My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(110)

She waved as she backed down the driveway into the street, then again as she drove away, wiping a tear from her cheek. When Tracy reached the freeway entrance, she passed it, no longer anxious to leave, and instead turned right and drove into Cedar Grove. The downtown area looked better in the sunshine. Everything always did. It seemed more vibrant, the buildings not as dilapidated. People walked the streets and cars were parked in front of the storefronts. Maybe the mayor would succeed. Maybe he’d revitalize the old town. Maybe he’d even get a developer to finish Cascadia and make Cedar Grove a vacation destination. It had once been a place of great joy and comfort for a young girl and her sister. Maybe it could be again.

Tracy passed the single-story homes with kids in snow clothes playing in the yards, the remnants of their snowmen almost completely melted. Farther out of town, she came to the larger homes on the bigger plots of land, the ones with rooflines protruding above manicured hedges. She slowed as she approached the largest hedge, hesitating only briefly before she drove between a gap in the hedge framed by two stone pillars and up the driveway.

She parked in front of the carriage house and walked to where the weeping willow had once stood like a majestic guardian of the property. Sarah used to climb the braids and pretend the grass was an alligator-infested swamp. She’d dangle above the lawn, crying out to Tracy to rescue her from their snatching jaws and razor-sharp teeth.

Help! Help me, Tracy. The alligators are going to eat me.

Tracy would step carefully along the path to the stone closest to the tree, lean out over the lawn, and stretch out her hand.

I can’t reach, Sarah would say, fully enveloped in her fantasy.

Swing, Tracy would reply. Swing to me.

And Sarah would start to move her legs and body to get the braids to swing. Their fingers would brush. On the next pass, they would touch. Finally, she’d be close enough for Tracy to grasp her hand, and their fingers would intertwine. Now let go, Tracy would say.

I’m scared.

Don’t be afraid, Tracy would say. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. And Sarah would let go, allowing Tracy to pull her baby sister to safety.

The front door of the house pulled open behind her. Tracy turned. A woman and two young girls stood on the porch. Tracy guessed the girls’ ages to be twelve and eight. “I thought it was you,” the woman said. “I recognized you from your picture in the newspaper and on the news.”

“I’m sorry to intrude.”

“That’s okay. I heard you used to live here.”

Tracy looked to the two girls. “Yes, with my sister.”

“It sounded so horrible,” the woman said. “What happened. I’m so sorry.”

Tracy looked to the older sister. “Do you slide down the staircase banister?”

The girl grinned and raised her eyes up at her mother. Her sister laughed.

“Would you like to come in?” the woman said. “Take a look around? The house must hold a lot of memories for you.”

Tracy considered what had been her home. That was exactly the reason she’d driven out to the property, to begin the process of reminiscing about the good times her family had shared there, instead of the bad. She smiled again at the two sisters. They were now whispering mischievously. “I think I’m okay,” she said. “I think I’m going to be okay.”





[page]EPILOGUE





Tracy adjusted the knot of her red bandanna just off center, dug at the ground with the toe of her boot, parted her legs, and squared her shoulders. Then she mentally went through the progression of shots.

“You ready, Kid?” the range master asked. “I can go over the sequence again if you need. I know it can get confusing keeping it all in your head. We like to give everyone a fair shake, especially the beginners.”

On this early Saturday morning, a month after Tracy had returned to Seattle, the sun filtered through the canopy of trees. The sunlight added intrigue to the fa?ades of makeshift storefronts built to replicate an Old West town, and cast shadows across the dozen other competitors. Dressed in old-fashioned cowboy attire, they chatted amicably or readied for their turns to shoot.

Tracy looked again at the targets through her yellow-tinted shooter’s glasses. “Sure,” she said, sensing he wanted to run through it again. Besides, her father had always taught her to take any competitive advantage she could get.

“Two shots each,” he said. “Then you move to the second table and use the shotgun to take down the tombstones. When you’re finished, you run to that storefront and shoot out the window at the five orange targets. One shot each.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I got it.”

“Okay, then.” He stepped back and called out. “Shooter ready?”

“Ready,” she said.

“Spotters ready?”

Three men raised their heads and stepped forward. “Ready.”

“On the beep,” the range master said. “You got a line you like to use?”

“A line?” she asked.

“It’s something to let me know when you’re ready. Some people say things like, ‘I hate snakes.’ I say, ‘We deal in lead, friend.’ It’s from The Magnificent Seven.”

She considered what she’d always said in competition, what Rooster Cogburn had said in True Grit right before he’d ridden across the open field, guns blazing. Fill your hands, you son of a bitch. “Yeah, I have one.”