Chapter Twenty Sloane
Chapter Twenty
Sloane
Amy Wheeler lived an hour west, near Staunton.
When Taggart had found her in the tent, she’d been disoriented.
He’d assumed she was high, but she’d been suffering from a concussion.
Later, he’d interviewed her in the hospital.
But she didn’t remember what happened or how she’d ended up with the Depot T-shirt that was later confirmed to have been Patty’s.
Taggart had questioned Amy again about the T-shirt and the man who’d tried to hurt her. She’d never been able to provide specifics. And as other leads had rolled into his office, Amy had been forgotten. No one had interviewed her since.
I hoped thirty-one years had helped Amy’s memory.
I pulled up in front of the garden shop located on a rural route. The entrance had a fantasy kind of vibe, with vines snaking over a tall arch. I drove past water features and potted trees toward the large greenhouse.
Out of the car, I surveyed the lush greenery. I liked plants. But they didn’t like me. They tended to die when they came into my orbit. I could almost hear the last plant I’d owned screaming for help as I carried it out of the plant shop.
Shifting my sunglasses on top of my head, I crossed the graveled lot into the greenhouse.
The woman behind the register had long gray hair tied back with a red bandanna.
She wore overalls and a black T-shirt covered in small words.
I thought I made out the word Peace on one of the sleeves.
The last thirty-one years hadn’t been so hard on Amy that I couldn’t recognize her.
I picked up a plant and studied its delicate flowers. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’m not buying you.”
I moved toward the register. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
The woman looked up and smiled. “Sure.”
“You look like you know plants.”
“I own the place.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years.”
“How delicate is this plant?” I set the plastic pot on the counter.
“Very. It requires watering and the right amount of sun.”
“So, if I ignore it for a week or two . . . ?”
She laughed. “It’ll die.”
I held up my thumbs. “They’re both brown.”
“We do have cactus plants, but they still need care.”
“Do they need water?”
“Sometimes. How about a dream catcher? We have several dozen to choose from.”
“Perfect.”
She came around the counter. “Let me show you.”
I followed her down a narrow path lined with lush, thick foliage. Amy had been an addict and covered in bruises when she’d attended the music festival with Billy. But she’d turned it around.
She stopped at a collection of circular dream catchers hanging from a vine-wrapped pergola. “They’re all made locally. I know the artist, and she has good energy.”
I grabbed the catcher closest to me. “I like this one.”
“We have more if you want to keep looking.”
“No. This one will do the trick.”
“Okay. That was easy. Let me ring you up.”
I followed Amy into the greenhouse and to the register. She rang up the purchase, and I dug my credit card out of my wallet. Fingers crossed it wasn’t maxed out. A bad credit card didn’t help build relationships. The transaction went through.
“Would you like a bag?” Amy asked.
“No. I’ll take it as is.”
“Great.”
When I approached a person cold, it was always tricky. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Sure.”
I ran my finger along the thin rope wrapped around the dream catcher. “This one is about the Mountain Music Festival.”
Her shoulders pulled back. “That happened thirty-one years ago.”
“I know. It hasn’t gotten much attention in the last decade.”
“Why are you asking?”
“My mother was one of the women who vanished. Her name was Patty. She was selling hamburgers that night. Taggart found you wearing her Depot T-shirt.”
Amy was silent for a moment. “I remember her at the burger tent. I didn’t have enough money for a burger, and she gave me one anyway. She was a kind soul.”
“How did you end up with a Depot T-shirt?”
“I found it in the woods on a tree. I never saw her in the woods.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you asking about this now?”
“I’m a writer. I’m working on a piece about the festival. And I want to learn all I can about Patty and the other victims. I keep thinking their stories have the clues that’ll help me find their bodies.”
“What clues?”
“I’m not sure. But I always know it when I see them.”
A slight breeze teased the edges of her gray hair. “You’re here because of a T-shirt.”
“Sheriff Taggart found you in one of the tents, covered in bruises. Some were old but many were fresh. Taggart assumed Billy beat you up.”
“I remember Sheriff Taggart. He reminded me of a boxer. All muscle and frowns. But he was kind when he spoke to me.”
“Billy beat you up that night?”
She slid her hands into the back pockets of her overalls.
“Billy is gone. There’s no one else to protect.”
“I was confused in those days. Those were several lost years.”
“Billy told Taggart that someone from the woods grabbed you. He said they beat you up that night. That he saved you.”
A breath filled her lungs and then trickled over her lips. “Someone did grab me that night.”
“That was true?”
“Yes. Taggart asked me about it, though I didn’t have answers for him.
But whatever happened that night is embedded in my bones and psyche.
It was one of the reasons I had trouble getting sober.
But I did. After a few years of sobriety, I reached out to a counselor.
” She glanced at the clock as if reminding herself how long she’d been sober. “Do you want some tea?”
I wasn’t going to push her. “Yeah, sure.”
“I have a pot in my little office. I’d feel better not having this conversation out here.”
“Right.” I followed her, then remembered the dream catcher and reached back and grabbed it.
She vanished around a curtain. I followed, my dream catcher’s feathers and beaded cords bouncing around. She filled an electric kettle and then filled two tea strainers with loose leaves.
The space was six by six, and the walls were covered in botanical posters featuring ivy, lemons, wildflowers, and fruit trees. There were seven dream catchers on the walls and dozens of small ailing plants around the room.
“Looks like a plant clinic,” I said.
“It is. You’d be surprised how many people return with half-dead plants, wanting their money returned. I always take the plants back and tell them if I can’t revive it in thirty days, I’ll issue a refund.” She poured boiling water into two cups that read “Amy’s Garden.”
“A second chance, right?”
“We all deserve one.”
I didn’t like small talk, but I didn’t mind trying for Amy’s sake. “Anyone take you up on the offer?”
“A few come back. When they see that the plant is thriving, they leave.”
“No one wants their plant back?”
“One. I refused.” She handed me my cup.
I blew the steam off the top. It smelled like grass. I sipped. It tasted like lawn clippings. “Delicious.”
She cradled the hot mug in her hands and held it close to her chest. “In my counseling sessions, I went back to that night.”
Memories of traumatic events could be tricky. Old facts sometimes tangled and stuck to other experiences that had nothing to do with the original trauma. “What did you remember?”
She sipped and then set her mug down. “I had to pee. And the line to the latrine was fifty people deep. I decided the woods was the best way to go.”
“Where was Billy?”
“In the tent. Doing coke.”
“Okay.”
“I went to the woods and felt uneasy. I should’ve left then, but my bladder was about to burst.”
Living on the road had put me in uncomfortable circumstances out of necessity. I’d learned to listen to feelings like that. Though the handgun I carried wasn’t as effective if I was ambushed. “What happened?”
“I’d finished my business and was zipping up my pants when I heard a girl scream.”
“You heard a girl scream? Did you ever tell Taggart this?”
“By the time I’d been in counseling and remembered, Taggart was dead. And no one in Dawson wanted to hear my stories about the Mountain Music Festival.”
“Everyone still wants to forget.”
She flexed her fingers. “I ran toward the girl’s screams. I don’t know what I thought I’d do if I found her, but I ran toward it.
” She traced a callus on her palm. “When I moved past the trees into a small clearing, there was no girl. But someone else found me. Whoever it was came up behind me and wrapped a rope around my waist. I grabbed the rope, but they jerked hard and shoved me forward. I fell face-first on the ground. He straddled me.”
“You said he. A man?”
“I don’t know. Whoever slammed my face against the ground. It felt like my brains were rattling in my skull.”
That attack would have accounted for some of her fresh bruises but not her older ones. “Did this person say anything?”
“No.”
“And Billy?”
“I don’t know where Billy came from, but he pulled the person off me. My attacker took off and vanished into the woods. Billy helped me up, but he was pissed. He’d told me I’d been stupid.”
“You had to pee. You tried to save a girl. That’s not stupid.”
Her gaze grew distant before it refocused on me. “My shirt was ripped, and Billy saw the T-shirt. He scooped it up and told me to put it on. He took me back to the tent and gave me a joint.”
“Did Billy say anything about your attacker?”
“If he did, I don’t remember.”
“How long were you in the tent when Paxton found you?”
“I don’t know. The sun was up. When I was in the woods, it was dark.”
“What’s the last song you remembered hearing from the stage?”
“The Blind Eagles played ‘Free Bird.’”
“They were on the stage between three and four.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve lived with this story for a while. I know the facts better than anyone.”
“My name was never in the paper. How did you know about me?”
“Taggart mentioned you in his police reports. He left his files to me.”
“Why?”
“He knew I write about crime. Knew I was Patty’s kid. Maybe he thought I could wrap up the loose ends.”
“I’ve thought about that scream a lot over the years. I think that’s why I collect the dream catchers. I hear her at night sometimes. I wonder, if I’d been faster or more careful, I could’ve saved us both.”
“You can’t play that game.”
“Easier said.”
“How do you know she was in trouble?”
“The scream.”
“Did it sound like a woman?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a theory Colton had help. Everyone assumed a man. Maybe your screamer wasn’t a girl in need. Maybe she screamed to lure you deeper into the woods to isolate you.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Four women just vanish. No struggles. No calls for help. I’m convinced someone else lured these women away.” I had no facts to back it up, but it explained so much.
“I never thought about it like that.”
“Think about it. You never found her, right?”
“I thought I ran in the wrong direction.”
“Or maybe it was a recording.” Colton had had all kinds of access to audio equipment.
“Up in those mountains in the rain?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Women are capable of violence.”
“That puts a different spin on it all.”
“Did you notice anything about the person who grabbed you?”
“I felt a ring scratch my cheek.”
“Right or left hand?”
“The scratch was on my left cheek.”
“The ring would’ve been on a left hand. Anything else about the ring?”
“The edges weren’t smooth. Not jagged but rough.”
“I’ve dozens of pictures featuring Colton. He wore a signet ring on his left hand.”
“Taggart caught the killer, right?” Amy said.
“Maybe. Or your attacker was a random creep who didn’t have anything to do with the case.”
“Do you believe that?” Amy asked.
I considered the question. The tents and woods were on the west side of the venue. I’d stared at it from the farmhouse window. “I don’t know.”