My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(101)

“If you’re going up there, I’m going with you.”

“We need more men, Dan. One of us needs to go back and get more men.”

“You don’t even know if I can reach anyone, do you?”

“You’re wasting time,” Calloway said. “Right now, I need you to do what I tell you. Tracy’s alive, but she might not be much longer.”

“How do you know?”

“Because House isn’t trying to hide this time. He could have killed DeAngelo and he could have killed Parker. This is like a trail of bread crumbs.”

“For who?”

“For me. I’m the one he wants. I’m the one he hates.”

“That’s all the more reason to wait.”

“If I wait, Tracy might die. I lost Sarah, and I lost one of my best friends. I’ve lived with that too, for twenty years. I’m not going to let that son of a bitch take Tracy.”

“Roy—”

“We don’t have time to debate this, Dan. One of us needs to go back and get on the radio and get more men. You don’t know where the mine is. Now go get help or they’re both going to die.”

Dan swore under his breath and handed Calloway the shotgun. “Here. Take this.” Calloway tried to hand Dan the rifle but Dan shook his head. “I can move faster without it.”

Calloway stepped to the back door, pushing it open. Wind rushed into the room, bringing flakes of snow.

“Roy.”

He turned back. The big man had always had a presence about him. He was the law in Cedar Grove, and everyone living there felt better knowing it. But now, Dan saw a man beyond his prime, setting out into a blizzard to find a psychopath.

Calloway nodded once, stepped out, and was swallowed by the storm.





[page]CHAPTER 66





The generator continued to hum, but the available light was quickly fading. Tracy did not have enough slack in the chain to reach the box and crank the handle herself. The filament had dulled from white, to red, and now a pale orange. The daunting onset of darkness made her think of Sarah chained to the wall—her baby sister, so afraid of the dark. What had she done all those hours alone? Had she thought of Tracy? Had she blamed her? Tracy looked to the lone patch of carpet leaning against the concrete wall at the back of the room and wondered if that had been the place where Sarah had sat. She touched it, needing to feel a connection, and noticed faint but distinct scratch marks in the concrete. She pulled back the carpet and leaned closer, seeing grooves in the wall. She traced them with her fingertip and realized they were letters.

Tracy bent closer, blowing away the fine white dust. She traced the grooves with her fingers. The letters became more distinct.

I am

Her stomach tightened in a knot. She blew harder and wiped with a greater sense of urgency, tracing the indentations.

I am not

She scraped at a second line of letters just below the first row.

I am not afraid

A third line was scratched below the second, though the grooves were not as distinct.

I am not afraid

She ran her hand farther down the wall but did not feel any other grooves. She angled herself so her body did not cast a shadow on the wall, but she did not see the rest of their prayer. Sarah had apparently never finished it.

To the right of the prayer, Tracy felt more scratch marks but these were vertical grooves. Again she angled her body so as not to block the remaining light.

//// //// //// //// ////

//// //// //// //// ////

/

Tracy sat back, hand covering her mouth. Tears streaked her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” she said. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Another thought came to her. The reason for the calendar was obvious, Sarah was keeping track of the days of her captivity, but why their prayer? Of all the things Sarah could have written, why would she have written something only she and Tracy knew? She could have written her name. She could have written anything.

Tracy turned and looked to the door in the wall. Her gaze migrated to the black Stetson on the shelf and it brought a realization.

“He told you, didn’t he? He told you I was the one he wanted,” she whispered.

Sarah must have feared Tracy would someday be chained to the same wall, and she had left her a message—but it wasn’t just the words that were meant for Tracy. There was more to it than just their prayer.

“What did you use?” She felt the scratch marks again. Sarah clearly hadn’t made them with her fingernails.

She had to have used something sharp and rigid. Twenty years ago the concrete would not have been weakened by the years of moist soil above it and damp air.

“What did you use?” She looked about the floor. “What did you use? And where did you hide it from him?”



The mine shaft would be more than a mile and a half up the hill, if Calloway could even find it. When Parker House had led Calloway up the mountain twenty years earlier, nature had already reclaimed much of the mining road. In the intervening two decades, the lush vegetation had likely completed its reclamation—not to mention the fact that the road was now buried under several feet of snow.

Calloway directed the beam of his flashlight over the snow, searching for footprints. He instead found sled marks, the kind made by a snowmobile. The tracks led away from a shed behind the house and carved a path up the mountain. He stepped inside the shed and swept the light over an ATV and rusted and dilapidated equipment, but did not see a second snowmobile. His breath marked the air. Calloway directed the beam along the wall, stopping when it illuminated a pair of antique snowshoes made of wood and woven rope, hanging on a hook.