In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(82)
“Maybe because it wasn’t something that he could duplicate.”
“Like what?”
“Photographs. He could have taken photographs of Eric Reynolds’s car—or, more specifically, the tires.”
“He was interested in whether they matched the treads he’d photographed in the field.”
Jenny handed Tracy a box of assorted teas. She chose chamomile, not wanting caffeine. She was amped enough and knew she’d have difficulty sleeping.
“Can we go after Eric with what we have?” Jenny asked.
“Unfortunately, the crime lab said there isn’t enough in the photograph we sent to be definitive about whether the tire treads match the treads made in the clearing. The medical examiner said the same thing about the bruising on Kimi’s back and shoulder. Without more, I seriously doubt we could get a charge to stick. After forty years, there’s just too much uncertainty.”
“So where do we go from here?” Jenny asked, opening another cabinet and pulling out a sugar container and bottle of honey.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. My focus has been on the mechanics of what happened. Maybe I need to change focus and consider why it happened.”
“What about the animosity over the mascot?” Jenny said.
“There were a few articles about it in the newspaper,” Tracy said, “but it didn’t seem to be that controversial, and I don’t see high school kids getting too worked up about it. That’s one thing Eric Reynolds said that I do believe. He said the parents were more concerned about it than the students. I taught high school. Some of the students couldn’t even tell you the school mascot, and those who could really didn’t care. They’re more concerned about who they’re taking to the formal, where they’re going after the game on Saturday night, and how they’re going to get alcohol and get laid.” Tracy leaned back against the counter, thinking. “Something else had to have happened that night.”
The kettle whistled. Jenny poured hot water into two mugs and handed one to Tracy. “If Eric Reynolds is orchestrating this, maybe there’s something on his computer or his cell phone—a text message with Lionel or Hastey. We have enough to get a judge to issue a subpoena, which would allow us to take a look.”
Tracy had considered that course of action. “I don’t see Reynolds being that careless. Again, if we’re right, we’re talking about someone who’s not only managed to keep a forty-year secret but also got the others to keep it.”
“Agreed, but Hastey’s a drunk and Lionel’s no rocket scientist. One of them could have sent Reynolds an e-mail or a text.”
“Maybe,” Tracy said. “But if we do look and we’re wrong, we’ve alerted Eric that he’s a suspect.”
“He already knows he’s a suspect, Tracy.”
“True.”
“What other option do we have?” Jenny asked. “He’s had forty years to cover his tracks. And unless we can come up with something else, it feels like we’ve hit a dead end.”
CHAPTER 29
The rooster did not crow in the morning, and Tracy wondered if the bird had met its doom in the jaws of a coyote or a raccoon. That was the problem with crowing too loudly. You gave away your position and made yourself vulnerable. It made her think of Eric Reynolds and his proactive decision to invite her to interview him. She’d love to find a way to use it to make him vulnerable.
She put on her running clothes and laced up her shoes, hoping the cool air would invigorate her and the endorphins would help her to think of something she hadn’t yet considered.
She took the longer run to the clearing, starting to feel a connection to it. Far from being scared of ghosts there, Tracy found the place peaceful. When she arrived, she noted that the leaves of the shrub Archibald Coe had most recently planted had already started to turn brown and now were looking wilted, and not for a lack of rain.
“I can’t help you without something more,” she said to the spot where Kimi Kanasket had lain. “I wish I could. You don’t know how much I wish I could—for your father and for so many others like you. But I need something more.”
She looked up the hill, half expecting the leaves to begin to shake and the branches to sway and the wind to sweep down the hill and hit her in the face as it had that first night. But the wind didn’t come, and neither did any inspiration.
When Tracy got back to the farmhouse, she sat down at the table and wrote out her thoughts on possible motives, including romantic relationships, petty jealousies, some conflict between the Ironmen and élan and his crew, or with Tommy Moore. She hoped that getting the possibilities on paper and out of her head would give her a new direction, but like the wind that morning, inspiration did not come.
She unplugged her phone from the charger, started up the stairs checking messages, and noticed that she’d missed a call.
The number was not associated with a name, and Tracy didn’t recognize it, though it had a Seattle area code. The caller had left a message, so Tracy played the voice mail. When the caller identified herself, Tracy stopped climbing the stairs. The voice was tentative and unsure, nothing like the strong businesswoman Tracy had spoken with days earlier. Tracy didn’t wait for the message to finish. Halfway through, she pressed “Call Back” and hurried up the remainder of the stairs and into the bathroom.