My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(111)

“Well then, let’s hear it when you’re ready.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled. Then she shouted, “I am not afraid of the dark!”

The timing mechanism beeped. She grabbed the rifle from the table, shot, and levered the second bullet as the first shot hit metal with a ping. She hit the target a second time, levered, shot again, and continued until she’d hit the four remaining targets twice in rapid succession. Already on the move, she picked up the shotgun from the second table and hit the first tombstone. Before it had hit the ground, she’d already pumped and fired at the second target, taking them left to right, the big gun barking. She placed the shotgun down and hurried to the makeshift storefront, stepped inside, squared her shoulders to the window and drew the pistol from across her body. She shot out the window and hit each target in sequence, multiple pings ringing out.

When she finished, she spun the pistol and fit it back in its holster.

“Time!” the range master yelled.

No one spoke, not a word, though every competitor now stood watching.

Wisps of smoke filtered in the morning air and brought that familiar, sweet smell of gunpowder. The three spotters each held up a fist, looking to one another as if uncertain.

Tracy had no doubt. She knew she hadn’t missed a target.

The range master considered the timer, looked to another competitor as if disbelieving, and considered the timer again.

“What is it, Rattler?” The question came from an older competitor seated on a barrel. He had his legs apart, his hands resting on his thighs. His cowboy handle was “The Banker” because he wore a bowler hat and a red-paisley vest with a gold pocket watch and chain. “Did it malfunction?” he asked, though his handlebar mustache twitched as he said it, and his mouth broke into a shit-eating grin.

“Twenty-eight point six,” Rattler said.

The other competitors looked at Tracy, then at one another. “Are you sure?” one of them said.

“That can’t be right,” another said. “Can it?”

Tracy’s time was six seconds faster than that of the fastest shooter, three seconds slower than her best time when she’d seriously competed.

“What did you say your name was?” the range master asked.

Tracy stepped from the storefront and reholstered her Colt. “The Kid,” she said. “Just the Kid.”



As the light of day faded, Tracy pulled her rugged cart across the dirt and gravel in the direction of the parking lot. It was the same cart her father had handcrafted for her. She’d retrieved it from storage, along with her guns, when she had gone to get some of her parents’ furniture. She’d moved into a two-bedroom home in West Seattle and needed to fill the rooms. It had a big yard for when Rex and Sherlock came to visit.

The Banker, who had kept a keen watch on Tracy throughout the rest of the competition, came up beside her. “You leaving?”

“I am,” she said.

“But they haven’t announced the winner yet.”

She smiled.

“What should we do with the belt buckle?”

“Is that your granddaughter I saw shooting today?”

“Yeah, she’s mine.”

“How old is she?”

“Just turned thirteen, but she’s been shooting damn near since she could walk.”

“Give it to her,” Tracy said. “Tell her to never stop.”

“Appreciate that,” he said. “Twenty years ago, I saw a shooter, went by the name Kid Crossdraw, I believe, though everyone just called her ‘The Kid.’?”

Tracy stopped.

The Banker smiled and continued. “I saw her in Olympia. Best shooter I ever saw, until today. Never saw her again after that, though. She had a father and a sister that were pretty good too. You wouldn’t happen to have heard of her, would you?”

“I have,” Tracy said. “But you’re mistaken.”

“What about?”

“She’s still the best shooter.”

The Banker played with an end of his mustache. “I’d love to see it. Do you know where she might be competing next?”

“I do,” Tracy said. “But you’re going to have to wait a bit. She’s shooting at higher targets now.”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





As always, there are many to thank. First and foremost, before anyone e-mails to tell me I don’t know my geography, Cedar Grove is a fictional town I created in the North Cascades. Yes, there is a Cedar Grove, Washington, but I’ve never been there. I created the town name because I liked the ring of it, and when I later learned of the actual town’s existence, I didn’t want to change it. So there!

I’ve received so much help from so many sources that it is hard to know where to begin. This book was a long time in the making, so some of the interviews and research go back several years. As always, the people acknowledged are experts in their fields. I am not. Any mistakes or errors are mine and mine alone.

Thank you to Kathy Taylor, forensic anthropologist with the King County Medical Examiner’s Office, for all of her insight on the excavation of a decades-old grave site in a wooded, hilly terrain. Thank you also to Kristopher Kern, forensic scientist and member of the Crime Scene Response Team with the Washington State Patrol, for his similar but distinct expertise.