Page 15

Jenna glanced over at Jake in his usual place beside her, as she drove along the country roads that led to Zach Freelander’s farm. He seemed to be simply scanning the acreage they passed, where fences traced the contours of the land. Frank Doyle’s reflection in the rearview mirror was quite different, a study in tension, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond those slightly rolling fields.

As they neared their destination, the buildings of Zach Freelander’s farm came into sight. Faded red structures, relics of bygone prosperity, watched over fields where livestock grazed. The home itself sat hunched under the midday sun, its once proud facade surrendering to the relentless march of time, like so many parts of Genesius County.

Pulling up to Freelander’s farmhouse, Jenna cut the engine. Her door creaked in protest as she stepped out into the July heat, which hung over the farm like a thick blanket. Frank eased himself out of the back seat, his movements slower, weighed down not just by age but by the gravity of their visit. Jenna observed him, recognizing the toll that time and perhaps also guilt could exact on a man.

“Is that him out there?” Jake asked, pointing to a figure out near the barn.

“That’s him,” Frank replied. “He’s working in his pigpen.”

They made their way in that direction. With each step closer to the pen, the sounds of the farm grew clearer—the grunts of pigs, the creak of weathered wood, and the soft murmur of leaves in the summer breeze. Jenna could see that the pigpen was actually a small square field with some grass and a low shelter in the center. Zach was standing in the middle of a muddy area that provided the pigs with a skin-cooling wallow. The two half-grown piglets rooting around in the grass gave the newcomers a glance and then ignored them.

Zach Freelander’s attention was consumed by a large sow before him, an obstinate creature that seemed determined to contest every push and pull he exerted. His graying hair stuck to his forehead, and his overalls, once a bright blue, were stained with the earthy tones of the farm. When he caught sight of Jenna and her companions, his body tensed, and his eyes, sharp and wary, met hers across the distance.

The air was ripe with the scent of manure and hay, a pungent reminder of the cycles of life and decay that played out daily on this land. It was a world apart from Jenna’s usual beat, and she knew that it was even more alien to Jake. Frank knew the farmers better than they did, but he was being silent right now. She stepped cautiously along the perimeter of the mud, her boots sinking slightly into the yielding earth.

“Mr. Freelander?” Jenna called out, her voice firm against the backdrop of rural sounds, her badge catching the light. “I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves. I was hoping we could talk to you.”

“What do you want with me?” was the unfriendly response.

“We’d like to ask you about Caroline Weber.”

Zach’s reaction was immediate and telling—muscles tensing, jaw tightening. With a heave that spoke of years wrestling more than just livestock, he turned away from them and stared at the distance for a long moment, then drew a deep sigh. Turning back toward them with a scowl on his face, he extracted himself from the muck.

Jenna watched as the old farmer’s eyes flicked toward Frank. There was history here, thick and unyielding as the mud that clung to Zach’s boots. She made a mental note of the silent exchange, aware that every detail might be a piece of the puzzle that had haunted Trentville for so long.

As Zach wiped his hands on the already stained fabric of his overalls, his voice carved through the air, each word reflecting disdain. “Ain’t nothing to talk about that I didn’t already tell Frank and that useless Sheriff Pulliam 35 years ago.”

Then he glared directly at Jenna, “You might as well come on up to the house, sheriff lady. I’ll deal with this sow later.”

They followed him to his farmhouse, a typical white two-story home that looked out over the land. On the front porch, Zach stopped and kicked off his muddy boots, slipping his feet into a cleaner pair of shoes he’d left there. With a glare at the feet of the newcomers, he pointed to a boot-scraper and a mat next to the door.

Jenna and Jake and Frank all scraped their shoes cleaner, and then Zach opened his front door. Inside, the sparse furnishings were well-used, the wall adorned with photographs of generations past, sepia-toned smiles speaking of better times when the farm had been newer and occupied by a large family.

Zach led them to the living room, moving with the weary gait of a man burdened by more than age. He sat on the edge of an armchair that had seen its share of years, its fabric worn thin at the arms. His posture remained rigid, as if ready to spring into defense or denial. With no other comment, he gestured for the three intruders to sit down.

Jenna chose her position carefully, selecting a chair that allowed her to observe both Zach and Frank. She felt the unease that permeated the room and steeled herself, knowing she needed to tread carefully. The truth was a delicate thing, and although the information they sought had lain dormant for too many years, she was determined to coax out some answers.

“Mr. Freelander,” she began, her tone even and measured, “can you walk us through what happened before Caroline Weber went missing?”

Zach’s gaze shifted to the window. He seemed to be looking beyond the farm to a past he had revisited in his mind countless times. Finally he began to speak, the bitterness evident in his clipped words.

“She was fixated on moving to Chicago,” he said. “Caroline believed there was more for her out there—bright lights, big city.” His hands, rough and stained from farm work, clenched into fists. “I told her she had everything she needed right here. The Centaur’s Den where she sang ... she could’ve been the most shining star of Trentville. And the two of us—we could have raised a family right here on this farm.”

Jenna watched as Zach’s eyes grew distant, lost in the memory of a dream that had splintered with time.

“Go on,” she prompted softly, her own experience with loss lending her voice an empathetic tone.

Zach continued, a bit of animation in his tone now, as he conjured the image of Caroline’s determination.

“She had this fire in her, you know?” He glanced at Jenna, as if seeking some sign of understanding. “The night before she planned to leave, she told me she’d be on the first bus out in the morning. Nothing I said would change her mind.” His voice fractured, a fault line of pain breaking through his gruff exterior. “Never got to say goodbye properly. That was our last conversation.”

A hush descended upon the room, thick with unspoken accusations and the dust of years gone by. Jenna’s gaze remained fixed on Zach as she leaned forward, her posture mirroring the intensity of her inquiry.

“And you never heard from her again?”

He shook his head no.

“Do you know if anyone in town ever heard from her?” The simple question veiled the complexity of emotions churning beneath the surface.

Zach’s response was immediate, his head shaking with a fervor that left no room for doubt. “Not a peep—or at least none that anyone ever told me about. And that wasn’t like her at all.” His voice was that of a man who had played the same moment over in his mind, searching for missed signals, unspoken words. “She had friends here, people she cared about.”

His hardened gaze turned toward Frank, accusation sharp as a knife. “I knew something had happened to her, but those two lawmen,” he jabbed his thumb in Frank’s direction, “couldn’t be bothered to investigate properly.”

The air seemed to thicken with tension, enough to suffocate the truth that had eluded them all these years. Frank’s eyes darted between Jenna and Zach, a silent spectator to the exchange, his feelings of guilt manifesting in the slump of his shoulders and the creases deepening around his mouth. Jenna could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind, the memories of the case resurfacing with each revelation.

The former Sheriff’s lips parted, ready to defend actions long past, yet Jenna cut him off with nothing more than a steady look. She understood Frank’s remorse, his burden, but now was not the time for excuses or justifications. She needed to keep Zach Freelander talking. This man’s answers could lead them to truths that had long been buried among Trentville’s storehouse of secrets.

Focusing her attention on Zach, she drew from the details stored in her mind, conjured from Dr. Stark’s autopsy findings. “Mr. Freelander, did Caroline have any distinguishing marks? A tattoo, perhaps?” It was a calculated probe, a necessary step nearer to closure.

Suspicion clouded Zach’s eyes as they narrowed, a stark contrast to the open fields visible through the grimy windows. “Yeah, she had a tattoo. A butterfly on her left shoulder.” His admission hung between them, pensive and heavy.

Jenna and Jake exchanged a knowing glance. They’d seen that very same tattoo on one of the corpses just this morning.

“Why did you want to know about that?” Zach growled.

The corners of Jenna’s mouth drew tight as she steeled herself for the task at hand. “Mr. Freelander,” she began, her voice low and even, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we’ve found Caroline’s body. It was concealed in St. Michael’s Church.”

She watched as Zach’s rough exterior, hardened by years of labor and loss, seemed to crumble before them. Color bled from the farmer’s face, leaving behind a ghostly pallor that spoke volumes of the shock and heartache that gripped him. For a moment, time appeared to stand still, the faded wallpaper and family photographs becoming a backdrop to his silent agony.

In his corner of the room, Frank shifted, his discomfort rippling through the air. Jenna caught his eye, reading the layers of guilt that shrouded him like a second skin. The former Sheriff’s involvement in the original investigation—or lack thereof—was a burden he still carried, its weight palpable in the way he avoided Zach’s accusatory stare.

The stillness in that old living room shattered like glass when rage took hold, contorting Zach’s features into something fierce and raw. He surged to his feet with an energy that belied his age, the wooden floorboards creaking under the sudden shift.

“You!” he spat, pointing directly at Frank. “You knew all along, didn’t you? You and Pulliam, you knew what had happened, knew she was dead. You covered it up!”

The farmer’s accusations kept flying like daggers. “That’s why you didn’t investigate—because you already knew. And you didn’t want to look into the why or where of it.”

It seemed as though the whole room held its breath. Frank looked stunned.

“How could I have known …?” Frank began.

“Because of what the carillon played that night,” Zach shouted, getting to his feet, pointing at Frank. “Because of what those bells said.”