Page 22

Larry Clark’s house was a modest one-story structure with weathered siding and a shingled roof that had seen better days. A porch light was on above the front door.

“Looks like he’s home,” Jenna murmured, indicating Larry’s silver sedan.

She looked at her team, noting the grim resolve on each face. “Let’s go,” she said softly.

They spread out according to her instructions: two headed around the house to cover the back entrance, and another moved toward the workshop that was off to one side. Officer Tebbe fell into place behind Jenna and Jake.

At the front door, Jenna pressed the bell, the chime echoing hollowly inside the house. She leaned closer to the doorframe.

“This is Sheriff Graves with the Genesius County Sheriff’s Department,” she called out, her voice clear and authoritative. Silence greeted them, no shuffle of feet or murmur of a voice from within.

“Mr. Clark, open up. We need to talk to you,” Jenna tried again after a moment’s pause, tension tightening her shoulders. Still, no response came. She exchanged a glance with Jake, seeing her own frustration mirrored in his eyes.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” she murmured to him, her intuition twitching like a live wire beneath her skin.

“Agreed,” Jake said quietly, his hand instinctively resting on the service pistol at his hip.

“Let’s prepare to breach,” Jenna announced. She texted the other members of the team: “No response, we’re going in now, stay alert.”

“Officer Tebbe,” Jenna commanded, “use your lock pick. We’re going in quietly.”

Rob Tebbe, a lanky officer with nimble fingers well-suited for delicate tasks, nodded and approached the door. With practiced ease, he knelt and worked the kit, his movements precise and fluid.

Finally, with a soft click, the door yielded. Jenna stepped across the threshold first, her senses heightened, every nerve attuned to the environment. Only silence met them.

“We’re going to do a search,” Jenna told her team. “But be on guard.”

They dispersed into separate quarters of the house, meticulously rummaging through closets, cautiously sliding open drawers, every nook and cranny examined under the penetrating glow of their flashlights.

It wasn’t long before Jenna heard the distinctive voice of Officer Tebbe from a nearby room.

“Sheriff, you better see this,” he called out, an edge of uncertainty in his tone.

She moved swiftly, Jake close behind, until they reached the cramped space that Tebbe had claimed. On the wall opposite them hung four picture frames, regimented in their alignment, and each bordered by a black cloth drape. Three frames were filled with photographs, faces captured in still life, their eyes seemingly following Jenna as she approached. The fourth frame, conspicuously void of content, loomed like a silent accusation.

Jenna’s breath caught as her gaze fixed on the faces within the frames. They were not strangers; they were the very people that had haunted her dream—Rachel Cavanaugh, Ezra Shore, and Caroline Weber. She’d never met them alive, yet there they were, looking back at her again from beyond the grave.

“Jake,” she whispered.

“Your dream,” he murmured softly so that only she would hear, the realization dawning on him as well. Jenna nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the chilling display.

“We know of three who went missing,” she said to Jake. “And two of those were found in the church walls. I believe that the third is there too. But the fourth frame …”

They both understood the implications all too well—the empty frame wasn’t just odd, it was an omen. The vacant space amid the portraits of the deceased signaled an intention, a promise yet to be fulfilled. The draped black fabric, mimicking funereal customs, was reserved for a future victim—an anticipatory tombstone, waiting for the face of the next soul unfortunate enough to cross paths with the homeowner.

“Clark expects to commit another murder,” Jake said. “This is a confession in waiting.”

Jenna nodded. There was no denying the conclusion that Larry Clark, the unassuming piano tuner with the gentle smile, was indeed the one orchestrating this macabre symphony of death.

“Document everything, photograph everything,” Jenna instructed Officer Tebbe, her voice betraying none of the dread that tightened around her heart.”

She walked through the house to the back door and asked the other members of her team, “Anything? Seen anyone?”

When they all said no, she told them, “Check inside and behind the workshop and then join us in the house.”

Jenna pulled out her phone, dialing Spelling’s number. The line buzzed briefly before he picked up.

“Spelling, it’s Graves,” she said, her voice steady despite the chilling realization still fresh in her mind.

“What is it?” His voice echoed back, gruff and authoritative over the line.

“We found something at Larry Clark’s place,” Jenna started, her gaze drifting back to the hauntingly empty picture frame draped in black. “Photographs of Cavanaugh and Weber are hanging on his wall. Each one is framed and draped in funeral black. And there’s more.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Spelling processed this information and waited for Jenna to speak further.

“And?” he prompted after a moment.

“There’s a third one,” she hesitated, unable to explain how she knew who it was. “I think it might be a man Frank told me about—an autoharp player who disappeared back in the early 70s.”

“So you still think there was another victim?” Spelling asked, his voice betraying a hint of skepticism. “Another body in the church?”

“Affirmative,” Jenna said, her gaze fixed on the empty frame. “Three portraits, two bodies. An empty picture frame awaiting a fourth victim. It’s a pattern.”

The silence stretched between them as Spelling digested this new piece of information. Finally, he responded with a resigned sigh, “Alright Graves... we’ll keep searching.”

“And there’s an empty frame,” Jenna continued, swallowing hard against the lump forming in her throat. “It’s also draped in black. That suggests Clark expects to commit yet another murder. I’ll have Officer Tebbe send you the photos.”

“Copy that,” Spelling answered, his tone now edged with urgency. “Any notion as to his whereabouts?”

“No, but his car is still here.”

“Good. On foot, he won’t get far. Not without being seen. I’ll call in some more of my men to go looking for him. I’ll set up a base of operations at the church. We’ll keep searching here for the body, and around town for Larry.”

“Agreed,” Jenna said, and ended the call.

“Spelling will have the highway patrol canvasing the town,” Jenna explained to her team. “We have the advantage. He’s out there, exposed, while we have numbers and resources.”

“Let’s make them count,” Jake added.

“The Colonel is setting up at St. Michael’s,” Jenna informed them crisply. “It’s our base now. We’ll coordinate the search from there.”

The officers nodded, their postures straightening. They knew the gravity of the situation without a word more.

“Keep looking,” she instructed the team, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “Keep combing through the house. Every drawer, every crevice—anything that could link Clark to the victims, or suggest where he might have gone. Or who he might be after next.”

Tebbe acknowledged with a terse, “On it, Sheriff.”

The rest moved to resume their meticulous search, their hands donning gloves once again, their eyes sharp for the subtlest clue.

With a last look at the officers, Jenna turned towards the door, Jake falling into step with her. The humid night air hit her face as she stepped onto the porch, the darkness of the small town pressing in around them. Her senses were heightened, attuned to the whispers of Trentville, as if the very atmosphere could betray Clark’s whereabouts.

“Let’s get back to the office,” Jenna said to Jake, her voice low but carrying easily in the stillness. “We can pull in a couple more officers for the search. He can’t have gotten far.”