Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) (9 page)

Cheyenne would’ve grown up in this, Taryn thought idly as she pulled into her parking space at the college. She undoubtedly knew everyone at the party because she’d grown up with them. She’d probably played on the swing set in the park, shared a plate of breadsticks and tossed coins into the Pizza Hut jukebox, laughed in the hallways of the middle school as an eighth grader (feeling smug and worldly) and then entered the high school on the first day feeling timid and unsure of herself.

There was probably no reason for Cheyenne to feel afraid that night of the party at the farm; she may have been there dozens of times in the past. After all, it was her uncle’s farm. Taryn tried to put herself in Cheyenne’s shoes, a young girl getting ready for a long night of fun and mischief not knowing it would be her last. Who had killed her? And why? And was she even dead? Yes, Taryn was sure of that.

It wasn’t just the terror Taryn had felt from Cheyenne (and she was sure it was her) in the dream that bothered her, it was the helplessness. And even the guilt. For a brief moment Cheyenne hadn’t just been afraid, she’d felt dejected. She knew she’d done something she shouldn’t have (but what?) and just wanted it to all go away so that she could be home, back in her bed.

Oh, how many times had Taryn felt that same way.

She remembered being a high school freshman and not having any friends other than Matt. She thought she’d start the new school and the new year fresh, a brand new beginning. She’d really put herself out there, tried to talk to people and be sociable. But by the second month she still hadn’t bonded with anyone. All the other girls were pairing off with guys or forming new thicker-than-thieves friendships. But not Taryn. Oh, people were friendly enough, but she didn’t get invited anywhere. Nobody went out of their way for her.

Then, one day after school, two girls in her chorus class had approached her and asked her if she wanted to hang out. Their names were Lisa and Etta May and they’d eaten lunch together on occasion. Taryn liked them well enough but was thrilled to be included in something. Etta May had just gotten her license and offered to drive Taryn home, saying they could stop along the way and grab a bite to eat.

She’d regretted getting in the car the minute they took off. Instead of heading to her house, or even a restaurant, Etta May went for the interstate. There were three other people in the car and they whooped and hollered as she laid on the gas and hit the crowded freeway with gusto. Taryn, riding in the front seat, watched in horror as the speedometer climbed from 65 mph to 75 and then on up to 90. Closing her eyes, she grabbed the armrest and felt beads of sweat sliding down her face and pooling under her blouse.

Thankfully, after a few minutes, Etta exited off. They stopped a truck stop and all the other teenagers clamored out of the car like a pile of puppies, laughing and screaming. Rather than going inside, however, when they spotted a semi with its back open they darted to it. “Let’s look inside!” Lisa cried and everyone laughed. Everyone, that was, except for Taryn. She poked behind them, feeling guilty and awful. She just wanted to go home, climb into her bed, and pull the covers up over her head. Taryn never broke any rules (unless you counted climbing into abandoned houses to take pictures breaking a rule) and was desperate to stay out of trouble. She watched as the others actually got into the back of the semi and danced around.

When the owner of the truck, a large man with a gut that hung over his jeans and a messy looking sandwich in his hand, came out of the restaurant he screamed at the top of his lungs and waved his fist at the kids. Squealing with laughter, they took off at top speed, passing Taryn, and going for Etta May’s car. This time she ran as well, happy to be leaving.

Again, she offered a silent prayer as they navigated the interstate, passing cars at breakneck speeds and exiting off so quickly the tires squealed.

Back at her house, she’d not only felt safe (land, land!) but when the dust had settled she’d felt angry with herself. She tried to remind herself that it wasn’t her fault, that she couldn’t possibly have known what the afternoon would entail, but she still felt somehow responsible. From that day on, she swore she’d be a better judge of character.

Now she wondered if perhaps Cheyenne had experienced something similar. Was she going along with something for fun, afraid to say no, when it had taken a turn for the worst? Or had she simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

W
ith one foot already halfway out the door, Taryn drifted through her lesson in a daze. Her mind was running a million miles a minute and even though she knew it was wrong to only give her students a small percentage of her, she had things she wanted to be doing instead. Still, once she got them all started on their assignment, completing the other side of a building that had been torn down or burned to the ground, she was able to relax. To their credit, her students were much more enthusiastic about the work than she’d thought they’d be and most even looked like they were enjoying themselves.

While they sketched, their chosen images propped up in front of them, she made a list of her next steps. Although her careless treatment of clothing (always in the floor, never on hangers) and shoes (always in a haphazard heap, despite the attempt Matt made to corral them in a crate or on a shelf) she was actually a very organized soul.

On one side of her paper she made a list of the key players involved in the case; on the other she began listing possible scenarios. The scenarios were a short list. There were only so many things that could’ve happened to Cheyenne and none of them were good.

She was lost in deep thought when a shadow crossed over her paper and made her look up. A tall, thin boy of about eighteen years old stood before her. His face was an eruption of pimples and one large nasty-looking cyst but his hair was beautifully thick with blond streaks running through it. He was dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, leather loafers, and a pullover sweater that looked cashmere. His appearance spoke of quiet money, the kind that meant one or both of his parents probably had administrative jobs outside of the county.

“I had a question about this side,” he apologized, holding out his sketch. “Just how parallel would the sides have been? I mean, would it have been a perfect reflection?”

Taryn set her pencil down and studied his drawing. It was quite good and he’d spent an awful lot of time on the shadowing, making the old house nearly jump right off the page. “That’s a very good question,” she answered truthfully. “The fact is, with these Gothic style houses, you typically wouldn’t see the same design repeated on the opposite side. Even the most ornate tended to focus on one side or the other. You’ve got this turret here,” she pointed to the one in the photograph, “so chances are the other side wouldn’t have had one.” Quickly flipping through the images on her Power Point presentation she showed him an example that was similar to the house he was attempting to recreate.

“Ah!” he cried, taking his sketch back under his arm. “I thought so. Well, that saves me some time anyway.”

Before he turned to go back to his desk, however, he hesitated. “Hey, I don’t mean to pry but what are those names you have written on your pad there?”

“Yeah?” Taryn asked, resisting the urge to cover them with her hand. She felt like a student caught cheating.

“I know those people,” he shrugged. “You’re probably thinking about Cheyenne Willoughby and what happened to her.”

A few students closest to her laid down their pencils and studied Taryn inquisitively. She felt her cheeks blushing under their gazes. “Well, yeah, I was. I just learned about the disappearance a couple of days ago, and it’s been on my mind.”

“You know, I was there that night. That night at the party,” he explained. “My name’s Johnny, and I’m from here. I’m a freshman.”

Taryn’s embarrassment turned to interest as she now studied him. “Were you friends with Cheyenne, if I may ask?”

He laughed, a thin sound that border-lined on giggling. “No, I was younger than her. She knew who I was, but we didn’t hang out or anything. She was out of my league, if you know what I mean. A cheerleader captain.”

Taryn understood what he meant. She would’ve been out of Cheyenne’s league, too.

“I was just there with my brother that night, kind of tagging along. His name is David. They hung out some but weren’t really friends either. His girlfriend has him on kind of a tight rein, if you know what I mean.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised no new news has cropped up in the past year about her,” Taryn dared. Some of the students exchanged looks that Taryn couldn’t decipher. Knowing she might be stepping on some toes and going into territory that could only be described as “inappropriate,” she plunged on anyway. “Do you guys have any ideas?”

“Well, common theory is that the police know who done it but won’t do anything about it because they’re afraid they don’t have enough evidence,” a young woman close to Taryn spoke. She frowned down at her sketch and pushed a long jet-black lock of hair behind her ear. “You know, like that case of that woman down in Florida with the little girl who died? Everyone knows she did it, but the prosecution thought they had such a slam dunk that they didn’t even try at the trial. It was all circumstantial, and the jury didn’t buy it. Maybe if they’d spent more time gathering more evidence and stuff…”

Everyone was looking at the speaker now, some of them with looks of admiration on their faces. “Hey, I’m an art major but I watch a lot of television,” she shrugged with a smile. “I’m kind of into that true crime stuff.”

“Nobody thinks she’s still around, if you’re wondering that,” Johnny croaked with authority. “Even her parents know she’s gone. But they won’t admit it.”

“There’s so many places around here where a body could be taken,” a heavyset brunette with a thirty-two ounce Coke declared. “Caves, wells, ponds, whatever. She’ll never be found.”

“Just out of curiosity, how many of you are actually from here?” Taryn asked, gazing around the room. More than half of the students raised their hands. “And how many people knew Cheyenne?” All but three of those whose hands had been raised kept them up.

Interesting indeed
, Taryn thought as she changed the subject and encouraged them to all get back to work. She didn’t know what she’d do with that information yet, but she’d definitely file it away for future reference.

I
n the clear light of day, without the fog and gloom, the farmhouse and fields around it were harmless. Matt stood next to Taryn, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black pea coat, and studied their surroundings. “Pretty place,” he remarked offhandedly. “Kind of secluded back here, huh?”

Taryn nodded absently, running her fingers through her thick hair. It had been in a ponytail, but the wind caught it and now it was blowing about her face, catching between her lips. The sun was out but the wind was making it cold. She never wore gloves when she planned on taking pictures because they just slowed her down. Now, though, her fingers were chapped and red and she couldn’t wait to get back inside of their own cabin where Matt could build a fire and have it toasty in no time.

“It doesn’t feel like anything bad happened here,” Taryn remarked at last, trying to vocalize what was running through her mind. And the place didn’t have any kind of unsettling feeling to it. It was quiet, still, and isolated. The surrounding woods shielded it from the outside world, the same way they separated their cabin from it. The hills rose up in the distance like foot soldiers closing in on their target and this time of year they were bare and stark against the late autumn sky. But they weren’t foreboding. The lowlands were flat in some places, slightly rolling in others, and the remains of an old wooden slat fence could be seen here and there. A smokehouse still stood behind the house, a primitive (almost charming) structure that spoke of days gone by. The litter from the bonfire site was the only sore spot in the picture. Nothing screamed “young girl brutally murdered or abducted” here.

“I feel something, but I can’t put my finger on what, exactly,” Matt murmured. He’d reached out and taken her hand and now gave it a light squeeze. She wasn’t even sure he’d realized he’d taken it in the first place.

“I’m going to walk around and try to take some shots, okay?” Matt nodded and Taryn gently pried her fingers from his and started making her way through the damp grass.

Armed with more information than she’d had on her previous visit, she tried to be more focused on the pictures she took and the locations in which she took them. She started with the burn pile and aimed her camera directly into where the fire would’ve raged and then, turning her back to it, made a slow circle around the pit, taking pictures every few feet. If Cheyenne had been close to the fire at some point and something had happened there, she would catch it. Hopefully.

With her fingers growing colder by the minute, Taryn walked back over to the farmhouse. Today, she would focus on the outside. Training her camera to the left and working slowly to the right she took pictures of every inch. When she was finished, she walked to the back of the house and did the same, trying not to miss anything.

Considering it more or less bad luck to check her LCD screen while she was still in the field she resisted the urge to look through her pictures and examine them. They’d been out there for some time now anyway, and she could tell that Matt was getting cold. His cheeks were rosy, and he kept dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief–something she found old-fashionably charming. He was too polite to tell her he was ready to go so she made the executive decision herself.

“Come on, love,” she called across the yard. He looked up from where he was examining the remains of an old stone well and lifted his hand in a wave. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s head back!”

Nodding in agreement, Matt jogged over to Taryn and slipped his arm comfortable around her shoulder. “What do you say we drive into town tonight for supper? My treat.”

“I say if you’re buying then it sounds great!” Taryn chuckled and put her own arm around his waist. Together, they entered the patch of woods and headed back towards the cabin.

T
he farmhouse stood stoic and proud in the middle of the field. There was nothing spooky or alarming about the image on her computer screen in any way; no ghosts were popping out of the windows, no bloody handprints on the walls, and no signs of a grisly accident or murder. The disturbing thing was the young, laughing girl perched on the front porch.

“Huh,” Matt pondered as he leaned over Taryn’s shoulder and gazed at the images. “You know, except for the fact that it’s scary as hell, you could look at this on the bright side and think about how much easier this is going to make your job in the future.”

Unable to supress a laugh, Taryn made a grunting sound and pretended to glare at him. “At least the house is pretty.”

And it was, really. There was no real architectural style when it came to farmhouses; they got their names due to their locations and not because of any particular traits or characteristics. This house looked to Taryn like a “Sears” house–one that was brought in by train or boat and assembled onsite. With its side-gabled roof, she thought it might have been a model called The Concord which was popular around the early twenties century. The frame would’ve cost less than two thousand dollars and boasted eight or nine rooms and a large front porch. Many had excavated basements, although the house in question also had a root cellar, as Matt had discovered.

From the broken windows, sagging porch, and roof that was obviously in need of repair, it was clear to Taryn that the picture was depicting a fairly recent time period, if not the present. It had the look of an abandoned, neglected house although it was, of course, in far better condition than it was today. Weeds grew in clumps around the foundation and a rash of poison ivy wounded its way up from the ground all the way to a second-floor window. “Leaves of three, leave them be,” Taryn chanted silently in her head.

The sadness that often accompanied her view into the past settled over her like a damp fog. At one time someone had ordered the house, probably in excitement at the thought of building their own home. They’d watched it roll in and be unloaded and then watched as it was put together, piece by piece. Some woman, most likely, had visited furniture stores and outfitted the rooms to her liking and maybe even fawned over fabric samples as she dreamed of curtains and bedspreads. Taryn knew nothing about the former occupants, or original owners, but she had a fairly good grasp on people in general; the house had once been loved. Now it was forgotten, simply an addendum to the open field where mischievous teenagers liked to party.

The pictures Taryn took around the fire pit were unremarkable. She zoomed in on a few, thinking she saw something small, but nevertheless revealing, but nothing stood out. Only the farmhouse, with Cheyenne happy as a lark on the porch, was troubling.

“It takes your breath away a little, doesn’t it?” Matt mused. “To see her there, alive, when there was nothing present when you took the photo.”

“I thought I’d get used to it eventually, seeing things like this,” Taryn said. “But I don’t think I have. I keep expecting that it will stop, that I’ll wake up one morning and be unable to do this. And yet… here’s another one.”

“I think we can agree that the house had something to do with Cheyenne’s disappearance,” Matt concluded. “Or at least the farm.”

“So what do you think I should do now?” Taryn asked, feeling helpless.

“It might be time to talk to her parents. You’re going to have to do it anyway, and it’s better that you go to them rather than them hearing about asking questions.”

“You’re right,” Taryn sighed. “But that’s one visit I’m not particularly looking forward to.”

T
he house, a small brick ranch, was located in an older subdivision where sheer age had allowed the trees to grow again after being cleared out for the construction. Houses were positioned fairly far apart, with each lot having what looked to be an acre or more. Cheyenne’s house had a black Ford Explorer, an older model, and Kia Rio in the cracked driveway. A metal patio table, with a ripped stripped umbrella, perched at the edge of the yard; the umbrella beating back and forth in the wind. An attempt had been made to put in a flower garden along the front of the house, but the beds were overgrown and weeds were shooting up through the hard-packed soil, obscuring the myriad of gnomes, toads, and ceramic chipmunks. It was obvious the shutters and front door had been painted recently, but it also appeared that the old paint hadn’t been scraped off first as it appeared thick and bubbly.

When Taryn knocked on the door Thelma opened it almost immediately, leaving Taryn to wonder if she sat by her front picture window, watching the road for signs of visitors… or signs of Cheyenne.

The warm interior was a stark contrast to the biting cold of outside. Indeed, it was almost stuffy, and Taryn found herself wishing she hadn’t worn so many layers. The house opened up into a living room jam-packed full of furniture, decorations, and books. The blueberry-colored walls were alive with Home Interior, every few feet a different collection of prints and the matching accessories. Taryn was seated in a fluffy recliner under a print of a seascape. Beneath the print was a small shelf containing a matching seashell, ceramic lighthouse, and candle. Across from her, above Thelma’s head, was a farm print. Surrounding it were wall hangings of miniature cows and horses. For some reason Taryn couldn’t help herself and found she was adding up the cost of the collections; she figured there was at least three-thousand dollars’ worth of Home Interior on the wall. That stuff didn’t come cheap.

The shabby furniture was happily alive with “primitive” figurines and “artwork.” Everything from plaques proclaiming “Everything simple” on reclaimed barn wood to imitation farm implements littered the room. Thelma obviously took great pride in her decorating and her “things.” The couch was sagging, the fabric on the matching recliners torn in several places, and the wood furniture all pressed and factory made (cheaply) but there wasn’t a spot of dust or stain to be seen.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Thelma apologized, gesturing about the room. “I just didn’t have time to really clean.”

It was a southern thing, Taryn knew, to apologize for the house’s cleanliness. She had no doubt that Thelma, like most southern women she’d known (her grandmother and mother included), had probably spent half the morning polishing, dusting, vacuuming, and shoving things in forgotten rooms and corners. She’d even taken the time to light candles and set out incense; the air was filled with a combination of vanilla, strawberry, and lavender aromas.