In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(95)

Eric dropped onto the weathered couch, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face.

“What did you tell the others?” Ron said. “What are they going to say happened?”

Eric looked up at him. “Nothing. They’re not going to say anything. Their parents don’t know they snuck out. They’re going to say they were in bed, getting ready for the game.”

Ron pointed a finger at him. “And that’s what you’re going to say. Do you understand?”

“Dad, I can’t—”

“You’re going to say you were home in bed getting ready for the game. And I’m going to say I was here with you. Do you understand? I’m going to lie for you, boy. I’m going to put my ass on the line and lie for you. Do you know what that means? It means that from this point forward, we’re joined at the hip. You go to prison, and I go to prison with you. You understand? I’m not going to prison. So you’re going to say you were home in bed. You got that?”

Eric nodded.

“I want to hear you say it. Say it, damn it!”

“I was home in bed.”

“And where was I?”

“You were home too. You were home with me.”

“Where is she? Where did you leave her?”

“The clearing. She’s in the clearing.”

“Give me the keys.”

“What? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to clean up your mess. I’m going to make this right,” he said. “Now get your ass in bed. And don’t you get up. You understand me? Don’t you get up, and don’t you even think about talking to anyone about this.”

Ron crested the top of the hill and drove slowly down the slope. The snow continued to fall. A light dusting now covered the field and began to accumulate on the windshield. The car’s headlights inched across the ground to where the slope flattened, until illuminating an irregularity, what looked like a log, the top covered in snow.

Ron stopped the Bronco and slowly got out.

She lay on her side, not moving. The snow had begun to cover her, turning her black hair white. The cold was biting now. Ron heard a noise, what sounded like a man moaning. He looked back up the slope. The trees began to shake and sway, and the snow went airborne as if from a sudden explosion. The moaning increased, and a strong breeze carried the snow in a gust down the slope, hitting him flush in the face and rushing past him. He turned and watched the wind continue on, the flakes swirling clockwise along the edge of the clearing, the branches shimmering. Then, just as suddenly as the wind had started, it died, the snowflakes settling gently onto the ground.

Ron stepped closer to the body. Kimi Kanasket. The girl looked broken, though there wasn’t much blood, probably because of the cold and the snow. The ground had been chewed up by the truck’s tires. Good, he thought. It would look as though someone had gone four-wheeling.

He bent to a knee. Moisture seeped through his sweatpants. Uncertain how to carry her, he reached beneath her, one hand at her hip, the other at her shoulder, and rolled her toward him. He tried to stand, but he stumbled. He tried a second time and managed to get to his feet, though he was off balance. He worked to reposition the weight, nearly falling backward, nearly dropping her.

When he’d regained his balance, he carried her to the back of the Bronco. The spare tire hung off the tailgate, and he couldn’t lower the gate with his arms full. He moved to the side and rolled her out of his arms into the bed, where he’d placed an open sleeping bag. She landed with a dull thud, arms and legs flopping. Ron was breathing heavily, white gasps that the wind quickly dissolved. His heart raced, and he was perspiring, despite the cold snow melting atop his uncovered head and dripping down his face.

He covered her body with the sleeping bag and quickly got back in the cab, rubbing his hands in the blast of heat from the vents. When he could flex his fingers without feeling pain, he put the car in reverse, looked back over the seat, and saw something at the edge of the clearing in the muted glow of the backup lights.

A man?

Reynolds’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his chest. He jumped out of the car into the snow, but when he looked back he saw nothing now but swirling snow.

He got back in and quickly drove from the clearing, avoiding the hill and driving back along the path leading to 141. He’d thought about where to take her. The rafting boats put in up by Husum, near the bridge. He could get the Bronco close to the river there. People would assume she’d jumped off the bridge.

He checked the mirrors. No cars followed. He looked over the seat into the bed of the truck. The sleeping bag had started to slip down, and he could see the top of her head.

He made a right on Husum Street and shut off the Bronco’s lights as he drove across the concrete bridge. Just off the bridge, he turned right into a dirt lot and drove forward, parking amid the scrub oak, careful not to get too close to the edge that dropped to the river, but hoping to camouflage the car in the trees.

He shut off the engine and took another moment to gather himself. He checked the rearview and side mirrors, took a deep breath, and pushed out of the car. With his hands free, he was able to lower the spare tire and open the tailgate. He gripped the sleeping bag and slid her body toward him. When he got her to the gate, he lifted her again. The snow had melted, and her body didn’t feel as cold. It was easier to carry her this time, not having to stand from a crouch. He was better balanced and could more evenly distribute the weight. He heard the river—not a roar, but a hushing sound like the din of traffic on a freeway. It grew louder as he stepped closer to the edge.