Page 14
As Jenna made the short drive to the neighboring farm, her thoughts were caught up in last night’s lucid dream.
“Marie Bates’s tombstone,” she murmured to Jake. “It was in that dream I told you about. Roger was huddled against Marie’s stone like it could shield him from whatever he feared.”
Jake just listened, not wanting to interrupt when she was piecing together the fragments of her visions.
“The way we found him this morning,” Jenna continued, shaking her head slightly, “curled up at the base of the same tombstone...” She trailed off.
“The killer dragged the body there,” Jake said. “He chose that place deliberately. And you picked up on that location in your dream not long after it had happened. Do you think that Holbrook...?”
Jenna’s gaze returned to the road as they neared the entrance to Verdigris Ranch. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t see what happened or how. Just Roger and that awful branding image … then Spelling’s call woke me up.”
It seemed strange to have such detailed information and yet no answer to that final question. But in her dreams she had no view of the living, only hints muttered by the dead—or, in this case, an unnamed voice that came from God only knew where.
As the cruiser passed beneath the arch of Verdigris Ranch’s gate, Jenna noted a shift in the setting. The wrought-iron letters spelling out “Verdigris” were entwined with climbing ivy, meticulously maintained to enhance rather than obscure the ranch’s name.
“Someone’s got time on their hands,” Jenna mused, noting the precise landscaping that bordered the entrance.
“Or they pay someone to do all this,” Jake offered.
The driveway unfurled before them, flanked by fields where cattle grazed serenely on lush green pasture. Everything was in its place; the fences were freshly painted, the barns bore no peeling paint or warping wood, and even the farm equipment gleamed as though it had never known a hard day’s work. It was a working ranch, sure, but one with a veneer of opulence.
“Let’s see what Mr. Holbrook has to say for himself,” said Jenna, as the cruiser approached the main house.
The farmhouse rose from the manicured landscape like a crown jewel—a stately two-story structure with creamy white siding, its wraparound porch adorned with hanging ferns that swayed gently in the morning breeze. Jenna studied the house as they approached, noting how each shutter was precisely positioned, each brick in the walkway meticulously set—no cracks, no weeds, no imperfection. It all left her with the unnerving sensation that they were stepping onto a stage set, one where every prop was placed to convey a story that might not be entirely true.
“Place looks like it’s been plucked from a magazine,” Jake remarked, eyeing the well-manicured hedgerows that lined the drive.
“Too perfect,” Jenna muttered.
“Like its owner,” Jake added with a snort. “Ethan Holbrook certainly knows how to present an image.”
“Never been out here before,” Jenna mused. “Might be worth taking a look around, see what Holbrook’s so proud of.”
Jake nodded, his gaze flicking to her briefly. “Good idea. Also, let’s get him talking—you never know what might slip out.”
As they parked in the driveway, Ethan Holbrook emerged from the front door, his presence commanding even at this distance. His dark hair with touches of gray at the temples was neatly combed. His shirt, a crisp blue button-down, was rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular and tanned forearms—a contrast to the softness of his attire.
“Morning, Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” he called out, his voice smooth as he waved an arm in the direction of the Bates ranch. “I’ve heard sirens. Something happening over there I should know about?”
Jenna stepped out of the car and met his gaze squarely. She was careful to keep her face neutral. “Good morning, Mr. Holbrook,” she said.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Holbrook replied. Pointing toward the neighboring ranch, he said, “I see there’s a lot of activity over there on the Bates property. What’s going on?”
“We’re afraid there’s bad news,” Jenna said. “Roger Bates was found dead this morning.”
Ethan straightened, the casual demeanor slipping momentarily to reveal a flicker of genuine surprise—or an expertly feigned one. “Roger? That’s unsettling news indeed. Was it some sort of accident?”
“No,” Jenna told him. “He was killed by an intruder on his property.”
“Killed? First Clyde Simmons, now Roger... You don’t think it’s the work of the same killer, do you?”
“We’re still piecing things together, Mr. Holbrook. It wouldn’t be prudent to speculate at this juncture,” she said.
Ethan just shook his head as if at a loss what to say.
“Speaking of piecing things together,” Jenna shifted the topic, “I noticed you weren’t at the town meeting last night.”
“Yes, about that,” he sighed. “I figured my... reputation around these parts might be more of a distraction than help. I’m aware I’m not exactly the town’s favorite son right now, but I’m hoping that will change.” His eyes met Jenna’s, an unspoken challenge there. “I have plans for Verdigris Ranch, and I believe in time people will see the benefits.”
Before Jenna could delve deeper, Ethan pre-empted her next line of inquiry with an ease that was almost disarming. “If you’re wondering where I was during the unfortunate times of Clyde’s and Roger’s deaths...”
He paused, glancing toward the horizon as if gathering his alibis from the very air itself. “I was down at the cattle auction in Colstock for the first, stayed in a motel overnight. For the second—well, I assume the murder must have been sometime after the town hall meeting. Late last night I had a long conversation with two of my ranch hands about making some repairs on the outer fences. My men can confirm that.”
There was no hesitation in his voice, no shiftiness in his eyes; he was either telling the truth or he was exceptionally good at lying.
“Roger Bates...” Ethan continued. “I can’t fathom who would want to harm the man.”
“Did you have an issue with Clyde Simmons?” Jenna asked.
“Clyde and I had a spat over my cattle. He thought a couple might be infected with TB. But there’s no way my stock could’ve contracted it. Still, I complied—had to put them down. A regrettable loss, but necessary, I suppose.”
Jenna pondered if Ethan’s nonchalance was a mask for something darker. Could his disagreement with Clyde have been motive enough for a man who seemed to prize control above all else?
“Wasn’t happy about it,” Ethan continued. “But Clyde was just doing his job. Bovine tuberculosis is no joke—it could spread to people, you know.”
“Of course,” Jenna replied evenly. As they conversed, her eyes roamed over Ethan’s stature—the set of his shoulders, the casual fold of his arms. There was an arrogance there, she noted, but it wasn’t necessarily the arrogance of guilt. It was the same confidence she had seen in countless successful individuals who believed they were untouchable.
When the conversation wound to a halt, Jake said, his tone deliberately light. “We were hoping you could show us some of what you’re doing here at Verdigris Ranch.”
“Of course,” Ethan replied, a hint of pride in his voice. He led them away from the main house toward a series of low-lying buildings with solar panels glistening on their roofs.
“Here’s one of our projects,” he said, “These are our energy-efficient cattle sheds.”
Jenna noted the sleek design, the way the structures seemed to merge with their surroundings rather than imposing upon them. She walked closer, inspecting a shed’s entrance, lined with an assortment of brushes—natural pest control, as Ethan explained, minimizing the need for chemical treatments.
“Over there,” Ethan stood in the doorway and pointed to a cluster of wind turbines in the distance, “we generate most of our own power. And we’re experimenting with hydroponics in that greenhouse. Trying to grow feed without soil erosion or excessive water use.”
Jake whistled softly, clearly impressed despite himself. Jenna took it all in—the ingenuity, the investment. It was hard not to admire the vision, but she reminded herself that a shiny surface could easily distract from rust beneath.
“Very innovative,” she acknowledged. “Not the kind of things you see on every ranch.”
“It’s the future,” Ethan said confidently. “The way I see it, we have to evolve if we’re going to survive. I’m talking about the whole species, not just folks around these parts.”
Jenna thought the man knew how to talk a good game, but whether it was all a facade for darker dealings remained to be seen.
“Before all this,” Ethan gestured broadly, encompassing the high-tech operation around them, “I played the markets in Topeka—venture capitalism. It’s a world apart from ranch life, but it taught me to see potential where others see dead ends.”
He stepped over to a nearby stall, running a hand along the sleek hide of a heifer as if to emphasize his point.
“Verdigris Ranch isn’t just my livelihood; it’s my passion project.” His voice held a note of pride, tempered by something softer, more personal. “This isn’t about turning a profit. It’s about rebuilding a legacy.”
“Your family’s legacy?” Jake probed.
“Exactly,” Ethan replied, leading them away from the mechanical buzz of the barn and into the quiet of the surrounding fields. “This land... Verdigris Ranch, it belonged to my great-great-great-great grandfather, Dutch Holbrook. He was a pioneer in these parts, built this place up from nothing.”
Jenna could almost picture the original homestead, the pioneering spirit of a man carving a life from the untamed wilderness. Yet she knew too well how quickly fortunes could change, how legacies could crumble like dry leaves in an unrelenting wind.
“Lost it though, didn’t they?” Jenna asked, watching Ethan’s face for any flicker of emotion.
“Three generations ago,” Ethan confirmed, a wistful note creeping into his tone. “Family squabbles, poor management. By the time my father told me stories of the old place, it had become little more than a myth.”
Jenna felt the weight of history in his words, a sense of reclaiming what once was lost. Sentimentality wasn’t evidence, but Ethan’s story was information, and information was her currency.
“Let’s head back,” Ethan suggested, after they had completed a loop of the property, showcasing composting facilities and a pilot program for methane capture from livestock.
“Sure,” Jenna replied, keeping her expression neutral. “Appreciate you showing us around.”
They walked back to the farmhouse, Ethan chatting about sustainability and profit margins while Jenna weighed every word for hidden meaning.
“Eric Helm used to own this place before me,” Ethan said, casting a proud glance over the land. “He decided to retire, sell off, and I... I took the chance. This land’s been calling me ever since I can remember. There’s a resonance here that feels right, like coming home to a place you’ve never been but always knew.”
The phrase struck Jenna with the force of a cold breeze. “The land remembers.” The voice from her dream echoed eerily through her mind, a spectral whisper that seemed to stir the very air around them. She pushed the disquiet aside, focusing instead on Ethan’s words.
“Transforming Verdigris Ranch into something eco-friendly has been my greatest pride,” Ethan continued. “It’s more than just a business, it’s a legacy I want to leave behind.”
“Thank you for showing us around, Ethan,” Jenna said. “You’ve got quite the operation here.”
“Happy to share,” Ethan replied with a smile.
Jenna paused before springing a question she’d harbored since Lily Cummings’s veiled hints. “I heard something troubling recently,” she began, watching Ethan’s face intently. “That Clyde might have been on the verge of exposing some sort of serious corruption in the ranching community. Do you know anything about that?”
For a moment, Ethan’s expression remained unchanged, but then a shadow flickered across his features. “Corruption?” he echoed. “No, can’t say that I do. Though I reckon there are always rumors flying around in places like this. Small towns, smaller secrets.”
He hesitated, then added with a wary squint, “That sounds to me like something that Lily Cummings might want to follow up on. I’m sure you’ve talked with her. Has she mentioned anything about that to you?”
Instead of answering his question, Jenna said politely, “Well, thanks again for your hospitality, Ethan. We should be getting back.”
“Anytime, Jenna,” Ethan replied, his easy charm back in place. “Good luck finding whoever is responsible for Clyde and Roger. It’s unsettling to have such tragedy strike so close to home.”
As she walked beside Jake, the awareness of Ethan’s gaze lingered on her like the touch of an unwelcome ghost. As they settled into their vehicle, she turned to him, her thoughts already churning.
“We need to head back to my office,” she told Jake. “We’ve got to regroup and go over everything we know.”
“Jenna,” he began cautiously, “what do you make of Ethan Holbrook? After talking to him, seeing all that, what’s your take?”
“He’s charismatic, I’ll give him that, but it’s not about whether we like him or not. It’s whether he fits into this twisted puzzle.” Jenna paused for a long moment, then added, “And no, he doesn’t look any less guilty to me than he did before we talked to him.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jenna squinted against the glare of the morning sun as she eased the cruiser through the undulating landscape. Verdigris Ranch was behind them now, but it lingered like an afterimage in her mind. The difference between the modern sheen of that ranch and the weathered charm of the neighboring lands seemed to reflect the community’s unspoken divides.
She asked Jake, “Did you catch how Ethan’s expression changed when I mentioned Clyde’s corruption investigation?”
“Yeah, it was like flipping a switch,” Jake said, picking up on her line of thought. “And he immediately asked about Lily Cummings. He wanted to find out what she might have said to us.”
“Maybe he had good reason to ask. She told us yesterday that she was sniffing around some leads herself. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jake. I think Lily might be in danger.”
“Let’s hope we’re wrong,” Jake finally said, though the grim edge to his voice belied the sentiment. “But she refused protection yesterday,”
“Maybe she should get it whether she likes it or not,” Jenna replied, her tone carrying an edge of command that left no room for argument. “It’s our job to keep people safe in this town, no matter what.”
She reached for the radio clipped to her shoulder. With a flick and a twist, she established the connection. “Donovan,” she called out, her voice firm and clear, “I need you to organize a watch on Harvest Haven. Keep an eye on Lily Cummings. It’s for their own safety, so if she gives you any trouble, put her in touch with me directly.”
The crackle of affirmation from Officer Mike Donovan buzzed through the speakers, but Jenna barely registered it. She knew he would do his job, and she thanked him and ended the contact.
As they continued on their way, something Ethan Holbrook had said echoed through Jenna’s mind: “This land’s been calling me ever since I can remember.” It reminded her of the voice she’d heard seemingly from the sky in her dream: “The land remembers.”
Did those words somehow connect Ethan to her dream? She couldn’t see how. Ethan Holbrook was alive and well, and the disembodied voice she’d heard couldn’t possibly be his. But whose voice was it? And she still couldn’t guess what it meant by its dark pronouncement to the already-dead Roger Bates: “You are too small for the land. You are too small for the sky. The sky is too big for you.”
She tried to push the dream from her mind, at the same time knowing that it was somehow the key to unraveling this case. Sooner or later, she’d have to crack its meaning—if not, a killer would remain free, and more people would probably die.
As they pulled into Trentville, the usual bustle of small-town life had been replaced by a haunting stillness.
“It looks like a ghost town,” Jake muttered.
Storefronts that would typically be welcoming customers stood mute, their windows reflecting back the nearly-empty streets. It was clear that the news of another murder had spread through the small community like wildfire, leaving many of its residents shuttered inside their homes, fearful of what could be lurking in their midst.
“Everyone’s scared,” Jenna responded, keeping her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “They’re looking to us for answers we don’t have for them yet.”
She eased her cruiser into the familiar spot beside the Sheriff’s Office, the tires crunching over gravel that hadn’t been smoothed out in years. The building’s brick facade wore its age like a badge of honor, standing solemnly as a beacon of law and order.
“Let’s get to it,” she said, and they stepped out into the humid air of mid-July.
Inside, the dispatcher gave Jenna and Jake a nod heavy with the unspoken knowledge of last night’s meeting. Jenna returned it with a tight smile.
Her office could be a sanctuary of sorts from the chaos that had erupted in her jurisdiction. She pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted her was one of controlled disarray. Files stood in neat piles, each a story, a piece of puzzles she dedicated her life to solving.
Jenna sank into her worn office chair and leaned back, allowing herself just a moment of respite. Jake sat on the edge of her desk, his eyes scanning the office. Jenna watched him, grateful for his presence. He was a dependable anchor in the storm that seemed to be brewing.
Jenna brought up the recent crime scene photos on her phone—a tree with branches splayed like the veins of a leaf—that had been burned into both of the victim’s chests. The pain that had killed two men had come from a branding iron made from that mysterious design.
“Alright,” she said, “let’s break this down. We’ve got two murders with the same M.O., both victims branded with this strange symbol.” She tapped the photo as if to punctuate the gravity of their situation. “Clyde was investigating some kind of corruption, and Ethan Holbrook’s behavior is more than a little suspicious.”
“And he hasn’t exactly made himself a welcome member of the community.”
“That’s right. But it’s not much to go on.”
Jake leaned forward, his mouth opened, ready to weave his own insights into their case, when suddenly the office door swung open with such force that it reverberated against the wall.
Mayor Claire Simmons stood in the threshold, her usual poise unraveled into disarray. The meticulous care she took in her appearance had given way to an image marked by distress—clothes less than pristine, hair slightly askew. Her eyes, rimmed red not just from the stresses of authority but from personal loss and lack of rest, scanned the room with a fury that seemed to consume her.
“Mayor Simmons—” Jenna started, taken aback by the intrusion and the raw emotion displayed by the woman who had so often opposed her methods.
“Another murder?” Claire’s voice pierced the stillness of Jenna’s office like a siren, ratcheting the tension in the room to an unbearable pitch.
Jenna rose, feet planted firmly on the ground as if to brace herself against the onslaught. “Mayor Simmons, I understand you’re upset—”
“Upset?” Claire’s voice spiked with incredulity, interrupting Jenna with a vehemence that vibrated through the room. “I’m way past upset, Sheriff. I’m furious. My brother is dead, Roger Bates is dead, and you seem no closer to catching this killer than you were yesterday! Who’s next to die, Sheriff Graves? Do you even have any idea?”
Jake stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his presence a calming force. “Mayor, we’re doing everything we can—” he said, his voice the epitome of patience.
“Well, it’s not enough!” Claire snapped. She turned back to Jenna, her eyes blazing. “I’m warning you, Sheriff Graves. If you don’t start producing results, and fast, I’ll have no choice but to take action.”
“Are you threatening my job, Mayor?” Jenna asked sharply. This woman was supposed to be an ally, but here she stood, brandishing ultimatums like weapons. Jenna was keenly aware that Claire’s pain was real, the loss of her brother a wound that wouldn’t soon heal. She also knew that, in the eyes of the mayor and perhaps many others, Jenna was responsible for every unsolved crime, every unanswered question that troubled Genesius County.
“I know I can’t fire you directly,” Claire replied, her voice low and dangerous. “But I can set the wheels in motion for a recall election. A vote of no confidence from the public. How do you think that would go after last night’s meeting?”
The words were a sharp reminder of the power dynamics at play. Mayor Simmons’ thinly veiled threat cut deep, not because Jenna doubted her ability to solve this case, but because she understood all too well the fickle nature of public opinion. Last night’s town meeting had been rough, a torrent of fear and frustration vented by a community on edge. It didn’t matter how hard Jenna and her team were working when immediate peace of mind was what mattered most to the townsfolk.
Jenna’s mouth opened to strongly object to mayor’s threat, but the shrill ring of her phone cut into the boiling confrontation.
“Graves,” Jenna barked into the receiver.
“Jenna, it’s Donovan.”
Jenna’s spirits took another blow. A call from the officer she’d just assigned to look after Lily Cummings’s safety couldn’t bode well.
“What’s going on?” Jenna asked.
“We’ve got a problem. Lily Cummings isn’t at Harvest Haven. Her employees are worried - they say it’s not like her to disappear without notice. Nobody here can guess what’s happened.”
The words hit Jenna with the force of a physical blow, confirming her recent fears. Lily, the vocal activist whose passion for justice rivaled even Jenna’s own, missing? If Lily had stumbled onto something related to the case, if she had been targeted...
“Understood,” Jenna said tersely. “I’ll be right there.”
Terminating the call with a decisive click, she looked up to find Jake’s eyes on her, his expression a mirror of her own concern.
“We need to go. Now.” Her directive was sharp, brooking no argument, and together they moved toward the door.
Jenna turned to Mayor Simmons, whose gaze flickered between them, sharp and searching. “Mayor, we’ll have to continue this discussion later. We may have another victim.”
Claire Simmons’s mouth opened, then closed, her anger now tempered by confusion. The lines on her face seemed to deepen, and for a moment, Jenna could see the politician warring with the sister, grief clawing just beneath the surface.
“Another victim?” Claire’s voice was quieter now, but still laced with the steel of authority and the tremor of fear.
“We don’t know, but time is critical,” Jenna said, her words clipped. She saw the shift in Claire, a crack in her armor, and something within Jenna softened. It was a grim reminder that behind every badge and title were just people trying to protect their own. But there was no space for sentiment—not now. Jenna turned away with Jake at her heels and left her office.
The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the empty hallway, leaving behind a stunned Claire Simmons, momentarily forgotten in the face of this new emergency.
They burst into the open air, the morning sun doing little to chase away the chill that Jenna felt in her bones. “Donovan can’t find Lily Cummings,” she informed Jake. “Even the Green Gaia Guardians at Harvest Haven don’t know where she is either. Jake, make sure our team knows to keep an eye out for Lily and … well, for anything unusual.”
“Already on it,” he replied, pulling out his phone to set the wheels of law enforcement into motion.
The cruiser sat at the curb, and Jenna slid behind the wheel, the keys jangling as she fired up the engine. As the vehicle lurched forward, tires biting into the gravel, she felt the familiar pull of duty mixed with fear.
Navigating Trentville’s streets as quickly as safety allowed, the town’s charm suddenly felt to her like a veil over something insidious. The bright facades of the Sunflower Café and the Centaur’s Den bar looked more like painted stage sets than pieces of a community. The threat of a recall election loomed like a storm cloud ready to burst—but even that threat seemed insignificant in light of a possible new murder.
Then Jenna felt her commitment harden. Trentville was her home, these people her charge, and she’d be damned if she’d let politics—or threats—undermine her authority or shake her commitment.
And she would not allow herself to be swayed by intimidation.