In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(33)

Tracy parked at the curb and stepped out, approaching a waist-high chain-link fence. She reached for the latch to the gate but hesitated when she noticed two signs, the first warning of a “Guard Dog on Duty” with a picture of a German shepherd. The second sign depicted a hand holding a large-caliber revolver and the words “We Don’t Call 911.” Tracy took a moment to consider the patch of crabgrass on the opposite side of the fence, but she didn’t see any signs of a vicious beast. That didn’t stop her from keeping a close watch on the corner of the house as she pushed through the gate and made her way up the concrete walk. She treated strange dogs the way she treated the ocean. She gave each a healthy dose of respect and never turned her back on either. The porch had been modified to accommodate a wheelchair. She took that as another good sign that Earl Kanasket was living there.

The screen door had been propped against the side of the house, the hinges rusted and broken. Not that it would have done much good—the mesh was shredded. Tracy thought again of the guard dog. She knocked and took one step back and to the side, her hand on the butt of her Glock, not interested in being in the line of fire in case either posted sign was accurate. Inside the house a dog barked, but far from ferocious, it sounded tired and hoarse. The door handle jiggled, and an instant later the door popped open with a shudder. An old man sat in a wheelchair, his weathered face a road map of years. Next to him stood a shaggy-haired dog, its face white, its eyes watery and unfocused. The animal’s tongue hung out the side of its mouth, as if the effort to reach the door had exhausted him.

“Good afternoon,” Tracy said, employing her most disarming smile. One advantage she had over her male colleagues was that people were less intimidated by a strange woman knocking on their door. “I’m hoping you’re Earl Kanasket.”

“I am.” Earl’s voice sounded as hoarse as the dog’s bark, but his eyes were clear, and so dark they made Tracy think of a crow’s eyes. “And who are you?”

“My name is Tracy Crosswhite. I’m a detective from Seattle.”

“Detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What would a detective from Seattle want down here on the rez?” It was a legitimate question, and Tracy didn’t detect any hostility or concern in Earl Kanasket’s tone. She figured at eighty-plus years of age, you didn’t get worked up about too many things.

“A chance to talk,” Tracy said. “About your daughter, Kimi.”

“Kimi?” Earl leaned back in his chair as if pushed by a gust of strong wind. “Kimi’s been gone forty years.”

“I know,” Tracy said. “And I know this is probably a shock coming out of the blue like this.” She paused. This was where Earl Kanasket would get angry and tell her to leave, or get curious.

“Yeah, you could say it is.” His thinning white hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung down his back. “So what’s this about?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a story, Mr. Kanasket. I wonder if I could come in and sit down and tell it to you?”

Earl studied her a moment. Then he nodded, just a small dip of his chin. “I think you’d better,” he said, tugging on the wheels so his chair rolled backward. The dog also retreated with effort. Tracy shut the door and followed Earl into a tired but clean room just to the right of the entry. The air was stale and held the odor of a recent fire in the hearth. The furnishings were functional—a couch and two chairs for sitting, an oval-shaped throw rug over a hardwood floor for warmth, a flat-screen television for entertainment, and a lamp for light.

As Earl positioned his chair so that his back was to the window facing the field of kale, Tracy stepped to a chair near the fireplace. Rust-colored dog hair on the arms and seat indicated that this was the dog’s preferred spot, but for now he remained content to be at his master’s side. Tracy sat. She’d given some thought on the drive about how to begin. “I graduated from the police academy with a woman named Jenny Almond. Her father was Buzz Almond, the sheriff of Klickitat County.”

“I know that name,” Earl said. “But he wasn’t sheriff. Not yet, anyway. He was a deputy. He came when Kimi went missing.”

According to the Accurint records, the Kanaskets moved to the Yakama Reservation not long after the recovery of Kimi’s body from the White Salmon River.

“That’s right,” she said.

“He said he’d find Kimi. I think he meant it.”

“Did he tell you what happened to Kimi?”

Kanasket took his time, seeming to ponder each question, as if age and wisdom had taught him patience before opening his mouth to speak. “They said she threw herself into the river.”

“Is that what Buzz Almond told you?”

“I don’t remember who said it, just that it was said. Didn’t believe it then. Don’t believe it now.”

“Well,” Tracy said. “I’m not certain Buzz Almond believed it either. He kept a file, Mr. Kanasket.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the file, then stood and handed it to Earl Kanasket. He took it tentatively, as if uncertain he wanted to hold it, and Tracy didn’t blame him for that. The file documented the worst memories of his life, memories she was certain he’d take to his grave.

“It appears Buzz Almond continued to investigate what happened to your daughter, which wouldn’t have been the usual way things were done in the sheriff’s office. The usual way would have been for him to turn his file over to a detective. So the fact that he kept the file indicates, perhaps, that he didn’t agree with the conclusion reached by others.”