington, DC, and didn’t visit the property often.
I spotted the black, rusted mailbox. Despite its dilapidated state, I recognized it from Taggart’s file, which the old sheriff had shipped to me days before he died.
Not hard to figure why he’d picked me to take up the mantle.
I’d sat on the files for a few years before I couldn’t ignore them any longer.
I’d spent the last two years embedding all the case details into my brain.
A set of headlights crested the hill ahead, so I slowed, wanting the driver to pass me. The driver didn’t pass by until I reached the mailbox. Cursing, I kept driving until I reached the top of the hill and turned my car around.
With no one on the road, I turned left into the long dirt driveway.
My headlights skimmed the bumpy road. Several times I had to veer hard to the right or left to avoid getting stuck in ruts carved in the dirt by gushes of rain.
Ahead I saw a large oak tree that had appeared in the crime scene photos.
Thirty-one years had added at least ten feet to the tree and gnarled and thickened the bark.
I knew the concert field was to the left. I pulled to the side of the road and shut off the car. Without the headlights, the night grew heavy. The quarter moon spit out a little light but not enough. I grabbed a flashlight from the car’s glove box.
In 1994, the field had been freshly cut and the hedges around it trimmed. Now the grass was as tall as my thighs and the hedge thick with thorns.
I walked along the shrubbery until I found a small opening. I slid through, irritated when thorns caught my jeans and scratched my skin. When I stumbled onto the field, I decided that if I returned, I’d bring bolt cutters and carve out an easy path.
The grass brushed my jeans as I moved toward the center. I’d stared at so many pictures of the festival. But thirty-one years of growth and change had thrown off what I expected to see. The trees at the edges of the field were taller, thicker. And the old split rail fence had collapsed.
My gaze trailed the fence north. I rotated until I faced the spot where the stage had been. I opened a playlist on my phone. I hit play, and Laurie’s grainy festival recording of “Better Be Good to Me” echoed in the night. Her voice had a rough edge as she emphasized the word meeee.
I shut off the flashlight and allowed the darkness to wrap around me.
Laurie’s voice faded in and out as she moved away from the microphone, which caught the crowd’s cheers.
A breeze brushed my face. I imagined I was Laurie, standing onstage, staring at the crowd that had swollen to over two thousand.
The rush of cheers and clapping must have reverberated in her chest. The high would have been incredible.
She’d known, known, singing was going to be her life’s work.
I understood that kind of wanting. I chased my articles with a similar intensity.
I turned toward the spot where Patty had sold her burgers.
I wondered if her soul and those of the others were chained to the land.
I’d seen a movie once about five airmen stranded in the African desert near the ruins of their downed plane.
They’d seemed normal. Regular guys frustrated by the crash and trying to get home.
And then one by one, the men had vanished.
It turned out, they’d died in the crash days earlier.
They’d been dead all along. But they couldn’t go to heaven or hell until their bones were found.
I reset the audio, closed my eyes, and listened as the gritty recording replayed. Were those four women swirling around me, begging me to see them? Find me! Find me!
“I’m doing my best, ladies. I’m doing my best.”
I shut off the recording, letting the silence give my mother space to talk to me, to whisper a secret in my ear. But I heard only the winds and the hoot of an owl in a distant tree.
Lowering to the ground, I lay back on the dry grass.
I shifted until the bristles flattened into a cushion.
The sky was clear and the stars bright as the last of the sun vanished behind the mountains.
My eyes drifted closed as I tried to be in my mother’s shoes.
How desperate had she been in those days?
Her boyfriend had ditched her, and though he worked in a garage near Dawson, he never gave her money or bothered to visit us.
When Larry was convicted of murder and sent to prison, my grandmother never took me to visit him.
And I was fine with that. He’d ignored Patty and me, so I wasn’t going out of my way to see him.
No one mentioned Larry unless I got into trouble in school.
When I landed in the principal’s office and my grandmother was called, she took her time getting to the school.
I guessed she thought making me stew was its own form of punishment.
When my grandmother finally picked me up from school, she said, “You look like her, but you’re not her. You’re him. He could never control himself, either.”
“I can control myself,” I said.
“You hit that boy today with that rock on purpose.”
Billy Johnson had been teasing another girl. So I’d slammed a rock into the center of his back, tipping him forward onto his knees. He’d screamed like I’d done something drastic, like cut off a finger or toe. “He was being mean to another kid. I told him to leave her alone, but he laughed.”
“His knees required fifteen stitches to close the gash, Sloane. You hurt him.”
I felt no shame or guilt. He was a bully and had gotten a taste of his own medicine. “He deserved it.”
My grandmother had sunk into a sullen silence.
When we’d arrived home, she’d cracked a beer and sat in front of the afternoon game shows.
She’d ignored me for the rest of the day.
I’d grabbed a bag of chips and a cola and gone to my room.
We were happiest when we weren’t pretending that we loved each other.
In the distance a car engine rumbled, and the headlights turned down the long driveway. I sat up and watched as a car pulled up behind mine. A large man got out, his flashlight cutting into the darkness.
I sat up, brushed the grass from my pants, and crossed the field to the hole in the hedge. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I didn’t need the flashlight to show the way as I walked toward the car’s burning headlights. Spatial awareness in the dark was kind of a superpower for me.
As the man circled my car, I approached him, knowing he’d not heard me. “Can I help you?”
His hand dropped to a holstered gun on his belt as he whirled and shined the light onto my face. I shielded my dilated eyes.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
Tension rippled through his wide shoulders. “Grant.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Better question for you.”
“I asked first,” I said.
“I own this property.”
The light made it harder to see his face. “Since when?”
“Since my grandmother died fifteen years ago.”
I knew he’d been a cop. I’d always sensed the easy smile hid a steel determination.
I’d witnessed his excellent memory in action.
But I really didn’t know Grant. And I sure didn’t work with anyone.
Irritation scratched under my skin. “The grandson in the DC area. Is that why you were so interested in this case?”
“The case has always been on my radar. And then I heard you were investigating the case now.”
“You could have told me,” I said.
He lowered his hand from the gun’s grip. “We’re still in the get-to-know-you stage. I don’t want to be a part of any article you write.”
“I’d have honored any off-the-record request.” I thought back to the hotel room, when he was dressing. Several times I’d sensed he wanted to say something. I could have pressed but didn’t care enough to ask.
His shrug and grin likely deflected most challenges. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
I wasn’t distracted. “Do you live in Dawson?”
“Considering it. I have contractors coming to look at the house next week. We’ll see how much renovations cost.”
“Small world.”
“It gets smaller every day.”
This was business for him, and I’d keep it that way. “How’s my appointment with Colton going?”
He stepped toward me. “Working on it.”
“Don’t give him the impression I’m anxious. I’m not. Never have been.”
“I won’t.” He studied me. “Why are you out here in the dark?”
“I was lying in the grass in the spot where my mother worked her hamburger stand. I was hoping her ghost would reach out and tell me what happened. But no luck.”
His brow furrowed with more curiosity than annoyance. “Do you often channel ghosts when you work on your articles?”
“I’ll listen to anyone who’ll give me an angle on the story.”
“You’ll have better luck with the living.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“There’s a café in Waynesboro,” Grant said.
“That’s about fifteen miles west of Dawson, right?”
“Yes. It’s not a big café, but they have live music every Saturday. Check out the singer. He’s pretty good.”
“The man got a name?”
“Joe Keller.”
“The guy who gave Laurie her ride into the festival and sang a duet with her.”
“The very one.”
“No one I’ve talked to in town mentioned he was playing.”
“Have you alienated the entire town yet?”
I had a reputation for upsetting apple carts. “Not everyone. But I’m working on it. Thanks for the lead, Grant. I appreciate it.”
“Do me a favor and limit your trespassing to the daylight. In the country, interlopers get shot.”
But I did my best work in the dark. Tonight was no exception. “I’ll keep that in mind.”