In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(17)

Buzz was up early to get his own choice seat, though not along the parade route. He intended to wait outside Tommy Moore’s apartment. Moore had not returned over the weekend; Buzz had periodically checked while on patrol, and he’d asked other deputies to do the same on their day and swing shifts. No one had seen Moore’s white Ford truck. But Buzz figured come Monday, Moore had to go to work or risk getting fired.

So Buzz returned to Husum. The main intersection for the unincorporated town consisted of a gas station, industrial buildings, and a few warehouses. Just north of a grocery store, he turned into a dirt-and-gravel parking lot littered with trucks, tractors, and harvesting machinery in various stages of disrepair. All had been dusted with an inch or two of snow. He drove along the side of the well-worn stucco building for M&N Mechanics to the back of the lot. His hunch had been accurate. Moore’s white Ford sat parked near the long staircase leading up to the second-floor apartment.

Buzz killed the lights, pulled in behind the truck bed, and shut off the engine. He sat a moment, watching the windows of the apartment for any sign of life. Seeing none, he stepped out into the chilled air and quietly shut the door. The yard held the distinct odor of petroleum. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked alongside Moore’s truck, where he noticed the front fender and hood had been smashed in. He bent to take a closer look. The damage was significant, indicating a high rate of speed, and the lack of any rust or flaking paint was a sign that it had been recently inflicted. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that someone had banged out the buckled fender to keep it from rubbing on the oversize tire, which had deep treads and grooves, likely for off-road activities.

Buzz returned to his vehicle, grabbed his Instamatic camera, and took a few photographs of the damage. Then he pocketed the camera and stepped carefully to the wood stairs. Ice beneath the thin layer of snow made them slick. He held on to the railing and climbed deliberately. At the landing he peered inside a window but didn’t see any light or any movement. He knocked on the door and stepped to the side. He heard the sounds of someone startled awake, indecipherable voices followed by footfalls.

“Who is it?”

“Klickitat County Sheriff’s Office. Open the door, please.”

Silence ensued, followed by more muffled voices.

Buzz knocked again. “Open the door, please.”

After a few seconds, the door pulled open, revealing a well-built Native American man wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Buzz had already met the roommate, William Cox. This was Tommy Moore. Moore had black hair that touched his shoulders and a body adorned with tattoos, the largest an American eagle—wings spread, talons extended—across most of his chest. He looked up at Buzz with sleepy blue eyes that, with his bronzed skin, reminded Buzz of the kids with surfboards he and Anne had watched on Waikiki Beach on their honeymoon. Those were eyes that could break a girl’s heart. Maybe Kimi Kanasket’s.

“Tommy Moore?”

“Yeah,” he said with a hint of defiance.

“Where’ve you been the last couple days?”

“Visiting my mother.”

“Good for you. A son should visit his mother. Where does she live?”

“On the rez in Yakima.”

“We’ve been looking for you, Tommy.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Moore looked back inside the apartment where his roommate stood in a T-shirt and sleeping pants.

“Need to talk to you about Kimi Kanasket.”

“Heard that too.”

Buzz could feel the heat seeping out the open door, along with a dank odor that reminded him of the smell of wet wood. “We can do it standing out here in the cold, but I’m a lot better dressed for it than you.”

Moore stepped back and allowed Buzz to enter. He’d been inside the apartment on Friday night. It was what he’d expected to find for two young men. The furniture was mismatched essentials—a couch, a chair, and a television. Nearby was a square table with two folding chairs beneath a chandelier made from deer antlers. The walls were unadorned by pictures or photographs, and the ceiling was stained where the roof had leaked. A garbage pail overflowed with fast-food bags. Cigarette butts and two spent joints filled an ashtray on the coffee table, the odor of tobacco and weed strong.

Moore moved toward the ashtray.

“Leave it,” Buzz said. He wasn’t interested in busting them for pot, and the cigarette odor didn’t bother him. He’d been a pack-a-day smoker in the Marines, but when Anne said she wouldn’t marry a smoker, he quit cold turkey.

“You have any weapons in here?” Buzz asked.

“Couple hunting rifles, a few knives,” Moore said.

“Where are those?”

“In the closet in my bedroom.”

“Can I shower?” the roommate asked. “I have to go to work.”

“Go ahead,” Buzz said. The young man glanced at Moore before leaving the room. Buzz reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and removed a spiral notepad and pen.

“I got to get to work too,” Moore said.

“Good thing you have a short commute.”

Moore sat on the couch.

“What happened to your truck?”

“Hit a tree on the rez.”

“When was that?”

“The weekend.”

“This past weekend?”