My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(102)

He pulled the shoes from the wall and removed his gloves to put them on. His fingers quickly became numb. The toeholds on the snowshoes weren’t quite big enough for his boots, but he forced them on and adjusted the straps as best he could to secure them. He slid his hands back inside his gloves and stepped outside. The wind gusted as if to greet him, or to warn him. He lowered his head into it and followed the sled marks up the hill. The first few steps in the snowshoes were awkward, the wooden frames kept digging into the snow. He kept his weight distributed more on the balls of his feet and soon got the hang of it.

Within minutes, his thighs and calf muscles burned, and his lungs felt as though he had a weight compressing his chest and preventing him from getting enough oxygen to fill his lungs. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the next, using a mountain climber’s rest step to conserve energy and catch his breath. But he kept his body in motion, fearful that if he remained idle, his body would shut down. He took another step, straightened his leg, rested a beat, and continued, step after step, fighting off exhaustion and the unrelenting voice that he stop and turn back. He couldn’t turn back. He knew what this was about. House wanted his pound of flesh. He wasn’t hiding Tracy the way he’d hid Sarah, and he wouldn’t wait long for Calloway. He’d kill Tracy. The wind that battered him was also erasing the snowmobile tracks, making them more difficult to follow. Still he pressed on, up the mountain.

This time he intended to finish it.

He had no doubt that was also Edmund House’s intent.





[page]CHAPTER 67





Dan collapsed against the Suburban’s snow-covered hood, panting and wheezing. He couldn’t catch his breath. His chest ached and his lungs felt like they were about to explode, like he was suffocating. His face, hands, and feet burned from the cold. He could not feel his fingers or his toes. His legs and arms were leaden.

He had plowed back through the snow as fast as he could, using the trail he and Calloway had carved while getting to the property. He had not allowed himself to stop. He thought only of getting to the Suburban, radioing for help—if the radio even worked in the storm—and getting back to help find Tracy. A part of him still believed that Calloway had sent Dan away just to get rid of him, not wanting to put him even further in harm’s way.

Stumbling along the side of the car, he nearly fell, but gripped a door handle to keep himself upright. When he tugged open the door, snow tumbled from the roof onto the floorboard and seat. He gripped the steering wheel and used it to pull himself up, laying his flashlight across the bench seat. Inside, he took only a moment to catch his breath, which marked the air inside the car with white bursts. Dan removed his gloves, blew into his fists, and tried to rub life back into his fingers, which felt swollen. He flipped the power switch on the radio. It lit up—the first good sign. He unclipped the microphone, took a deep breath, and spoke in gasps. “Hello? Hello, hello.”

Static.

“This is Dan O’Leary. Is anyone there? Finlay?” He paused to catch his breath. “We are in need of any available backup at the Parker House property. Bring chainsaws. Trees across the road.”

He threw his head back against the seat, waiting, hearing only static. Swearing at the lack of response, he turned the dials as he’d watched Calloway do before, and tried again. “Repeat. In immediate need of any available backup. Send ambulance. Chainsaws. Parker House property. Finlay, are you there. Finlay? Dammit!”

Again, the response was static. Dan repeated the message a third time, got no answer, and put the microphone back in place. He hoped someone had heard him, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He could feel his body already wanting to shut down, his limbs becoming heavier. His mind and his instinct for self-preservation were fighting against his need to go back into the freezing wind and blinding snow.

He flexed his hands, blew on them a final time, and fit the gloves back on. Then he grabbed the flashlight from the seat and pushed open the door.

The radio crackled. “Chief?”



Tracy studied the white concrete dust and efflorescence leaching from the cracks. She brought her fingers to the tip of her tongue. The paste tasted bitter and acidic. She smelled it and detected the faint odor of sulfur.

She sat back and looked up at the scarred dirt ceiling. Above it grew a forest of ferns, shrubs, and moss—an entire ecosystem that had bloomed and died with the four seasons for millions of years. The decaying plants and decomposing animals had trickled back into the soil, where the persistent rain and melting snow forced the chemicals they created to seep through the rock and earth. Concrete was not meant for such damp conditions. The sulfates caused chemical changes in the cement, weakening the cement binder.

She got to her knees and picked at the concrete. It had become pitted and came away in small flakes. Tracy tugged on the chain and felt the plate attached to the wall give just a fraction. The bolts embedded in the concrete had likely rusted and expanded, causing the concrete behind the plate to crack further and allow for water intrusion. She pulled again. The plate pulled half an inch from the wall. Tracy felt behind it and her fingertips traced etchings where someone had chipped at it—Sarah. She’d been working the plate free of the wall, but twenty years ago, that would have been a more difficult task.

“How? How did you do it?”

Tracy stood and stepped as far away from the wall as the chain allowed, defining the area Sarah also could have reached. She walked in an arc. The light overhead continued to fade. Shadows crept down the concrete wall, shading Sarah’s message.