Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) Read online

  Thelma continued to comfort her and engulf her in random, bosomy hugs until she was released and then she drove Taryn to the motel. “My friend will be here soon, and he’ll drive me back to the house.”

  Thelma and her husband insisted on waiting while Taryn checked in and then accompanied her to her room. She hadn’t packed anything but her laptop and Miss Dixie so there was nothing to carry. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetie,” Thelma reassured her before they left. “We’re fixing that window first thing and installing security tomorrow. And we’ve paid for three nights here. If you need more, just let us know. You don’t have to go back at all if you don’t want to.”

  As exhausted as she was, sleep wouldn’t come. The motel had interior corridors and these made her feel safe and secure, but every time she closed her eyes she could still see the darkness of the bedroom, hear the creak of the floorboard. A late-night black and white movie was playing on the standard-sized motel television set and she lost herself in it while she waited for Matt.

  The sun was bursting through the sky, streaks of red and purple against white, when Matt knocked on her door. She opened it and fell against him, instantly feeling a mixture of relief and disgust with herself for not being able to hack it on her own. “Well that was fun, wasn’t it?” he tried to chuckle but she could feel him tense under her arms.

  Gently, he led her back to the bed where he pulled down the covers and tucked her in. She curled her body in towards his as he sank down in beside her and began stroking her hair back from her forehead. “Sweet girl,” he murmured. “Go to sleep, and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  After three days in the hotel she was ready to return to the cabin. “We don’t have to go. We can keep staying here,” Matt suggested. “You only have a few weeks left.”

  Taryn was restless, though, and feeling silly for all the drama she seemed to have caused. Even her students were walking around her on eggshells, treating her gently. Emma and Lindy had visited her at the hotel twice. They claimed it was to make use of the pool and hot tub, but both had appeared worried to her and Emma even apologized for not offering to stay with her while Matt was gone. “I should’ve just moved in until he got back,” she swore. “What were we thinking, leaving you out there alone?”

  “It’s okay, really.” Taryn was embarrassed not only by the attention but by the fact people didn’t seem to think she could take care of herself. “I’ve been on my own for a long time and have stayed in much more isolated places. I once stayed at a farmhouse in the mountains for almost two months and barely saw a soul.”

  But, of course, nobody had disappeared on that farm and there was no ongoing investigation that quite possibly included people in the general vicinity.

  Since Matt had gone to the cabin to look around and packed her an overnight bag, Taryn hadn’t returned since the night of the intrusion. She stood in the front yard now, looking at it against the harsh October sun. It appeared harmless enough, a picturesque log house set amidst a forest backdrop. But as soon as she stepped foot on the porch she could remember waking up in the darkness, the blind panic at not knowing what to do next, the rush of adrenalin as she’d pushed the chair in front of the door and then held her breath as she waited for the inevitable sound of her intruder charging up the stairs.

  Could she really stay here?

  Yes, she could and she would. She wasn’t a wimp. A new alarm system was installed and anyone coming in through the doors or windows after they went to bed would set off a shrill and notice that would go straight to the police station. And then there was a tiny part of her invigorated by what happened. There was no way the break-in was random. Someone was trying to scare her, or worse, and that meant she may have been onto something and didn’t even know it. She aimed to find out what it might be. Cheyenne deserved it.

  Matt didn’t feel good about letting her roam around the property without him, but he was too polite to invite himself along. When she’d turned down his offer to accompany her he’d let it go. Still, as she walked across the yard towards the treeline she could see him standing in the kitchen window, pretending to wash dishes.

  She felt safe in the daylight. Although she knew it was a false sense of security, hundreds of women were abducted every year in the middle of the day and even in public, she forced herself onward. She had a hankering to visit the old farmhouse again and to put herself back on the site where Cheyenne was last seen.

  When the air was crisp and the sunlight shockingly bright against the naked trees and brittle grass it was almost hard to believe something frightening had taken place at the cabin just a few days before. She’d been surprised at just how calm she’d felt inside, sure she’d be plagued by post trauma that would keep her up at night. But Matt’s calming presence had helped and his positive energy filled the rooms with light. She was safe near him, protected.

  The woods, though thick and quiet, were peaceful. She loved the country, even though she hadn’t grown up in it, and found a sweet solace in the soft pine needles under her feet, the burnt smell of autumn, and the closing out of the world around her.

  But then she stepped out of the trees and into the meadow where the farmhouse stood and everything changed. Again.

  “There’s something not right here,” she murmured to herself. Miss Dixie slapped against her thigh in agreement. “I wonder why?”

  For the longest time, she didn’t move and stared in perplexity at the house and fields before her. They were innocuous enough. But she felt safer in the shadows of the trees, just knowing they were only a few feet behind her.

  It didn’t make sense that’s she’d feel such a sense of foreboding there. Cheyenne hadn’t disappeared at the farmhouse. Witnesses had seen her leave in a pickup. They’d watched her drive out the gate. Other witnesses placed her in a house miles from here, long after the party ended.

  And yet…

  If it were Cheyenne’s energy she was picking up on, then why the fear? Why the gnawing sensation something was wrong? Cheyenne had been celebrating here; school was over and she had the freedom only youth in summertime could know. A bonfire, drinks, laughter, music… this should have been a happy place for her.

  If Taryn closed her eyes and reached out past the corners of her mind she could almost feel the sweet, youthful energy of the eighteen-year-old around her. The mounting excitement of seeing friends, catching a glimpse of a crush, drinking something bitter and distasteful but loving the warmth it provided inside. Cars, trucks, and four-wheelers parked in the damp grass, someone’s radio on. Girls gathered around a group of guys by the fire, watching in earnest as they strummed guitars and tapped rhythm on their knees, maybe with dreams of moving up to Nashville or heading out west when they could afford to go.

  It had been a long time since Taryn was a teenager, but things didn’t change much; people didn’t change that much. Girls would always segregate themselves in clumps, whispering and giggling as they talked about other girls and guys they liked. The guys would always fit into two groups–those who came across standoffish and those who came on too strong. Both would be nervous, their confidence shaky.

  What had Cheyenne done? Had she sat by the fire, nursing a lukewarm can of beer? Or had she perched on the edge of the farmhouse steps, surrounded by her girlfriends while their laughter and sparkling smiles faded into the ethereal darkness? Had she danced around, her boots scraping the dirt and her dark hair flying behind her, carefree and oblivious to the world around her? Or had she been quiet, timid, and stayed close to her pack, finding safety in numbers?

  What happened at the house after she’d left here? Taryn tried to see her, tried to see Cheyenne standing outside in the early morning air, puffing on a cigarette by herself. A car pulls up a few houses down, two men unknown around here. They watch her for a while, marveling at her youth and fragility. One gets out, offers her a joint or a drink. She’s not so nervous at first because he’s friendly and good looking. But then the other one comes. He’s bigger, t
hreatening. He doesn’t crack a smile. She starts feeling the first waves of panic and turns to go inside but then feels a large hand crushing her shoulder, dragging her down. Before she can let out a muffled scream she’s unconscious, floating away to a car with an unknown destination.

  And for what? To be beaten, raped, killed? Sold to a bidder? Would human traffickers come here to feast on naïve country girls?

  That scenario didn’t set well with Taryn. It relied too much on convenience and coincidence.

  But there was another one that sounded right. In this one, Cheyenne is sitting in a basement bedroom, playing PlayStation. She’s woozy and sick from too much to drink and is trying her best to control her hands but they won’t stop shaking. She knows the people around her; they went to school together. She remembers them in kindergarten, learning to read. In middle school, playing basketball. She isn’t scared. She’s as much at home here as she would be in her own house, and maybe even more so. She feels like she’s going to be sick, but nothing will come up when she races to the bathroom.

  And then someone hands her something else. The white oblong pill is small and weightless in her hand. “It will make you feel better,” the faceless voice in Taryn’s mind promises. “You need something to bring you down.”

  With great trust and little trepidation, she takes it. And, at first, she does feel better. But then comes the feeling of pressure in her chest, the sharp pain radiating to her back. The shortness of breath. The dizziness. God, even when she laid down on the floor she had the feeling of falling. She struggles to keep her eyes open, sure if she closes them something bad will happen. The nausea reaches a crescendo and she spits up a little, but not enough. Finally, the effort is too much and she turns her head and closes her eyes, giving in to the darkness.

  What happened to Cheyenne?

  “Nothing?” Matt was up to his elbows in flour, making bread. Taryn sat at the kitchen table, going through her emails. She had two job offers, both wanting her start after Christmas. One was in Arizona. The other was in central Kentucky. She wasn’t sure she was ready to return to Kentucky after her experience with Windwood Farm, but working at Shaker Village might be too good of an opportunity to pass up.

  “Pictures all came back normal,” she answered absently. “House and land look exactly the same as they do now. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I think it’s because nothing actually happened there,” Matt declared. “Maybe you’re picking up on the energy because it’s the last place Cheyenne felt good.”

  “Then why does it feel off?”

  Neither had an answer for that.

  “I’m going to have to visit the last place she was at. I know they’re not going to let me walk around or anything but I need to at least see it, maybe take a picture of the outside.”

  Wiping his hands on a dishrag, Matt turned around and leaned against the counter. “You want to go for a drive later? You can hang your head out of the car, and I’ll drive the getaway vehicle.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she grinned.

  Chapter 14

  It would’ve been a stretch to call Travis Marcum’s neighborhood a subdivision, but the houses were close together and his street definitely wasn’t isolated. In fact, it was just two miles from Wal-Mart. His house was at the end, in a cul-de-sac. It was a newer construction and looked like all the other ones around it: one-story, brick, with a garage that stuck out from the front like a sore thumb. The only differences amongst the houses around his were the brick shades and which side of the house the garage stuck out from.

  It was mid-afternoon and the street was quiet. A few houses had cars in the driveway but Travis’ was empty. Still, Taryn felt like a stalker. As they slowly cruised down the street, pretending to have an actual destination, Taryn kept Miss Dixie out on her lap, turned on and ready to shoot. “Okay,” she said as they drew close. “I’m gonna roll down the window and when you get in front of the house kind of come to a stop and I’ll take some as fast as I can.”

  “You got it, captain.”

  Just as they pulled in front of the house and Taryn fired off the first round she was sure she saw the living room curtain move slightly, as though someone might be watching them. Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, she quickly pulled Miss Dixie back down in her lap. “Go, go, go!” she shrilled. Matt pushed on the gas and they sped off, Taryn unable to look back behind her.

  They were both laughing when they pulled back out onto the main road. “I think someone was home,” she giggled. “We’ll probably get the police called on us!”

  “We can’t be the first people to have done that,” he smiled.

  “No, but I feel guilty. Like we think Travis is guilty, even though he says he had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

  “Well, take a look at the pictures when we get home. Maybe you caught something that will help his case.”

  The pictures, however, were one-hundred percent normal. If there were any contradictions between the past and present, they were too minor for either Taryn or Matt to notice.

  “Not what I was hoping for,” Taryn frowned, closing the top of her laptop.

  “And what was that?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe I was hoping to see Cheyenne standing outside on their front porch, smoking or something.”

  Both were quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Taryn was falling behind in her class. She hadn’t been overly prepared yet anyway but at least knew what she was going to talk about. Now she was basically winging it. That wasn’t fair to her students. She might have been brought in under false pretenses but the students were paying for her knowledge, however limited that might be, and they deserved to get their money’s worth.

  “I just don’t think I can help this family,” she worried at last. “I’m really not that good of a detective, and I’ve hit brick walls everywhere I’ve turned. Miss Dixie isn’t picking up a damn thing and neither am I.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Matt replied thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re looking at it in the wrong light.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you’re getting more than you realize. Maybe you just haven’t been able to put all the pieces together yet.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘maybes,’” Taryn answered doubtfully. “But do you think I am getting in too deep?”

  “Yes,” Matt smiled. “But I always think that. Do you want me to call Rob?”

  Rob Orange was a friend of Matt’s and owned a small store called New Age Gifts & More in Lexington, Kentucky. He sold ritual aids and refurbished electronics and was extraordinarily helpful to Taryn when she was working in Vidalia at Windwood Farm.

  “It couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

  Before her experiences at Windwood Farm Taryn hadn’t known much about the world of the paranormal at all. She certainly hadn’t known there was such a business side to it. The first time she’d found herself in Rob’s shop she was astounded by the crystals, incense, oils, how-to books, altar cloths, and wands. And the prices, too! Apparently, the paranormal was big business these days. Later, after exploring the chat rooms, blogs, forums, and websites the Internet had to offer she’d found herself overwhelmed even more. Her “gift,” if that’s what you wanted to call it, scared her a little. It certainly made her nervous. And yet there were certification courses out there you could pay big money for to increase or unlock your psychic potential. Some of the information was presented in a straightforward, almost scientific manner. Other things were so far out there she’d thought they were jokes.

  People could be freaks.

  She liked Rob, though, and if he could help then it was worth a try.

  Taryn wouldn’t have ordinarily gone to bed alone; she would’ve stayed awake downstairs and waited for Matt. Or she’d have been the one to stay up late and crashed sometime around daylight when she was just unable to keep her eyes open any longer. But the headache plaguing her all day was now being trumped by the horrendous
pain in her left hip. She couldn’t figure out if it was muscular or nerve-related but it hurt like the dickens and getting comfortable was impossible. Sitting on the couch with her laptop hurt too much and the glare of the screen was making her head throb. She was even feeling a little dizzy.

  “I’m getting old,” she muttered to herself. The television was on for the noise, but she wasn’t watching it. All the activity and colors were making her jittery.

  Maybe it was her shoes. She DID buy cheap shoes. Payless wasn’t the bargain it used to be–cheaply made shoes that, price-wise, didn’t live up to their name. She’d walked around the property a lot that afternoon and maybe the ragged, off-brand tennis shoes just weren’t supporting her legs like they should’ve been. She was thirty now; she wasn’t the young whippersnapper she once was. A good bra and proper support on her feet were becoming increasingly important. It was funny: she never bought off-brand ice cream because she didn’t think the quality was the same and yet she thought nothing of putting cheap, worthless crap on her feet.

  Matt had spent the evening alternating between rubbing her temples and applying heat and pressure to her hip. She’d also popped some Extra Strength Tylenol and taken a long, hot bath–what Matt teased was warm enough to boil a chicken in. But she was still in pain and it was starting to take over not just her body but her mind as well. Irritated, frustrated, and confused, she tossed and turned while the throbbing grew stronger and stronger, making her whimper and moan into her feather pillow. Small tears leaked from her eyes and puddled beneath her cheek, threatening to soak the pillowcase. She could feel her nose start to fill and the new pressure in her face just added to the pain in her head. “Damn it,” she cried, sniffing back the tears and willing herself not to be a wuss. She knew from past experience that crying herself to sleep meant she’d spend the rest of the next day dealing with sinus issues; the first year after Andrew died she’d walked around with one sinus infection after another.