Muddy Creek
Book 7 in Taryn’s Camera
Rebecca Patrick-Howard
For Clarence.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person or place is purely coincidental.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
About Rebecca
Let’s Connect!
Want MORE Taryn?
Other Books by Rebecca
Reviews
Copyright
One
“Are you sure you want to go up there and get in the middle of all that?”
Matt’s voice was non-accusatory, but Taryn knew he was worried about her. They’d been friends for most of her life. She often knew what he felt, and what he was going to say before he did.
Taryn smiled a little, unable to hide the fact that his worry and care comforted her, and continued packing her pink duffle bag. She would be gone for three weeks, four tops. It wouldn’t be a long job. The drive to West Virginia and back would be the worst part, and she had plenty of music stocked up for the trip. The CDs she’d burned the night before all read West Virginia: The Long Drive to Nowhere.
Still, short job or not, it didn’t mean she had to skimp on necessities. Pausing, she surveyed the two suitcases already parked in the doorway. Should she be embarrassed that one of them contained nothing but shoes?
Nah.
“I’ll be fine,” she promised Matt, turning her attention back to her longtime friend/sometimes boyfriend. “I’ve been warned about the media but they said that, for the most part, the attention will be on the court house and downtown. I’ll be miles from that.”
She felt Matt frown through the phone. “Have you been watching that lady on that news channel? Frieda Bowen, her name is. She’s there already, covering the case. I’ve tried tuning in a few times to get an idea of what the climate is up there but I can only handle a few minutes of her at a time.”
Taryn grimaced. “Tell me about it. I usually agree with her, but she seems to get very angry very quickly. She’s done a lot for children’s rights, though. I can’t fault her that. She’s just so…”
“Mean?” Matt offered. Taryn laughed. “I wish I could go up there with you, or that you would just bite the bullet and fly.”
She knew he was worried about the long car ride from Nashville, about the possibility of her doing damage to her muscles and joints now that her medical condition had progressed. Sitting for long periods of time was becoming increasingly harder. But she’d put her foot down about it. She was not going to be limited by the amount of luggage she could take just because a long car ride was going to be a little uncomfortable. “Nope. Not with all those restrictions they’re putting on luggage these days. I can spend in gas driving up there for what they want to charge for my extra bags.”
“Well, I’ll still meet you in a few days. I’m flying into Huntington and renting a car,” Matt reminded her.
Matt lived two states away, in Florida. So far they’d been making their relationship work by traveling back and forth to see one another. Taryn, a freelance artist, set her own schedules and hours, so she was about as flexible as they came. Matt, however, worked for NASA and couldn’t pop in and out when he pleased. They tended to frown upon that. The distance hadn’t been detrimental so far, though both were prone to occasional bouts of loneliness.
Taryn wasn’t sure how much longer it could continue. Eventually, one of them would have to make a move. She knew it would need to be her. Matt wasn’t going to budge. He loved his job too much. And who wouldn’t? He’d wanted to work for NASA since he was eight years old.
“I guess the timing is a little off,” Taryn sighed at last. She threw the last extra battery for her camera into the duffle bag then flung herself down on the bed. It bounced beneath her, giving her a little thrill as she was momentarily tossed into the air.
Taryn was by herself a lot. She had to make her own entertainment.
“What do you mean?”
“The, er, incident was over a year ago, but they’re just now going to trial,” she explained. “If they’d hired me to come up and paint that school a little sooner, or a little later, then I wouldn’t be right in the middle of the three-ring circus.”
“Wonder why they hired you now?”
“I have no earthly idea. You’d think they’d have enough going on, right? Maybe they’re hoping for extra attention since they’ve got the country’s eye. It’s not often the big networks are interested in anything that happens there. I know West Virginia, have been there for three different job assignments, and even I couldn’t find this place on the map,” Taryn said.
Matt snorted and she could imagine him shuddering at the thought. They’d both grown up in suburban Nashville. Although he didn’t mind the occasional weekend in the cabin, and loved his solitude and to be alone with his thoughts, he was about as far away from being a country boy as he could get. He enjoyed his high-priced coffee and artisan bread as much as he did a walk on a (well-manicured and landscaped) nature trail.
“They’re wanting to rebuild the old school and turn it into an Appalachian Heritage Center, with a museum and concert hall and stuff. That costs money, and you know the county doesn’t have it. Maybe they’re hoping to catch the eye of a philanthropist or something with all the news people hounding the area. I say why not,” Taryn laughed. “Why not use Frieda Bowen while you can?”
Matt was quiet for a moment and, together, they shared the companionable silence. Taryn let her mind play around on the events that had led to her hiring, about the lofty (yet somehow desperate) email appeal the PTA had sent.
Would she, due to the “tragedy and sensitivity of the situation”, consider lowering her rates? Could she come as soon as possible? Would she mind signing a media waiver so that her name and likeness could be used…?
Matt was the one to finally mention the elephant in the room.
“Do you have any feelings about what happened?” he asked. “I mean, have you…?”
“No, nothing.” Taryn glanced over at her beloved Nikon, Miss Dixie, who observed the proceedings from her perch atop Taryn’s dresser. “I looked at the pictures of the school. You know, before it looked…the way it does now. I felt fine. Nothing strange.”
“But sometimes you don’t get anything until the camera does,” Matt pointed out.
“Right.” Taryn bit her lip and closed her eyes. “I mean, I feel bad about what happened. People died, of course. Murdered, if you believe the news stories. The fact that I am going to be in the same town as CNN’s trending story is kind of weird. I do feel strange about that. I’ve never really been in the middle of things before; I always seem to be at the end before I realize anything is even going on. But I’ll just be there, doing my j
ob, on the other side of the county with the old school. Whatever circus is going on downtown won’t concern me.”
“I hope it won’t…,” Matt replied, his voice trailing off.
From her vantage point on her bed, Taryn could see her living room. The television flickered in the evening light. The sound was on “mute” but throngs of journalists and cameramen engulfed the courthouse steps of Haven Hollow, county seat of Venters County. A middle-aged, red-faced attorney, sweat pouring from her head, looked like a deer in headlights.
“Day two of the Muddy Creek Six Jury Selection…” flashed across the bottom of her screen. Frieda Bowen, with her thick, black eyeliner and frosted hair, was on a split screen, gesturing with animation.
Taryn closed her eyes and exhaled softly. What had she gotten herself into?
Two
Before she’d left Nashville, Taryn had gone through her bookshelf and pulled out the copy of the one book by Lucy Dawson that she still owned. It had somehow survived the multiple moves and was still in good condition, even though it was more than fifteen years old.
Lucy Dawson was Haven Hollow’s most famous resident–a children’s book author who had won multiple awards and was one of the bestselling novelists in the country. As someone rarely seen in public, and who shared few details of her personal life, a certain amount of mystique was built up around her that was almost as legendary as her writings.
Taryn felt it only fitting to share the journey with her beautifully illustrated copy, even if the circumstances were not ideal.
“The Boy in the Tree.” Taryn looked at the book now and carried it outside to the table by her motel room door. She’d meant to read it before she left but hadn’t had time. She did now, though.
A great deal of activity shuffled around Taryn as she opened the first page. As an artist that worked in a variety of settings, she’d learned to tune out the world around her and concentrate on the goal at hand. So now, with feet stomping back and forth, coal trucks barreling down the main street just a few feet behind her, and calls of maintenance workers shouting across the parking lot, she began to read.
It was a story that had stuck with her through the years.
Lenny Laker was a poor boy who lived in a little town in a little world. He had a little bed in a little room in a little house.
But Lenny Laker was not little. He was big.
His big feet hung off the end of his little bed and scraped the wall at night.
When he tried to sit at the little kitchen table his head touched the ceiling of his little house.
He was bigger than all the other kids in his little school. “One day I am going to find a bigger world,” he’d tell everyone he knew every day. They would laugh at him, though, and poke fun. Then they grew angry.
“There is no bigger world, Lenny,” they would tell him. “You’re just making that up.”
Soon, Lenny no longer had any friends. Nobody would talk to him. They didn’t want to hear about the bigger world; they were happy in their little beds in their little houses in their little town. They didn’t like Lenny anymore and he grew very lonely.
One day as he was taking a walk in the little woods behind his little house, he saw a big tree. It was the biggest tree he’d ever seen. Lenny had tried climbing other trees, but they were all so small that he’d reached the top in a matter of seconds. This one, however, towered above him so high that he couldn’t even see the top branches.
“I’m going to climb that tree,” he said to himself. And so, he began to climb. He climbed and climbed and climbed and when he reached the top, hours later, he looked around at the world before him. His little town was at the very bottom, no bigger than a pinprick. The rest of the world, however, spread out for miles. Off in the distance he saw big houses, houses where his head would not touch the ceiling, where his feet would not hang off the end of his bed.
Excited, Lenny climbed down and returned to school. He tried telling the others about what he’d seen but they did not believe him. Each day, though, he returned to the tree and climbed to the top. And each day he saw more and more.
His friends and teacher, however, did not want to hear about that other world. It made them angry.
Then, one day when he was telling them about the big waterfall he’d seen miles away, the one that was so big that it would take days to slide down, his little friends decided they’d had enough. They all took off through the woods and ran until they found the tree. Once there, instead of climbing to the top, they began chopping it down. They chopped and chopped until it was gone.
When it finally fell to the forest ground with a mighty “thud” they cheered and laughed with glee.
Lenny did not cry or grow angry, though. Instead, he smiled and walked away.
They did not know it, but he’d found lots of trees on his adventures. There would always be more to climb.
* * *
TARYN HAD A MEETING with the superintendent and other members of the school board the following morning. In the meantime, however, since she’d arrived much earlier than she’d anticipated and had already unpacked, she decided take advantage of what daylight hours she had left. She would visit Muddy Creek Elementary, her new job site.
Taryn preferred her first impressions to be undiluted, pure, without any outside influence of a well-meaning person towering over her and filling the air with aimless chatter. Although all her employers wanted to give her the “grand tour”, when she was able to, she preferred walking around by herself, getting a feel for the job site without any preconceived ideas.
It was another reason why she’d avoided the news as much as possible.
Eden Inn was the one motel in the entire county and it was neither biblical, beautiful, or an inn. It was also full of reporters.
From the outside, its weedy parking lot and sidewalks stained with air-conditioning condensation weren’t exactly going to win it any high reviews on Yelp (she knew; she’d looked). Still, while it might not have been the Ritz, Taryn was okay with it and bid it a fond little farewell as she drove away. Though independent and used to being alone, since every member of her family was now gone, Taryn was prone to loneliness and would go for days without seeing a soul if she didn’t make an effort. Sometimes forced human interaction was good for her. Besides, she’d stayed in so many questionable places over the years, from torrid hostels to flea-infested campsites, that she thought she’d built up a pretty good tolerance to most anything that could kill her. It was her own body turning on itself that was doing that at the moment.
As she drove down Haven Hollow’s Main Street, Taryn had the opportunity to survey most of what the town had to offer. There were only four main roads downtown and they all seemed to drift off into the mountains, winding through the trees like snakes until they vanished. She followed one of those roads now, listening intently as the Australian voice on her GPS system guided her.
Along the way she’d passed empty storefront after empty storefront. A lone gas station that promised “bait, fried chicken, and hunting licenses” was located next to a condemned clapboard building across from the courthouse. She could barely see any of these for the masses of people camped out on the steps of the modest, two-story stone building. Clutching microphones and notebooks, they spilled over into the gas station’s lot, swirling around the pumps like ants. Court wasn’t even in session but that didn’t stop them from coming out, afraid they’d miss something.
She’d had to slow down as she drove past them and many had paused and peered at her through her tinted windows, trying to ascertain whether or not she was anyone of importance.
She wasn’t, not to them anyway. They’d learn that soon enough. She was just there to paint.
Taryn passed a KFC, two pizza places with homemade signs, and a country diner. All were full.
“Trial’s good for business, at least,” she murmured as she leaned on the gas and sped on out of town. There wasn’t much else to see. Although the tiny town was picturesque, with
the mountains towering over the nineteenth century buildings, it was as dead as most small towns she’d visited.
She hated that. Taryn was a big fan of the past.
The twisting county road was a burrow of trees. As she zigzagged along the small county road she took time to appreciate the foliage pressing in around her. It was early November, so most of the leaves remained, but their density spread over her like a thick blanket. There were times she was unable to see the sky; the canopy formed a ceiling above her, allowing in only spots of blue here and there. What sunlight the trees didn’t block out, the mountains did. It was only 3:00 pm and it felt like dusk. Despite the splendor of it all for a moment Taryn, someone who had never had a problem with tight places, felt suffocated.
“Geeze, I’m getting weak,” she muttered. She was also the only car on the road, a fact she was thankful for since she was taking most of the curves in the opposite lane.
There were patches of houses here and there, mostly grouped together like little communes. For the most part, however, the dirt and gravel roads that snaked off the main line were the only indications that anyone lived there at all. She was struck by the seclusion of it all. And by the tiny wooden houses that stood next to mailboxes along the way. They lacked doors, but were too open to be outhouses. They contained no windows, no insulation of any kind. Some were painted but most were not.
Taryn would need to ask someone about those.
For company, she fiddled around in the passenger seat until she found her Best of Motown CD and tuned it to Otis. It wasn’t a drive that called for happy, peppy music.
Indeed, it wasn’t a job that called for much lightheartedness at all.
Taryn saw the school a quarter of a mile before she reached it. Despite the fact that it set back off the road over an embankment in a small valley, and was partially hidden by the vegetation growing wildly around it, there was no mistaking that Pepto Bismal color.
Muddy Creek: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 7) Page 1
