In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(94)

He parked the Silverado behind the Dodge Durango in the cluttered carport beneath plastic roofing that had yellowed with age and was covered in pine needles. He’d bought the truck for his father the prior Christmas, an extravagant gift, but without his father, Eric Reynolds would have become nothing. That’s what he’d thought. That’s what he’d been led to believe all these years. He’d been led to believe that without his father, he would have been in prison, a convicted felon, and never would have had all the accolades, the smiles and the waves and the greetings from old acquaintances, which seemed to always begin “Remember when . . .”

He stepped from the truck. The porch light over the side door clicked on, casting a sickly yellow light—such a contrast to the pure-white snow beginning to blanket the ground and flock the trees. The door pulled open, and his father stepped out while putting on his glasses. Despite his age, eighty-two now, he still looked and moved well. People said Ron Reynolds had become an older version of himself, still powerfully built with large forearms and chiseled features, still wearing the crew cut that had survived every decade and every style that had come and gone.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What did you do, Dad?” Eric Reynolds asked. “What did you do?”




Saturday, November 6, 1976



Ron Reynolds checked his rearview mirror for any sign of approaching headlights. Not seeing any, he turned off the road into the brush and proceeded slowly down the path. The right fender and hood were smashed, but the metal grille along the front bumper had done its job and absorbed most of the impact. Rather amazingly, both headlights still worked, illuminating a light snowfall.

Eric had come home wide-eyed and gibbering almost incoherently about needing to call the police, needing to let someone know. His pupils were as small as pinheads and as black as night. It took a strong slap across the face just to get him to calm down and to stop talking. He’d started to cry, great gasps and sobs, almost wailing. Then he started gibbering again, about Kimi Kanasket, about how he’d killed her.

Ron Reynolds had been angry when he’d learned that his son had snuck out of the house the night before the biggest game of their lives. He had been waiting for Eric to return, thinking about how or if he could discipline him, but when he heard those last words, his blood had run cold and his legs had gone weak.

“What are you talking about?” he’d asked.

Eric sat on the couch sobbing, shaking his head.

“Tell me, Goddamn it!”

And Eric told him. He told him about how he’d snuck out to drink beer with Hastey and Archie and Darren. He told him about Cheryl Neal going out with Tommy Moore. He told him about how, while they were driving home, they came upon Kimi walking along the side of the road.

“I didn’t mean to hit her, Dad. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to hit her.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean you hit her? Did you punch her?”

He told his father how they’d exchanged words, about how he had lost his temper and chased her into the woods in his car. “I just wanted to scare her,” he’d said. “But then we went over a hill and . . . and I couldn’t control it. The front end, it just came down. She must have fallen, Dad. She must have fallen, and the car, it just . . . We have to call somebody, Dad. We have to call someone.”

Ron had rushed outside, disbelieving until he saw the damage to the car. Then the gravity and magnitude of the situation hit home. It was the damage that made him realize that everything . . . everything they had worked for had potentially been lost.

When he went back inside, Eric had gotten up from the couch and held the telephone.

Ron ripped the cord from the wall and yanked the phone from his son’s grasp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“We have to call the police, Dad! I wasn’t going to, but we have to. We can’t just leave her there.”

“Call them and tell them what? Huh? What are we going to tell them? That it was an accident?”

“It was an accident.”

“Do you think they’re going to believe that? Four white boys chasing an Indian girl in their truck. To what end? Huh? To what end, Eric?”

“Just to scare her.”

Ron grabbed Eric by the hair. “Scare her? Or rape her?”

“No, Dad. No.”

“Drunk. Smoking weed. They’ll never believe your bullshit. I don’t believe your bullshit.”

“We wouldn’t do that, Dad.”

“They’ll prosecute you. They’ll prosecute all of you. And they’ll convict you. And everything, everything we have worked for since you were born will have been for nothing.”

“We can tell them, Dad. We can explain what happened.”

“And do you think that girl’s parents, all those Indians, are going to understand? Huh? What do you think they’re going to do? Just accept what you’re telling them? You think they’re going to say, ‘Okay, well, it was just an accident. Thanks for letting us know’? And what about tomorrow, huh? What about the game? Do you know how many college recruiters are going to be at that game? Do you have any idea the trouble I’ve gone to for you? It will be over. It will all be over—the scholarship, college, the NFL. You can kiss it all good-bye, Eric. Is that what you want?”