by Lauren Carr
Not knowing what to say, J.J. shrugged his shoulders.
“If I can be your friend, why can’t she?”
“She’s got one very serious flaw.” He spun the ATV around and prepared to head back to the main house.
“She’s not your mother,” Poppy said more to herself than to J.J., who was already speeding up the dirt road.
J.J. rode the ATV up the hill, past the outdoor arena, and toward the barn. As he reached the top of the hill, he slowed down and looked around the riding arena, which was near the tall pile of boulders. A shudder ran down his spine. He felt like he was being watched.
He had felt it before. After he’d found out that Noah had been living in the bar, he’d concluded that that explained the feeling. But Noah was staying with Tom.
That means that Noah can’t be the one watching me.
Suddenly, a loud screech filled the air as a hawk descended from a tree on the other side of the pasture and snatched up a small creature from the middle of the field.
Letting out the breath that he’d been holding in, J.J. gunned the ATV and rode down the hill and past the barn and then parked in front of the house. After turning off the engine, he climbed off of the ATV and was once again struck by the feeling that someone was watching him. He spun around to look toward the barn.
Then his gaze fell upon the eerie mound of boulders near the top of the hill. It reminded him of some sort of rocky mountain rising out of a desert out West.
Darkness had dropped over the farm to encase it in a warm cocoon of silence. J.J. found that he was still getting used to it. When he had lived in an apartment near campus and even on Rock Springs Boulevard in town, he had never experienced such quiet every evening.
But this was different.
It wasn’t just the quiet. It was the feeling of a pair of eyes studying his every move.
He felt goose bumps form on his arms. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Looking around, he tried to figure out where the perpetrator was watching him from.
His focus fell on the barn.
If it’s not Noah, who is it? Or am I just losing my mind from all of this wide-open space?
Strolling in the direction of the barn, he peered up at the window on the second level—the window in the loft—in search of any sign that someone besides Noah was hiding there. What was to say that there wasn’t another vagrant seeking a warm pile of hay to sleep in?
J.J. saw no signs of movement through the window. He yanked open the barn door and stepped inside, prepared for anything that might meet him on the other side of the door.
Instead of being met with an intruder with a weapon, J.J. was met with a high-pitched whinny. Startled, Comanche turned and ran off in the direction of the indoor riding arena, which was housed in a separate wing of the barn. One of the mares and her colt, who stayed close to her, scurried back into their stall.
Even though Daisy’s stall door was open, she and her colt remained inside it.
Captain Blackbeard let out a low-pitched noise that sounded like a complaint about being shut out of the party.
“What—” was all J.J. had time to say before Gulliver sauntered out of the feed room with a bag of oats hanging from his mouth. When he saw J.J., his jaw dropped open, and the bag of oats spilled all over the floor.
“Now you listen to me, young man. If you’re smart enough to make these messes, you’re smart enough to learn how to clean them up.”
Shocked by the tone of his voice, J.J. clasped his hand over his mouth. Damn! I sounded just like my father!
An hour later, J.J. dragged himself back to the main house. He was not only sticky with sweat but also covered in hay, oats, and horsehair.
Climbing the steps up to the front door, he was once again struck by the feeling that he was being watched.
Can’t be someone in the barn.
He had checked the loft, and there hadn’t been anyone in there. He tried to peer through the darkness to see where someone could have been watching him from. Shaking off the feeling, he went inside, and a haunting melody floated into the foyer.
J.J. stood still as he listened to the notes and tried to determine what piece of music he was hearing. During his years of playing various instruments, he had developed a skill that he prided himself on: if he didn’t recognize the name of a piece, he could usually determine the composer or the songwriter based on the style of music.
In this case, he didn’t recognize either.
After stepping into the living room, he stood in the doorway to watch Suellen play the grand piano. She was concentrating on the sheet music that she had spread out, and her fingers were dancing across the keyboard.
The music was frenzied and almost haunting.
As he watched Suellen and remembered that eventually, they would be separated, J.J. felt as if the dark music were wrapping itself around him and pulling him away from her. Knowing that there was nothing they could do to prevent the separation that would come, he focused on her as she sat there at the piano she loved, playing the music that she lived for. He was trying to make sure that he would remember her: the way she wore her hair, her dark eyes, her profile, her delicate features, the expression of her face, the grin on her lips while she played—her.
He had to memorize everything about her.
“J.J., what happened to you?”
He was suddenly aware that the music was over and that she was looking at him. Her eyes were wide with shock. It took him a full moment to realize that she was stunned by his appearance.
Catching his reflection in the antique mirror, he saw what a mess he was. His hair was disheveled, and there were even some straws of hay hanging from it. The front of his polo shirt was stuck to his chest, and his jeans were stuck to his lower half. “Long story. What was that song you were playing? I didn’t recognize it.”
Her face was glowing. “I found them.”
“Them?”
“Dylan’s songs.” She gathered up the sheet music. “They were under all of my other sheet music in the piano bench. They’re all here.”
“Dylan wrote that?” J.J. sat down next to her on the piano bench and looked at the sheet music.
“I had no idea he could write music,” she said. “He knew only six notes on the guitar.”
J.J. studied the notes on the sheet music. “But this wasn’t written for a guitar. This was written for a piano. Did Dylan know how to play piano?”
Suellen’s face went blank. “No.”
“Then he couldn’t have written this,” J.J. said.
“If he didn’t write it, who did?”
J.J. tucked the music back into the binder that Suellen had found it in. “He gave this to you so that you could write words for it—”
“Because the agent he’d gotten thought he could write songs,” Suellen said. “Or that’s what I assumed.”
“So he stole the music from someone or paid someone to write it for him—”
“Like a ghostwriter.”
“Maybe not a ghostwriter,” J.J. said. “Maybe he stole the music from whoever wrote it. You said he was becoming popular. Maybe some struggling songwriter sent him the music hoping that he could help him or record it for him. Instead, Dylan stole it.”
“But he had no lyrics, so he gave it to me.”
“And when the real songwriter realized that Dylan was going to Hollywood with his songs, he killed him.”
“But who?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Who in the band wrote music?”
“Keith, maybe,” she said. “He was a real virtuoso when it came to playing the bass.”
Looking up into J.J.’s eyes, she touched his face. He responded by grasping her hand and kissing her fingertips.
“What if Cameron doesn’t find the killer in time?” she asked. “I mean, even if she finds the killer
tomorrow, he or she won’t go to trial before I’m gone.”
“You’ve done enough, Suellen,” J.J. said. “If you hadn’t told Cameron about Dylan, we wouldn’t have gotten this far.”
“I need to do more,” she said. “J.J., can you help me?”
He softly kissed her. Pressing his forehead against hers, he said, “I’d do anything for you, Suellen.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Did your father ever invite you to an interrogation before?” Cameron asked J.J. while keeping one eye on her cruiser’s GPS.
Wendy Matthews’ husband, Silas Starling was the first one on their list of suspects to interview. He lived in the outskirts of Moon Township, the same area where the Reading Railroad Band had done its last concert and where Dylan Matthews had likely been murdered.
It had been the longest forty-minute drive that Cameron had ever taken. J.J. had changed his mind and insisted that he meet Cameron at their home in town instead of waiting for her to come out to the farm. He didn’t say why, but she knew what he was thinking. He did not want her near Noah.
The police detective looking for a killer had become the bad guy who was out to get the baby-faced farmhand. She found herself almost wishing that Noah was a cold-blooded killer—at least that way, J.J. would see that her actions were justified.
When she asked J.J. how his meeting with his first client had gone, she got a one-word response: “Fine.” That was the end of their conversation, at least until she turned down the dirt road that led to Silas Starling’s family home. He responded to her question about interrogations with a two-word answer. “Never willingly.”
J.J. craned his neck to peer through the thick trees on the rural country road. They seemed to be driving farther and farther from civilization. “I understand that this guy is at the top of your list of murder suspects.”
“Only because he was connected to both our murder victim and a missing witness who could also be a victim.” Following the GPS’s directions, she made a right turn down what appeared to be an even more rural road. Seeing no sign that anyone had lived in the area in recent years, Cameron wondered whether the GPS lady had led them astray.
Struck with a realization, she brought the cruiser to a halt in the middle of the road.
“You’re lost,” J.J. said with an accusatory tone.
“No, I’m not lost.” Before he could argue with her, she pointed across his chest and up a hill just beyond them. “We’re less than one mile from where Dixmont State Hospital used to be—as the crow flies, that is. It’s that way.” Thinking, she tapped her nose with her finger. “As a matter of fact, I think that if we went straight up that hill, we’d come out where the smokestack and the boiler room used to be before they tore the hospital down.”
“Did Silas grow up around here?”
The wheels in Cameron’s mind were spinning. She pulled the unmarked cruiser off of the road and grabbed her computer tablet from her briefcase, which she had placed at J.J.’s feet.
“Oh, Silas Starling had a very interesting background. His mother was a nurse at Dixmont. She never married. Silas was born in 1967.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a scandal back then?”
“Especially considering that there was no boyfriend in sight and that she was suspected of having sex with the patients,” she said. “She was fired, and then she worked as a private nurse until she disappeared in 1982. Silas was fifteen and was put in the foster-care system until he turned eighteen.”
“Didn’t you say he inherited this house from his grandmother?” J.J. asked.
“But she didn’t take him in when his mother disappeared,” Cameron said with a shake of her head. “Maybe she didn’t want the illegitimate son of a mental patient living with her. I don’t know. But”—she looked out the window to the hill beyond them—“if he spent any time here growing up, he would’ve been familiar with the grounds at Dixmont. The fencing on this side was a joke.”
J.J. followed her eyes and studied the deep woods and the hillside. “Were any of your other suspects familiar with Dixmont?”
“Not as familiar as Silas was.” Her voice was low. “Whoever dumped Dylan’s body in that freezer had to have been familiar enough with Dixmont to know about the building located behind the main building and the walk-in freezer located on the other side of the loading docks.”
“That eliminates every suspect who’s not from the area.”
“Cat and Harrison Calhoun are from the eastern half of the state,” Cameron said. “Don’t know much about this Keith Black, who seems to be in the wind. Can’t forget that it was his bass that was found at the scene.”
“But it wasn’t used to kill Dylan,” J.J. said. “The blow that incapacitated Dylan came from a metal bar, possibly a tire iron. Then he was suffocated.”
“You read the autopsy report.” She was impressed that he’d digested so much of the case file in the few minutes he’d had it while she’d been talking with Suellen the night before.
“I think the bass was planted to incriminate Keith in case the body was found.”
“Keith Black is the only suspect who didn’t get into an altercation with the victim,” Cameron said.
“Do you know that Harrison Calhoun bought a brand-new guitar for that last concert?” J.J. asked. “A black one made by the same manufacturer that made Keith Black’s bass. Keith had recommended the guy to him.”
Cameron didn’t know how to answer.
“When Suellen told me about that last concert and their time together that night, she mentioned that Harrison Calhoun had bought a new guitar and that that concert was the first time he played it onstage.”
“So Calhoun didn’t have the same guitar that I saw in the publicity stills on the alleged night of the murder.”
“Alleged night of the murder? Seriously?”
“Did I really say that?” Cameron cringed.
“Harrison Calhoun was the one who got into an altercation with the victim,” J.J. said. “His guitar was similar to Keith Black’s. Made by the same guy. Suppose the killer wasn’t paying attention—”
“Or didn’t know the difference between a bass guitar and an electric guitar—”
“And he grabbed Keith Black’s bass and planted it on the scene to frame Harrison Calhoun.”
“Which means,” Cameron said slowly, “that the killer witnessed the fight between Harrison and Dylan after the concert and was familiar with Dixmont.”
“Do you know anything about Keith Black?”
“Nothing,” Cameron said. “Suellen is from the area.”
“Suellen was the one who identified Dylan for you.” J.J.’s blue eyes narrowed. “The only suspect who completely fits your profile is Silas Starling.”
“We finally agree on something.” She put the cruiser in gear and pressed her foot to the accelerator.
Three miles later, the road came to an abrupt end at a metal gate with a Private Property No Trespassing sign on it.
With her police shield displayed on her hip, Cameron slid out of the driver’s seat and went up to the gate, beyond which she saw a plain white ranch-style house. The yard leading up to the door was neatly cut, yet it was devoid of any fancy landscaping.
There was a matching detached two-car garage whose door was shut, which made it impossible for her to tell whether anyone was home.
“Hello!” she yelled.
“I just saw someone look out through the one small window.” She saw that J.J. had climbed out of the cruiser to join her up by the gate.
“I’m not buying—”
“Police!” Cameron cut off the voice calling to her from the small open window. “I’m Detective Gates, with the Pennsylvania State Police. I’m investigating the murder of Dylan Matthews. Are you Silas Starling?”
There was a long silence.
“Was that too hard of
a question?” Cameron asked J.J.
“Get out of here, you lousy coppers!” said the voice behind the front door of the house. He opened the front door. Then he opened the screen door and stuck the barrel of a shotgun out through it.
“Gun!” Cameron yelled as she dived toward J.J. to knock him out of the way. He ducked behind the open passenger’s side door.
The shot flew across the yard and shattered the gate near where she had just been standing. Unable to find shelter, she hit the ground in front of her cruiser and crawled underneath it.
She saw a figure dressed in black come out of the house. He quickly took aim before firing another shot, which hit the front windshield of the cruiser.
“Cameron! Are you okay?” J.J. asked her as he knelt down near the cruiser.
“Besides my mouthful of dirt, I’m peachy.”
“I’ll cover you while you run around to the driver’s side.”
Before she could object, he stood up and fired one shot from a semi-automatic handgun toward the house. The shot was followed by a high-pitched yelp. Stepping out from behind the cover of the passenger’s side door, J.J. stepped toward the fence and fired another shot, which caused a loud shriek.
Narrowing his eyes, J.J. lowered his gun. “I think we’re good now.”
After climbing out from under the cruiser, Cameron unholstered her gun and rose to her knees. J.J. unlatched the gate and opened it so that they could enter the property. She heard pain-filled sobs coming from the porch.
“You shot me, you!”
She followed J.J. up to the porch, where they found a small, slender man with a bullet wound on his backside sprawled out on the floor. He also had a bullet wound on his forearm. His long black hair was in total contrast to his pale, wrinkled face and gray eyes. He was dressed in black slacks that hung on his thin frame and a black button-down shirt. After getting over her shock at the diminutive man covered in tattoos who had tried to kill them, Cameron tossed her handcuffs over to J.J. and instructed him to handcuff Silas while she covered him. While J.J. put on the handcuffs, Silas said, “I didn’t know you were the police.”
