My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(18)

“He’s a Goddamn felon, Roy. A convicted rapist who has scratch marks on his face and arms and no one to account for his whereabouts. How the hell is that not enough?”

“I said the same thing to Vance, and he made the same argument to Judge Sullivan. House did his time for that crime.”

“I called King County, Roy. House got off on a damn plea because the police screwed up. They say he raped and beat that poor girl for more than a day.”

“And he did his time, James.”

“Then you tell me, Roy, where’s my daughter? Where’s my Sarah?”

Calloway looked upset. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“So this is what, just one big coincidence? They let him out, he comes to live here, and now Sarah’s missing?”

“It’s not enough.”

“He has no alibi.”

“It’s not enough, James.”

“Who then? A drifter? Someone passing through? What are the odds of that?”

“The bulletin is out to every law enforcement agency in the state.”

James Crosswhite rolled up the topographical map and handed it to Tracy. “Take this to your mother down at the American Legion building. Tell her to give it to Vern and get the teams together. We’re going back out. This time I want the search done in a systematic manner so there is no margin for error.” He looked to Calloway. “What about dogs?”

“The closest team is in California. Flying them is a problem.”

“I don’t care if they’re in Siberia. I’ll pay whatever it takes to get them here.”

“It’s not the cost, James.”

Her father turned to Tracy as if surprised she hadn’t left. “Did you hear me? I said get going.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Do as I say, damn it!”

Tracy flinched and stepped back. Her father had never raised his voice to her or to Sarah. “Okay, Daddy,” she said, walking past him.

“Tracy.” He gently touched her arm, taking a moment to regain his composure. “You go on, now. Tell your mother I’ll be down shortly. The sheriff and I have a few more matters to discuss.”





[page]CHAPTER 15





A week after they’d located Sarah’s remains, Tracy drove back to Cedar Grove. Though the drive from Seattle had been mostly in sunshine, as she approached, a dark cloud had gathered and now hung over the town, as if to mark the somber reason for her return. She was coming home to bury her sister.

Traffic was lighter than she’d expected and she arrived half an hour early for her meeting at the funeral home. She looked around the dilapidated storefronts and shops, before spotting the neon sign in the shape of a cup of coffee on what had been Kaufman’s Mercantile Store. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of impending rain. Tracy fed a quarter into the meter, though she doubted there was a meter maid within a hundred miles, and entered The Daily Perk. Long and narrow, the space had once been the mercantile store’s soda and ice cream counter. Someone had built a false wall to divide the space into a coffee shop and a Chinese restaurant. The decor was a mishmash of furniture that resembled a college apartment. The couch was threadbare and covered with newspapers. The lathe and plaster walls displayed long cracks that were poorly disguised by a fresco painting of a window looking out on a city sidewalk of people walking past brownstones. It seemed an odd choice for a rural coffee shop. The young woman behind the counter had a nose ring, a stud piercing her lower lip, and the service skills of a government employee one week from retirement.

When the girl didn’t bother to greet her, Tracy said, “Coffee. Black.”

She took the cup to a table by the real window and sat looking out on a deserted Market Street, remembering how she and Sarah and their friends used to get in trouble for riding their bikes on the crowded sidewalk. They’d lean them against the wall, never bothering to lock them, and go inside the stores to buy supplies for whatever Saturday adventure they’d planned for that week.



Dan O’Leary stood forlornly over his bike. “Damn it.”

“What’s the matter?” Tracy had just exited Kaufman’s after stuffing a length of thick rope, a loaf of bread, and jars of peanut butter and jelly into her backpack. With the leftover quarter, she’d bought ten pieces of black licorice and five pieces of red. Her father had given her the money that morning, when she’d asked permission for her and Sarah to ride their bikes to Cascade Lake. Sarah had found the perfect tree for a summer rope swing. Tracy was surprised her father had given her the money so readily. This was ordinarily the type of extravagance that she and Sarah were expected to pay for with their allowance money. Now a high school sophomore, Tracy also earned money working part-time in the ticket booth at Hutchins’ Theater. Her father not only gave her the money, he told her to spend it all, and said that Mr. Kaufman “was having trouble making ends meet.” Tracy suspected that was because Mr. Kaufman’s son, Peter, who was in Sarah’s sixth-grade class at Cedar Grove Grammar School, had been sick and in and out of the hospital for most of the year.

“Flat tire,” Dan said, sounding as deflated as his bike’s front wheel.

“Maybe it’s just low on air,” Tracy said.

“No. It was flat this morning so I pumped it up before we left. It must have a hole. Great. Now I can’t go.” Dan slid his backpack off his shoulder and sank onto the sidewalk.