My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(88)

Ronkowski shook his head. Then he stepped back and pointed up at the charred roof. “The fire spread fast across the roof and inundated just about every room. It had to be an accelerant of some kind. Gas probably. Neighbors said the smoke was thick and black.”

“Could he have gotten out?”

Ronkowski grimaced. “Pray that he did, but we didn’t see anybody when we got here. Maybe with the weather he went to a neighbor’s, but nobody has approached us.”

They heard a large crack and instinctively flinched. A tree limb crashed into the yard, scattering the firemen, taking out a portion of the fence, and just missing the back end of one of the trucks.

“I need to get in there, Phil,” Calloway said.

Ronkowski shook his head. “Structure hasn’t been determined safe yet, Roy. Not with this wind.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“Damn it, Roy. I’m supposed to be in charge here.”

“Just make a note. This is my decision.” Calloway took the flashlight from Finlay. “Wait here.”

The front door’s frame had been damaged from the forced entry. Black burn marks and blistered paint revealed where the fire had licked the sash in search of oxygen. Stepping in, Calloway heard wind whistling through the house and the plink-plink of dripping water. The beam of his flashlight danced off scarred walls and the charred remains of furniture. Framed photographs and knickknacks accumulated over a lifetime lay strewn across the carpet. He directed the light at a waterlogged piece of Sheetrock hanging from the ceiling like a wet bedsheet from a clothesline. Snow fell through a gaping hole in the roof. Calloway covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief because the air inside still remained thick with smoke and smelled of burnt wood and insulation. His boots created puddles in the carpet as he stepped across the room.

He leaned through the doorway on his left and swept the light over the kitchen. DeAngelo was not there. He made his way across the living room debris and down a narrow hallway leading to the back of the house, calling out DeAngelo’s name but getting no answer. He used a shoulder to force open the first of two doors, revealing a guest bedroom. The fire had done minimal damage, probably because the room was farthest from where Ronkowski believed the fire to have started. The fact that the door had been closed also would have reduced the flow of oxygen to fuel the flames. Calloway directed the light over a queen-sized bed, pulled open a closet door, and shone the flashlight over a bar and handful of wire hangers.

Retreating from the room, Calloway pushed open the second door, which also stuck in the sash. The master bedroom. Black smoke streaked the walls and the ceiling, but again, the damage was limited compared to the rest of the house. Calloway danced the light over a dresser partially buried beneath a piece of fallen Sheetrock, bent to a knee to lift a dust ruffle, and shone the light beneath the bed. Nothing

He called out from his knees. “DeAngelo?”

Where the hell is he? he thought. The bad feeling that had started when he heard the report that Finn’s home had been burned grew stronger.

Finlay entered the room. “They’re coming in now. You find him?”

Calloway stood up. “He’s not here.”

“He got out?”

“Then where is he?” Calloway asked, unable to shake the bad feeling that had first come over him when he had heard Armstrong mention Finn’s name over the radio. It was like a bad chill, a cold-to-the-bone feeling. Calloway walked to the closet and pulled on the knob, but the door was wedged tight in the jamb. “Check with the neighbors,” he said to Armstrong. “Maybe he’s disoriented.”

Armstrong nodded. “Will do.”

Calloway braced a hand on the jamb, about to apply more force, when he noticed two darkened points protruding through the door, roughly three feet apart. In the light from his flashlight they looked like two nails shot from a nail gun that had missed the studs and penetrated through the wall. Only these nails were significantly bigger, more like spikes.

“What the hell?” Calloway said. He yanked on the door. It didn’t move, so he put a foot on the wall and yanked again. This time the door swung open faster than Calloway had anticipated, the weight and force nearly pulling the knob from his hand.

“Jesus!” Armstrong yelled, stumbling backward into the dresser.





[page]CHAPTER 53





Tracy felt the Subaru’s engine struggling as the car’s tires fought to churn through the deepening snow. She couldn’t see the center line or the edge of the county road. It was all a long white blanket. With the four-wheel drive engaged and the car in low gear, it plowed forward, but it remained slow going. The windshield wipers slapped a steady beat but couldn’t keep the glass clear of the swirling snow, and visibility had been reduced to a few feet in front of her bumper. Tracy had to resist the urge to hit the brakes when gusts of wind caused the snow to fall in clumps from overburdened tree limbs, creating momentary whiteouts. If she stopped, she might not get the car moving again.

As she rounded another curve, a burst of light momentarily blinded her, causing her to steer closer to the rock face. A rush of wind from an eighteen-wheel truck plowing past in the opposite direction shook her car and spit snow from its tire chains. Maybe she was a fool to be out in weather like this, but she wasn’t about to sit at Dan’s and wait out the storm. It suddenly made sense, so much so that she was dismayed and angry that she had not considered the possibility before. Who else had access to the red Chevy truck? Who had the opportunity to plant the jewelry and the hairs? It had to be someone whose presence on the property would not be conspicuous. It had to be someone who lived there on a daily basis, someone who Edmund House trusted.