What She Saw, page 11
I edged a little closer. “Do you remember Laurie Carr?”
“Blue Guitar. Sweet kid. I told her to be careful. We sang a duet onstage.”
“How did you end up driving her to the venue?”
“She was walking along the side of a dirt road with her blue guitar case slung over her shoulder. The sunlight was hitting her blond hair and her tanned body. I offered her a ride, and she was glad to have it. She told me right off she wanted on the stage.”
“And you helped her get her shot.”
“When I saw her serving burgers, I told her to meet me at the stage about eleven. Right on the dot, she was there, so I waved her onstage. I wasn’t sure how it would go, but I had to give the kid her due. She delivered. I got chills.”
“I was listening to the tape tonight. She was good.”
“She had talent, looks, and the ‘it’ factor.”
“You had some strong vocal chops yourself.”
“I had moves back in the day.”
It was hard to accept that Laurie was dead when her voice hit and held such high notes like a pro. “No one saw her vanish.”
“The world eats up good people all the time,” he said. “If she’d lived, she’d have had a hard road ahead of her. The music industry destroys girls like her.”
“She deserved the chance.”
“I didn’t say she didn’t. Look at me. I was an experienced singer and guitar player, and it ate me up and spit me out.”
“How?”
“Signed my rights away. I was so hungry for the short-term gain I didn’t see the future. I never would’ve saw myself here now.”
His career path didn’t interest me, but for the sake of bonding, I asked, “So why keep at it?”
“It’s in the blood. Won’t let me go.”
“The café looks packed. You must still have some moves.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t good. Had the business sense of a rock.”
“After Laurie’s set, it was the end of the Terrible Tuesdays’ performance, right?”
“Yep.”
“She must have been jazzed and not ready to leave.”
“The bug bit her good. Euphoria is high when a set goes well. It was the band’s ninth show in eight days, but they were juiced. I had to hustle to keep up.”
“What did you and the guys do after your set?”
“Broke down the equipment with the road crew and loaded up the van. Laurie stuck around to help.”
“And after?”
“I saw her walk off toward the toilets by the woods.”
“And then what?”
“I would’ve followed her if I could. She was amazing.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I had to pack up so the next band could get onstage. I didn’t think about her for several more hours. And by then she was gone.”
“But you stayed at the festival?”
“Everyone could see getting out was going to be tough. The main and fire roads, even to foot traffic, approached gridlock. We found a small clearing near the farmhouse. Most guys in the bands pitched tents and spent the rest of the night partying. I hoped Laurie would find us, but she didn’t.”
“This was about one a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“Was it raining then?”
“It had been most of the evening.”
The farmhouse fields were ringed with woods. If a young woman had gotten too close to the trees, someone could have lured her into those woods. Darkness and rain would’ve made it even harder to find them. Later Taggart and others searched those woods. They’d found Laurie’s blue guitar case.
“Anyone else show interest in Laurie?”
“We all thought she was hot. Any one of us would’ve tapped that. That’s half the reason most of those guys were in the band. If she’d offered, I’d have gone for it.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “I have a picture of Laurie and me taken backstage after our set.”
“Do you still have it?”
He reached in his wallet and removed a rumpled picture. He handed it to me.
I studied the smiling faces, barely recognizing Joe. Laurie was radiant. “A great moment. Can I take a picture of this?”
“Keep it. I’ve carried it long enough.”
“Why did you?”
“Someone needed to remember her. Now you can.”
I understood the obsession to remember. “You’re performing so close to the concert location. Do you ever go back to the festival site?”
“I went back about fifteen years ago. I tried to remember the large crowds and the cheers. But you can’t catch lightning in a bottle.”
“Any theories about the whereabouts of the victims?”
“A million places to hide a body in this area. And once these mountains swallow you up, it’s next to impossible to find you.”
“The mountain didn’t swallow them up. A human disposed of them.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you think about Rafe Colton?”
“Smooth as silk,” he said. “I met a lot of guys like him in the industry, but he was one of the best salesmen I ever met. He believed his bullshit.”
“The commonwealth’s attorney got his murder conviction against Colton without the bodies. No one in court stepped up and said they saw Colton grabbing one of the women, driving a truck off-site, or digging a hole. That led some to believe he was working with someone else. Someone who helped him hide the bodies.”
“I heard that.”
“Any theories?”
“He could convince anyone to do anything. He had a million-dollar smile. His festivals had their own tribe of groupies.”
“Any one of his followers stand out?”
“Why don’t you talk to Rafe Colton? I hear he’s easy to find.”
“He’s insisted he’s innocent for thirty-one years. And without the bodies, he’ll make parole next month.”
“Like I said, he can make anyone believe anything.” His tone was filled with bitterness.
“Okay, thanks, Joe.”
Smoke circled around his head. “You going to see him?”
“Eventually.”
“And why are you so special? Why will he talk to you?”
“Men like Colton hate to be ignored. And I can be entertaining when I try.”
His lips twisted with a crooked smile. “And you think your showing up is fun for him?”
“I do.”
“And he’ll string you along with empty phrases and leads, like the music executives did with me.”
“That’s a risk. But I’m betting his upcoming parole hearing will put him on edge. Freedom is almost in his grasp, and he’s getting cocky. Pride is steps ahead of a fall, right?”
He shook his head. “He was a slippery son of a bitch.”
“Any angle I can use with him?”
“He still owes me five hundred dollars for that concert. Stiffed everybody who worked that event.” A long ash dangled from the edge of his cigarette. “Rafe Colton was all talk. And that couldn’t have changed.”
“Good to know, Joe. Thanks for talking to me.”
“For what it’s worth, I hope you find them. Laurie deserved better.”
“Thanks.” I walked down the back alley, bypassing the crowded bar. I wasn’t in the mood for people or loud noises. Already I craved the quiet darkness that surrounded Taggart’s cabin.
As I moved toward my car, I spotted Grant McKenna walking toward me. “The show is inside, not in the alley,” he said.
“I went inside. Joe Keller was out back taking a smoke break.”
“And?”
“He was happy to talk. But I still have a lot of random pieces, and the full picture escapes me.” I handed him the old photo of Joe and Laurie.
He studied it, shaking his head, before he handed it back to me. “Did you dig up any leads on possible accomplices for Colton? Taggart didn’t spend much time on the theory after Colton’s arrest.”
“I’ve looked. There were plenty who loved and followed Colton like a religious leader,” I said.
“The concert music was loud, and the sound would’ve given him cover to subdue and kill the women.”
“But no one heard or saw anything. Feels like a stretch. Unless another person lured them to a secluded location.”
The shadows deepened beneath his unshaven jaw. “Makes sense. But what happened to the bodies? The entire concert area was searched multiple times.”
“Maybe that same person loaded the bodies into a truck or trailer and drove it off the property after the concert ended.”
A restless pause, saturated with curiosity, settled between us. “How is it up at Taggart’s cabin?”
“Quiet. The man lived like a monk.”
“Cell service is for shit up there.”
“You’ve been there before?”
“Once or twice.”
I could imagine him in the living room, small kitchen, or bedroom. The area suited him. “Are you going to renovate the farmhouse?” I asked.
“Or tear it down. I’m more interested in the land.”
“It’s a couple of hundred acres, right?”
“Give or take.”
What we’d shared six weeks ago added some weight to the space around us. We’d had sex, but we weren’t lovers or friends. As tempting as it was to invite him back to the cabin, I didn’t need the distraction. “Stay out of trouble.”
“Watch the trespassing.” He paused. “I’ll be in the motel in Dawson.”
“Good to know.”
I slid behind the wheel. As I drove off, it wasn’t quite 11:00 p.m. It felt too early to go home. I wasn’t into the bar crowds these days, but I wasn’t ready to self-isolate at the cabin. I’d not yet seen the inside of the Nelson farmhouse. And I wanted to.
Chapter Fifteen
Sloane
Saturday, August 16, 2025, 11:00 p.m.
I retraced my journey back to the farmhouse. I was careful not to take the turnoff toward the Nelson property, just in case Grant was tailing me. I drove an additional two miles down the road, and when I was sure no one was behind me, I made a U-turn. As I approached the farm entrance, I cut my headlights. Moonlight dripped on the driveway as I drove toward the house.
I parked off to the side under the drooping branches of an overgrown oak tree. I reached in my glove box past the gun for a small lockpicking kit I always carried.
Out of the car, I didn’t approach the front door but walked through thick brush and tall grass ringing the house. Sliding on the gloves, I brushed my hips past grass and shrubs as I walked. Thorns grabbed at the leather of my gloves.
Up the back stairs, I tugged on a metal screened door and braced it with my backside. I pulled out my lockpick. The lock was old and rusted, and it took less than thirty seconds to open it. I tucked the picks back in the case. I’d learned long ago to put my equipment back in place, so I didn’t lose track of anything. Once, an owner had startled me. I’d dropped my pick. I’d been forced to leave it behind as I dashed out the back door as the woman shouted at me.
Colton had not chosen this farm site randomly. He’d built a relationship with the owner, Harriet Nelson, over several years. She’d say later how charming he was, how much he reminded her of her grandson, and how creative his ideas were. I wasn’t sure if that grandson was Grant or someone else. Grant always struck me as the straight-and-narrow kind of guy. He was the type who worked two jobs to put himself through college and helped his mother on weekends.
When Colton had asked about using Mrs. Nelson’s farmland, she’d agreed. He’d promised to leave the land as he found it, and if she thought he was like Grant, she assumed he would. But Colton had left her with devastation and notoriety that followed her for years.
The kitchen was frozen in time. The yellow plaid wallpaper, a small square Frigidaire, a propane stove, and a cracked tan linoleum floor dated to the ’60s. The counters had once been wiped clean but now were covered in a thick coat of dust. I opened several cabinets. They were empty except for mouse droppings.
On the refrigerator was a cherry-shaped magnet holding up a faded picture. The edges curled in slightly. The image featured five smiling boys. All were in their early to mid teens. Their bodies were tanned, and their toned arms wrapped around one another, forming a chain. This was what a normal kid in an ordinary childhood looked like.
The shot had been taken in the field outside. And if I wasn’t mistaken, Grant was the tallest boy in the center. He must have been about fourteen or fifteen. I removed the picture, sticky and brittle, and glanced at the back. The faded date read “May 1994.” Grant had been at the farm shortly before the festival. I snapped an image of the picture and replaced it.
I moved into the living room. The two couches, coffee table, and lamps were covered in plastic. A mirror on a wall caught my reflection, and I realized how out of place I looked.
Up the small staircase, I stepped into the bedroom that faced the concert site. Mrs. Nelson had left her farm during the festival and gone to visit her sister. From this window, she would’ve had a clear view of a large toolshed as well as the entire venue. I tried to imagine the crowds crushing toward the stage as they danced, shouted, and sang.
Colton had insisted he had never returned to this house during the event. But the house or toolshed would have been good places to stash a body for a short time. There were also wells and ravines nearby, all perfect hiding spots for a dead body. Taggart and his volunteers had searched every inch of this farmland. No one found anything.
But I’d always believed the best answers were the simplest.
I moved to the bed and smoothed my hand over the white sheet covering the patchwork quilt. I sat. Springs groaned and squeaked.
My phone rang, cutting through the silence. I glanced at the display: Grant McKenna. I rose, angling my body away from the window.
“Grant,” I said.
“Making sure you made it home safe.”
“Why?”
“Those back roads can be dangerous.”
“I’m fine. Is that the reason you called?”
“You have a reputation for unconventional methods. Wondering what you’re up to.”
“Nothing exciting.”
“I doubt that.”
“Thanks for the checkup.” I hung up the phone and moved to the windows, peeking between the curtains. I could see my Jeep tucked in the shadows, but there was no sign of Grant.
A surge of excitement rushed my system. The possibility of discovery always made treks like these interesting. Instead of hurrying outside to my Jeep, I lingered by the window, waiting, watching.
As silence settled around me and the darkness calmed my heightened nerves, I grew bored. Down the stairs, I walked through the kitchen and left through the back door, taking the time to lock it. Inside my Jeep, I started the engine. I didn’t turn on the headlights until I reached the main road.
Chapter Sixteen
CJ Taggart
Saturday, May 21, 1994, 1:00 a.m.
7 Hours Into
The rain had stopped, and the air had warmed. The mud was thick, and most of the concertgoers were soaked to the bone. Drier air sent a sudden rush of warmth through the crowd. One of the last bands took the stage, and people who had been weary and worn down perked up. The first electric guitar chord telegraphed heavy metal. The lead singer’s deep, gravelly voice blended with pulsing guitar riffs that breathed life into the crowd.
Taggart spotted a man pulling a woman through the crowd. She tugged against his grip, digging her heels in as she tripped forward. Fatigue pulsed through Taggart’s body as he caught up to the couple. “What’s going on?”
The man pretended not to hear. The woman yanked against his grip.
“Let her go,” Taggart shouted.
The man’s jaw was set, but the tendons in his arm slackened. The woman slipped free, turned, and pushed through the crowd. The mass of humans swallowed her whole. Taggart motioned for the man to move to the edge of the crowd as the crush of bodies pressed against him. The man pivoted and melted into the crowd.
Taggart didn’t go after him. There’d been a thousand moments like this over the course of the night, and no doubt there were dozens of women he hadn’t saved. This entire event was a cluster, and the best he could do was save who he could as he counted the minutes to sunrise.
A long line stretched from the burger stand, and a few folks in line were shouting for service. He strode toward the tent and found no one behind the counter. Piles of burgers wrapped and ready to sell, and the griddle was still hot.
Buddy stood at the till, dishing out cash as another man shouted an order at him. He grabbed two burgers and tossed them on the table. There was no sign of Patty.
Taggart moved around the table past Buddy, searching for Patty. He half expected to see her lying on the ground from exhaustion. But she wasn’t in the tent.
He turned to Buddy, who was serving a young woman with damp dark hair and a soaked Grateful Dead T-shirt. “What happened? Where’s Patty?”
Buddy didn’t glance back. “She took a break an hour ago. I want to go look for her, but I can’t get away. The line is endless.”
“Which direction did she go?”
“Toward the toilets by the woods.”
“Can I get a burger?” another girl shouted.
He’d known Patty two weeks, but each time he’d seen her in the diner, she was hustling. Always had a smile on her face and seemed to take her responsibilities seriously.
“She sure isn’t going to get paid for the burgers I sold,” Buddy grumbled.
The revenue from this stand was money in her pocket. “I’ll go look for her.”
When the next person stepped up to the stand, Buddy held out a burger. “That would be great. I need her back here.”
Taggart glanced at the supply of burgers. They were dwindling. Buddy and Patty had planned for five hundred people at the festival. But there’d been at least two to three thousand. When the burgers were gone, the grumbling, cold, wet, tired people would grow more restless.
