Page 9 of What She Saw
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, imposingman, 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.
Chapter Three
CJ Taggart
Friday, May 20, 1994, 9:00 a.m.
9 Hours Until
Sheriff CJ Taggart was already pissed. And his day hadn’t started.
He backed his Crown Vic into his reserved spot at the Dawson sheriff’s office. He shoved the gear into park and shut off the engine. He didn’t like to start the day mad. And he’d thought leaving the marines and moving back east would solve that. It hadn’t.
He pushed out a breath, climbed from the car, and grabbed his hat and settled it on his flattop haircut. As he crossed the cracked asphalt, he fumbled with his keys and found the one that opened the station’s back door. The door open, he heard the slow, steady voice of Deputy Sean Duke, who worked the night shift. He’d been with the department for fifteen years and manned the phones and jail.
Taggart passed the framed photos of the five other men who’d served as Dawson’s sheriff. They all had a stern, rigid stance that reminded him of himself. Law enforcement attracted a personality type.
The dispatcher was trying to reason with a caller complaining about a noisy neighbor. Taggart didn’t need to hear the caller to know: loudmusic, partying, fast cars cutting doughnuts on a dirt road. Standard small-town stuff that he now wanted in his day.
The Mountain Music Festival loomed today. Despite assurances that this was a family-friendly event, the festival had been tossing out warning signs. The festival proposal had been thin on details. As soon as he’d read it, Taggart had called Mayor Briggs and talked about pulling the plug on the event.
Briggs shot down Taggart’s objections over the poor security, limited venue entries and exits, and minimal toilet facilities. If his worries played out, too many people were going to descend onto Dawson tonight.
He’d thought civilian life would be different from the military. He’d thought guys who’d never worn a uniform would be more adept at making decisions. He’d assumed that outside of the military, civilians made more logical choices. But guys like Mayor Briggs proved him wrong. Incompetent higher-ups existed in all walks of life.
