My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(95)

Calloway swore under his breath and removed the radio microphone from its clip, playing with the radio’s controls, using his call sign and asking if anyone could hear him. He got no response. He tried a second time, but again, the response was silence. “Finlay, you there? Finlay?”

He replaced the microphone in its clip and shut off the engine.

“Get what?” Dan asked.

Calloway eyed him. “What?”

“You said I don’t get it. Don’t get what?”

Calloway unlocked the shotgun, pulled it from its rack, and handed it to Dan. “We didn’t frame an innocent man, Dan. We framed a guilty man.”

He slid out the door into the storm.

Dan sat stunned. What the hell had he done?

He picked up Tracy’s note from where Calloway had crumpled and tossed it onto a seat and unfolded it.



Truck that shot out window registered to Parker House.

No one checked alibi.

Going to get answers.

Bring Calloway.



She thought it was Parker. She thought Parker had killed Sarah.

Dan pulled on his hat and gloves, stepped out into knee-deep snow, and immediately felt the biting-cold wind. He plowed his way to the back of the Suburban. Calloway was sliding the strap of a hunting rifle onto his shoulder and shoving bullets into his jacket pocket.

“How do you know?” Dan had to shout above a gust of howling wind.

Calloway pulled two flashlights from a rear-wheel well, testing one and handing it to Dan. He handed him two extra batteries.

“Roy, how the hell do you know it was Edmund and not Parker?”

“How? I told you how. I told everyone how. House told me he did it.”

Calloway slammed the tailgate shut and stepped to the trail of footprints, which were already filling with fresh snow.

Dan pursued. “Why would he admit he did it?”

Calloway stopped to shout over the howling wind. “Why? Because he’s a f*cking psychopath, that’s why.”

He moved to the tree across the road and walked to where its stump was buried in snow. He dropped to a knee, and cleared the snow. Dan could see from the straight cut that someone had felled the tree with a chainsaw.

Calloway stood, squinting into the blinding snow as he looked up the hill. “He knows we’re coming.”

He started along the trail of boot prints, Dan behind him, carrying the shotgun. After a short distance, he was struggling to catch his breath. After a hundred yards, they both had to stop, breathing heavily.

“If he buried her body, why didn’t you find it?” Dan said, struggling to get out the words.

A road map of red-and-purple veins traversed Calloway’s exposed cheeks and nose. “Because that was a lie. House didn’t kill her right away. He was playing us, playing me. And now he’s played you.”

“But you said you searched the property. If Sarah wasn’t there and House didn’t bury her, where was she?”

Calloway nodded in the direction of the mountains. “Up there. She was right up there the whole time.”





[page]CHAPTER 61





Sarah used her hand to block the glare of the headlights but could not see the face of the driver who had opened the truck’s cab door and leaned out.

A man spoke over the rush of the rain. “That your truck back there along the side of the road?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said.

“You need a ride?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “I actually don’t have far to go.”

The man stepped down from the cab and hurried around the hood to where Sarah could see him. She assessed him in one word. Gorgeous. In fact, he looked like the Boss in a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and worn work boots. His biceps stretched the fabric of his shirt, which was getting wet and sticking to his chest. “What happened?”

“I think I ran out of gas,” she said.

“I’ll bet that made your night, huh?” He pulled his hair back off his face and folded it behind his ears. His smile made his eyes light up. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’ve done the same thing. I try to see how far I can stretch a tank, you know.” He pointed a thumb at his truck. “I got a gas can in the back. Unfortunately, it’s empty. But I think there’s a gas station in Cedar Grove.”

Sarah said, “Not sure if Harley is still open. He usually closes around nine on Saturday.”

“You live there?” he said.

That had been the point of using Harley’s name. She was a local. She knew people. And people knew her. “Just outside town a bit.”

He started for the cab. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

But she didn’t move. “Where are you coming from?”

He turned back, speaking across the hood. “I was in Seattle visiting my folks. Nice night to be driving, huh? Should have stayed, but I needed to get back. I live over in Silver Spurs. If the gas station’s not open, I don’t mind dropping you at your home.”

“It’s not far,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I can walk.”

“Come on, that’s got to be, what, another five miles?”

“It’s not that far.”

“Yeah, but tonight you might drown.” He smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll drive ahead and see if the station’s open. If it is, I’ll get the gas and come back and we can fill up your tank. If it’s not, I’ll drive to your house and let someone know you’re stuck.”