In the Clearing (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 3)
Page 29
Eric nodded.
“I want to hear you say it. Say it, damn it!”
“I was home in bed.”
“And where was I?”
“You were home too. You were home with me.”
“Where is she? Where did you leave her?”
“The clearing. She’s in the clearing.”
“Give me the keys.”
“What? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to clean up your mess. I’m going to make this right,” he said. “Now get your ass in bed. And don’t you get up. You understand me? Don’t you get up, and don’t you even think about talking to anyone about this.”
Ron crested the top of the hill and drove slowly down the slope. The snow continued to fall. A light dusting now covered the field and began to accumulate on the windshield. The car’s headlights inched across the ground to where the slope flattened, until illuminating an irregularity, what looked like a log, the top covered in snow.
Ron stopped the Bronco and slowly got out.
She lay on her side, not moving. The snow had begun to cover her, turning her black hair white. The cold was biting now. Ron heard a noise, what sounded like a man moaning. He looked back up the slope. The trees began to shake and sway, and the snow went airborne as if from a sudden explosion. The moaning increased, and a strong breeze carried the snow in a gust down the slope, hitting him flush in the face and rushing past him. He turned and watched the wind continue on, the flakes swirling clockwise along the edge of the clearing, the branches shimmering. Then, just as suddenly as the wind had started, it died, the snowflakes settling gently onto the ground.
Ron stepped closer to the body. Kimi Kanasket. The girl looked broken, though there wasn’t much blood, probably because of the cold and the snow. The ground had been chewed up by the truck’s tires. Good, he thought. It would look as though someone had gone four-wheeling.
He bent to a knee. Moisture seeped through his sweatpants. Uncertain how to carry her, he reached beneath her, one hand at her hip, the other at her shoulder, and rolled her toward him. He tried to stand, but he stumbled. He tried a second time and managed to get to his feet, though he was off balance. He worked to reposition the weight, nearly falling backward, nearly dropping her.
When he’d regained his balance, he carried her to the back of the Bronco. The spare tire hung off the tailgate, and he couldn’t lower the gate with his arms full. He moved to the side and rolled her out of his arms into the bed, where he’d placed an open sleeping bag. She landed with a dull thud, arms and legs flopping. Ron was breathing heavily, white gasps that the wind quickly dissolved. His heart raced, and he was perspiring, despite the cold snow melting atop his uncovered head and dripping down his face.
He covered her body with the sleeping bag and quickly got back in the cab, rubbing his hands in the blast of heat from the vents. When he could flex his fingers without feeling pain, he put the car in reverse, looked back over the seat, and saw something at the edge of the clearing in the muted glow of the backup lights.
A man?
Reynolds’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his chest. He jumped out of the car into the snow, but when he looked back he saw nothing now but swirling snow.
He got back in and quickly drove from the clearing, avoiding the hill and driving back along the path leading to 141. He’d thought about where to take her. The rafting boats put in up by Husum, near the bridge. He could get the Bronco close to the river there. People would assume she’d jumped off the bridge.
He checked the mirrors. No cars followed. He looked over the seat into the bed of the truck. The sleeping bag had started to slip down, and he could see the top of her head.
He made a right on Husum Street and shut off the Bronco’s lights as he drove across the concrete bridge. Just off the bridge, he turned right into a dirt lot and drove forward, parking amid the scrub oak, careful not to get too close to the edge that dropped to the river, but hoping to camouflage the car in the trees.
He shut off the engine and took another moment to gather himself. He checked the rearview and side mirrors, took a deep breath, and pushed out of the car. With his hands free, he was able to lower the spare tire and open the tailgate. He gripped the sleeping bag and slid her body toward him. When he got her to the gate, he lifted her again. The snow had melted, and her body didn’t feel as cold. It was easier to carry her this time, not having to stand from a crouch. He was better balanced and could more evenly distribute the weight. He heard the river—not a roar, but a hushing sound like the din of traffic on a freeway. It grew louder as he stepped closer to the edge.
She moved.
He nearly dropped her.
She moved again, twitching.
Then she opened her eyes.
Reynolds’s breath caught in his throat.
She lifted her head and looked up at him. Her lips parted, emitting a long, shallow gasp, like air escaping a tire. With the rush came a whisper. “Help me.”
Ron Reynolds stood paralyzed, not breathing, his legs unable to move.
“Help me,” she said again, her words soft but more distinct. “Please. Help me.”
His breathing came in quick gasps. He took a deep breath and found his voice. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
And he stepped to the edge and rolled her out of his arms.
Her body struck the water with a splash, submerged for a moment, then bobbed to the surface, her arms flailing before the current pushed Kimi Kanasket quickly downstream.
Eric Reynolds stood in the driveway of his boyhood home. Snow had begun to stick to his hair and clothing, melting and trickling down his face. His father didn’t ask him what he was talking about. He didn’t ask him to come inside. He must have envisioned this moment, though after four decades, maybe his father had come to believe he would never have to experience it.
“I did what I had to do,” he said, unapologetic.
“She was still alive?”
His father did not answer.
“And you knew it. You knew she was still alive.”
“Whether she was or wasn’t is not relevant.”
“Not relevant?” Eric said, disbelieving. “You’ve let me believe all these years that I killed her. You let us all believe we killed her.”
“You did kill her. She would have died.”
“No, Dad. She wouldn’t have died. I just spoke to the police detective. She would have lived.”
“There’s no guarantee.”
“If you had let me call, she could have lived.”
“And then what, Eric?” his father said, still calm. “Then what were you going to tell everyone? That bullshit story about it being an accident?”
“It was an accident. It was a Goddamn accident. We were just kids.”
“You were eighteen. They would have prosecuted you as an adult.”
“You know something? I wish they had. I wish they had because I’ve been punishing myself for the past forty years, and nothing could have been worse than what I’ve been through, what I know Darren and Archie went through, what Hastey continues to go through.”
“Seems to me you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”
“Really? Have I, Dad? Have you even noticed? Do you know why I’m divorced, Dad? You don’t, because you never bothered to ask. I’m divorced, Dad, because I wouldn’t have kids. I had a vasectomy before we were married without telling her, and I let her believe she was the problem. And do you want to know why I did it? I did it so I could be certain I would never have children. Because I was afraid that I’d have a daughter, Dad, a little girl who would grow up to be a teenager someday, and that I wouldn’t be able to look at her without seeing Kimi. And every day she would be a reminder of what I did. What I thought I did. You allowed us to live our lives thinking we killed her, and it killed Darren and it killed Archie and it’s killing Hastey. That’s what you did, Dad. You let us all kill ourselves.”
“I did what I did to p
rotect my son. To protect everything we worked so hard to accomplish. You would have lost everything—your scholarship, college.”
“You traded her life for my scholarship?”
“You would have gone to prison.”
“I wish I had. You have no idea how often I just wish I had. Because then, at least, I could have said that I got what I deserved, and maybe I could have moved on with my life instead of living like this, like a coward.”
“You don’t have children. You don’t know. You would have done the same thing.”
“No,” Eric said. “I wouldn’t have. I would have called if you had let me. I would have called, Dad. I wanted to call. But you wouldn’t let me, because this was never about me. It was always about you, about preserving your legacy. That’s what this stadium is all about. That’s why you let me believe I killed her—because you could keep control over me, let me believe if it wasn’t for you, I would have nothing. That’s why you did what you did. It had nothing to do with me.”
“When I lost your mother, I swore I would never lose anything ever again. I did what I had to do to preserve what was left of this family.”
“She would have been ashamed of me. And she would have been more ashamed of you.”
Ron Reynolds did not immediately respond. They stood in the blanketing silence, the snow falling heavier now. “What’s done is done,” Ron said, sounding resigned. “You can’t change the past. Tomorrow they’ll dedicate the stadium, and our names will be forever etched in history.”
And with that, Ron Reynolds took a step back and slowly shut the door. A moment later the yellow light went out, leaving Eric standing in the dark, the snow cascading around him. He started for his truck, then stopped, wondering. His dad was always so organized, so detailed, and so practical. It’s what had made him such a good football coach. He looked behind him, to the carport. Then he turned and walked alongside the car. It was dark, but he used the flashlight on his cell phone to scan a lifetime of accumulated sporting equipment. Fishing waders hung from nails in studs beside camouflage hunting pants and jackets, a crossbow, tennis rackets, golf clubs in golf bags, baseball bats in a bin, a backpack. Below them he found the blue plastic storage bins marked with a black marker, the words faded but still decipherable.
Eric moved the bins around until he found the one that said “Hunting Equipment.” He snapped off the top and directed the light inside. His father’s hunting boots stood neatly inside, newspaper stuffed into each leg to keep the boots straight.
CHAPTER 34
Tracy watched Eric Reynolds exit the carport. She stood in the road just beside her truck. Reynolds didn’t startle at the sight of her, as if he’d been expecting her to be there. Maybe he’d come to his father’s house just to get the boots, but then his father had opened the door. Tracy could tell from the two men’s body language that they were having a conversation they should have had forty years earlier. There were no hugs, no handshakes, no displays of affection or warmth of any kind. They kept their distance. Physically, it was just a few feet, but clearly it was a much greater divide. The conversation had been short, which meant there had been no denials, no arguing, no attempts to explain. Each man had done what he’d done and had lived with the consequences of his decision.
Though Eric Reynolds didn’t wear a jacket, he did not look cold. He held up the hunting boots.
“Photographs revealed two sets of tire tracks in and out,” Tracy said. “Someone came back, alone, and moved her. I couldn’t reconcile that being any of the four of you. You would have done it together. And even if it had been you, there was no reason for you to change your shoes, no reason to go home and put on boots and come back. It was snowing, but you wouldn’t have considered that, not under the circumstances. Then there were the two cash receipts. Seven hundred dollars would have been more than a high school student playing football would have had readily available, even if all four of you had pooled your resources. Nor did I see any of you having the foresight to ask for a cash receipt. Lionel did your father a favor, but he wasn’t about to do it for free, and I’m guessing your father wanted the receipt in case Lionel ever got squirrely—to remind Lionel that he, too, was now involved.”
“He thought that way,” Eric said. “Details. Never a loose end. He thought that it had come back to bite him in the ass when Lionel called to tell him the deputy had come and gotten the two invoices. Lionel’s mother was the bookkeeper. She had no idea. She just made him copies. My father determined that the deputy had also been the man who’d come out to look at the car, acting like he wanted to buy it. We waited for the other shoe to drop, but then nothing more came of it. Later, when Lionel became chief, my dad asked him to look into it, whether there was an open investigation. Lionel found the file, and I thought he’d destroyed it, but I guess I was wrong.” He glanced back at the house. “What will happen now?”
“The sheriff will turn everything over to the county prosecutor. He’ll decide what charges to file.”
“What happened wasn’t Hastey’s fault—or Darren’s or Archie’s. It was mine. Hastey has suffered enough.”
“That will all get sorted out,” she said. “The gun on the table at your house . . .”
Eric Reynolds nodded. “I take it out just about every night, and just about every night I’ve thought about it, but I can never do it. I clean it and put it back in the safe. I’m a coward,” he said. “Maybe I knew all along this day would come. Maybe I was hoping it would. I want people to know the truth. As strange as it sounds, it’s a relief.”
“I’m going to need to take that gun, Eric. And any others you own.”
“I understand. I’m worried about my dogs.”
“We can go back to your house so you can get your things in order—send out e-mails or make phone calls. I’ll call the sheriff; she’s a friend of mine. I’ll tell her that you’ve agreed to come in voluntarily. After we go back to your house, I’ll take you to the sheriff’s office and get a statement. We’ll keep this all very civilized. You’ll be taken into custody, and the process will play itself out.”
“And my father?”
“He’ll be taken into custody also.” Tracy paused and looked at the house.
“Don’t worry, Detective. He’s not going to kill himself either. Ron Reynolds’s ego would never allow him to admit that he’s finally lost.”
CHAPTER 35
Tracy debated placing Eric Reynolds in handcuffs but decided against it. She followed him back to his house, calling Jenny on the way. She told her she was escorting Eric Reynolds to his house so he could arrange care for his pets and get his affairs in order. Jenny and the other unit would arrest Ron Reynolds and meet them at the West End office, where both men would be booked and Eric would provide a full statement. They doubted Ron Reynolds would say anything.
Tracy and Eric entered his house together, the dogs jumping up to greet him, Blue barking at her. Tears pooled in the man’s eyes. The dogs must have been the only family he’d had for many years.
They crossed the living area and entered the den. The flat-screen television was black. The .45 was no longer on the poker table.
“I must have put it away,” Eric said.
As Eric started for the large gun safe in the corner of the room, the two dogs, who never strayed far from his side, suddenly did a one-eighty and started barking. At nearly the same moment, as Tracy’s mind processed the situation, a voice came from the doorway on the other side of the den, which led out to the backyard.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
Lionel Devoe stepped in holding Eric’s .45, the barrel leveled at Tracy.
Tracy reached for her Glock, but even she wasn’t that fast.
“I wouldn’t,” Devoe said.
Tracy froze, one hand on the butt of her gun, her mind working quickly to assess the gravity of the situation.
The two dogs circled Devoe as he stepped farther into the room. Blue growled and snarled. Tank kept barking.
“What are you doing, Lionel?” Eric said.
“Slowly remove your hand, Detective.” Devoe was dressed in full uniform and appeared calm and calculating; he’d thought this through.
Tracy removed her hand from the butt of her gun. She kept her focus on Devoe, looking for any opening, a moment when he became distracted and shifted his gaze. All she needed was a second or two to draw and fire. Silently, she urged the dogs to do something heroic—bite his leg, lunge at him, anything.
“Lionel,” Eric said, more forcefully. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Devoe kept his gaze on Tracy. “Shut up, Eric. And shut up those dogs, or I swear to God I’ll shoot them both. Raise both your hands very slowly, Detective.”
“This is crazy, Lionel,” Eric said.
“I said, ‘Shut up.’”
Tracy lifted her hands to shoulder height. Devoe had done her a favor. In shooting competitions she’d always been faster using her opposite hand, earning her the nickname Crossdraw. Now with both hands raised, it would take one quick motion.
Eric continued to talk. “It’s over, Lionel. Put down the damn gun.”
Devoe walked cautiously to where Tracy stood, gun still leveled at her chest. The dogs followed at a safe distance, still barking. “Turn around.”
“Lionel, put the damn gun down. The sheriff already knows.”
“I know,” Devoe said. “I monitored their frequency. The sheriff had backup ready. But she isn’t here. They’re arresting your father.” Devoe spoke to Tracy. “I said, ‘Turn around.’”
Tracy turned. Devoe stepped behind her. Cautiously, he reached out and removed her Glock, then quickly retreated. Tracy had just lost her best chance. She needed to reassess. Find a different option.