Page 17 of In Her Sights

Jenna leaned forward, her elbows on the table. It was no surprise to her that Frank could identify a man from years past just based on a description from a dream, but the details he recalled seemed especially vivid this time.

“He was a good kid,” Frank continued, warmth softening his voice. “Said he was an aspiring writer, traveling across the country to ‘discover America.’ He reminded me of those beatnik writers from back in the day—restless souls wandering the land in search of stories.”

Jenna nodded. It fit well enough with the image she’d met in the dream.

“Mark stayed at the Twilight Inn the night he came to my office,” Frank went on. “Even back then, it was nothing fancy.”

She knew the small, run-down motel across from Hank’s Derby truck stop. The building itself hadn’t been updated in decades, so it was probably much like it had been back when Mark Reeves had stayed there. And the place where she’d encountered the man in her dream would be the logical choice for catching a bus near there.

“Next morning,” Frank continued, “we met up and headed out to Shannon Creek in Whispering Pines Forest. Seemed like the perfect spot for what he was after.”

“Sounds like you two hit it off,” Jenna observed, trying to reconcile the friendly, adventurous spirit Frank described with the worried figure she’d seen trying to get on that bus.

“We did,” Frank agreed with a nod. “Mark could talk Hemingway and Kerouac like they were old buddies of his.” Frank’s eyes were distant, reflecting on the literary debate he’d shared with the young writer. “We stood there in the stream, casting our lines, and he spoke ofThe Sun Also RisesandOn the Roadwith such passion, I believed he might just be the next great American novelist.”

Jenna could picture the scene: two kindred spirits connected by their love for words, surrounded by the dense canopy of pines, engrossed in the exchange of ideas. Shannon Creek, with its clear, burbling waters, and the surrounding forest that earned its whispering moniker from the hushed sounds of wind through pine needles, had always been a favorite hideaway for anglers and contemplative souls alike.

“His eyes,” Frank continued, “they lit up when he talked about his travels, the people he met, the stories he’d gathered. There’s a special kind of fire in people who chase the written word, Jenna. Mark—he had that fire.”

He then vividly recounted their evening, filled with the sweet satisfaction of a successful day of fishing. The creek’s bounty had seemed to jump onto their hooks with enthusiasm, and theyeagerly reeled in their catches. As the sun began to set, they made their way back to Frank’s home, where they feasted on their freshly caught meal.

“Mark savored that meal like it was fit for a king,” Frank said, a half-smile creasing his weathered face. “He was grateful, you know? For the simple things—good food, good company. Things I appreciate, too.”

Frank fell into a silent reverie for a moment.

“Before we parted ways that night,” Frank said, “he shook my hand and said he’d write. I was sure that he meant it. I still have to believe that he was sincere at the time.”

“Did he tell you where he was headed?” Jenna inquired.

“No,” Frank said, shaking his head. “And he didn’t tell me where he’d come from, either. But he left with that firm promise to keep in touch, a promise unkept. And of course he knew my address.”

Frank’s eyes clouded over, his gaze drifting toward the window where a robin inspected the dew-covered grass. “You know,” he began, his voice softer now, his tone one of contemplation, “from what you’ve ever told me about your dreams—the lucid ones …”

He inhaled deeply.

“Not just anybody talks to you in your sleep,” he continued. “So I reckon that if Mark were still around, breathing the same air as us, he wouldn’t have showed up in your dream like that.”

She nodded slowly, her mind replaying the haunting vision of Mark Reeves she had seen.

“In the dream, he was at the bus stop, but he couldn’t get on the bus,” she said. “It stopped for him, but finally it just…left without him.” Jenna paused, a bitter possibility creeping into her voice. “Maybe it means he never left Trentville at all. That he couldn’t leave, not really.”

“That probably explains why he never contacted me,” Frank muttered. “It didn’t occur to me back then that his life might have ended here. I just thought I must have overestimated his … reliability.”

“But did anyone report finding a body?” Jenna asked. “You were sheriff, surely you would have heard about that.”

“You’re right, of course. If a stranger had died anywhere in the county, naturally or otherwise, I’d surely have been informed of it sooner or later. But I didn’t get word of anything. Did you notice anything else in the dream? Anything peculiar?” Frank asked, his investigator’s instinct surfacing.

Jenna closed her eyes, sifting through the ethereal memories. “A clock,” she said, opening her eyes to meet Frank’s questioning look. “I heard it ticking, loud and insistent, like a warning. He complained about the sound. Then he said it was all about time.”

“Time,” Frank murmured. “It can be important in our line of work, but what can it mean for the dead?”

That question tripped off another memory for Jenna.

“How long ago was it when he came through here?” she asked. “Was it about five years ago?”

Frank leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as though sifting through memories again. “No,” he replied after a pause. “It was almost exactly ten years ago when we went fishing.”

“Ten years…” Jenna echoed. “That’s strange. In the dream, he kept talking about ‘five years.’ He mentioned that number more than once, but he never explained it.”

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