In the Clearing (34 page)

“Why don’t you take a stab at drafting it and leave a couple paragraphs at the end. I can dictate those on the drive back, depending on what I find out, if anything. This could be a wild-goose chase.”

Nearly four hours into her drive, Tracy neared Seattle’s baseball and football stadiums south of the downtown skyscrapers. She took I-90 east and fifteen minutes later exited for the Highlands. Following the GPS’s directions, she made the first right at the top of the hill and drove through a newly constructed shopping area, coming to a roundabout with a grass park surrounded by a waist-high wrought-iron fence. Old-fashioned street lamps and quaint two-story English colonial townhomes rimmed the perimeter. Despite the clear fall weather, the park and sidewalk were empty but for a lone man walking a chocolate lab on a leash.

Tracy found the address and parked in the street at the foot of stairs leading up to the small front porch. She was early, but she wasn’t about to wait in the car. She pushed out, quickly climbed the steps, and knocked.

“Mom, she’s here,” a female voice inside said, followed by the sound of a deadbolt disengaging.

Tiffany Martin pulled open the door with a look of resignation and said, “Please, come in.”

Two adult women in their thirties, remarkably similar in appearance, waited in the small marble entry. Like their mother, the two sisters were well put together, hair and makeup done and nicely dressed, but also like their mother, they each looked on edge. Tracy knew they were all reliving those horrible moments fifteen years ago, and she regretted having to put them through it again.

“These are my daughters, Rachel and Rebecca,” Tiffany Martin said.

Tracy greeted each, and Martin motioned for them to step down into a spotless living room with white leather furniture. A sprawling palm in the corner near a game table and a large oil-based painting provided color. The room held the smell of a vanilla air freshener.

“That’s it,” Martin said, her voice catching as she nodded to a brown file on the glass coffee table. None of the women moved to touch it. Rachel, standing closest to her mother, wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“We talked about it as a family,” Rachel said. “We didn’t want another family to suffer if they didn’t have to.”

Tracy said, “That’s very kind of you.”

“At the same time, we decided we didn’t want to read it,” Rachel said. “We don’t want to know the details of whatever it was that led my father to do what he did. We don’t see the point.”

“I understand,” Tracy said.

“My father . . .” Rachel had to take a moment to compose herself. She looked to her sister. “
Our
father was a good man. He was a good father. He was troubled. We recognized that as we got older, but he never let us see how much. He shielded us from it. We have very fond memories, which made this decision so difficult. We don’t want to relive that pain.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Mom told us you did,” Rachel said. “That’s another reason we decided to do this; we thought you would be sensitive to what we went through.”

“I am, and I will be,” Tracy said. “What do you want me to do with the file after I’ve reviewed it?”

The three women looked to each other, and Tiffany Martin nodded to her youngest daughter to continue. “We were hoping you could review it someplace close by,” Rachel said. “Someplace discreet. And we’ll wait here.”

“We’re not prepared to read it,” Tiffany Martin said, “but we thought maybe if you reviewed it and found that . . . I don’t know . . . it isn’t too bad, you could come back and let us know?”

“Of course,” Tracy said.

“If you don’t come back,” Martin said, “well, we’ll know. And then we’d like you to keep the file. We don’t want it.”

They stood in awkward silence, taking furtive glances at the file. When Tracy realized no one was about to pick it up, she stepped to the table and tucked it under her arm.

They moved collectively to the front door. Tiffany Martin pulled it open. “We’ll be here until two o’clock,” she said. “If we don’t hear from you by then, we’re going to go out together and try to eat lunch and get our mind off of it.”

Without another word, Tracy stepped out onto the porch, and the door closed behind her.

CHAPTER 30

T
racy had to resist the urge to open the file and read it in the cab of her truck. Instead, she drove quickly to the Issaquah Library, which was nearby. Downtown Issaquah was buzzing. The area had seen a recent revival with the influx of young families, and the city managers had kept the downtown quaint, with mature oak and plum trees, a repertory theater with a marquee announcing the winter run of the musical
Oklahoma
, restaurants with sidewalk seating, though not on this cold November day, and a vintage 1940s Shell gas station.

Tracy hurried inside the library, anxious to find out what Darren Gallentine had told his counselor. She asked the reference librarian for a private room and was told she could reserve one for an hour. The room was the size of the hard interrogation rooms at the Justice Center, just big enough for a small desk mounted to the front wall and two chairs. Tracy set the file on the table and retrieved a pen and notepad from her briefcase. Before opening the file, she took a moment to run her hand over the cover. It reminded her of that moment when she’d learned that Sarah’s remains had been discovered after twenty years of uncertainty and she’d rushed home to retrieve Sarah’s files from her bedroom closet, then found herself hesitant to open them. She had the same unsure feeling now, like stepping onto a roller coaster, excited to get started but anxious about what was to come.

She opened Darren Gallentine’s file and read.

Friday, November 5, 1976

Hastey Devoe popped the top on another beer can. “Come to Papa,” he said, touching the rim to his lips, tilting his head back and taking a long slug.

“You might want to go a little easy on the beer,” Eric Reynolds said. He was reclined on the hood of the Bronco, which was at the edge of the ring of light produced by Darren’s camping lantern. Eric took the final hit on a joint, held his breath a moment, and exhaled. “We do have a fairly significant game tomorrow night.”

“I’m hydrating,” Hastey said. “It helps keep me warm in this freaking cold.”

“Just saying you might want to show a little self-control tonight,” Eric said.

“It hasn’t hurt me in any game this season, has it?”

“No,” Archie said, “but you keep drinking a six-pack a night and you’re not going to fit your fat ass into your uniform pants much longer.” He laughed the dullard’s laugh, clearly stoned.

“If it wasn’t for my fat ass,” Hastey said, “none of y’all would have been reading your names in the paper every week.”

“Shit, why do you think I run off-tackle and get outside all the time?”

“Because you’re a big pussy and don’t like to get hit,” Hastey said.

“No, because your fat ass is stuck in the gap I’m supposed to run through,” Archie said.

“Doesn’t stop Darren,” Hastey said. “Does it, Darren?”

Darren Gallentine sat a few feet away, on a boulder. He was neither stoned nor drunk. He’d had two beers and wasn’t interested in drinking more. These nights were getting to be old. He reached out and turned the dial on the lantern, the light brightening, the propane hissing. He estimated the canister to still be half-full. He was amused by the banter and commentary, but he never participated much and, after a full season, the jibes were getting repetitious. Hastey’s brother Lionel had bought them a case of beer and a couple of joints, and they’d snuck out of their respective homes and driven into the woods. It had become their Friday night routine—and some Saturday nights after games, though they usually went to the clearing after games because by the time they arrived a party was under way and half the girls were drunk. They’d make an entrance in the Bronco, Hastey blowing that stupid foghorn, and everyone would cheer as they circled the clearing. They could do no wrong those nights, especially with the girls. Eric said it was like “shooting fish in a barrel” and that he’d been laid more often that football season than a Las Vegas whore.

“Why do you think they call Darren ‘the Dozer’?” Hastey said to Archie.

“Because he has to bulldoze your ass out of the way just to find the hole,” Archie said.

Darren smiled but didn’t respond.

“Maybe I’ll just lie down next time they hand you the ball,” Hastey said, tossing the empty can at Archie and missing. “Let those D-linemen pancake your ass.”

“Nobody’s lying down,” Eric said. He flicked the butt of the joint into the underbrush and threw his beer can against the trunk of the tree not far from where Hastey and Archie stood exchanging insults. The can ricocheted and spun like a helicopter blade, spraying beer out the top.

“Shit,” Hastey said, wiping the beer from his shirt. “What bug crawled up your ass? You just wasted a perfectly good beer.”

“I’m going to crawl up both your asses if you two don’t shut the fuck up,” Eric said.

“I’m just saying I don’t need to smell like beer when I walk in the house.”

“Hell, beer is your family cologne,” Archie said.

“Better than roses,” Hastey said, bending his wrist effeminately. “Your dad still work at the flower store?”

“It’s a nursery, you idiot.”

“Still flowers,” Hastey said.

“Will you both just shut up,” Eric said.

Darren sat up, ready to get home. He could see his breath, and the cold was starting to creep down his neck beneath his fur-lined jean jacket and seep through the soles of his Converse shoes. They called him “the Dozer” because at five eleven and 210 pounds he ran with his shoulder pads low to the ground and hit as many people as he could, shoving them out of the way. “You’re just mad because Cheryl Neal is out with Tommy Moore,” he said to Eric while continuing to strip bark off a tree branch.

“What?” Hastey and Archie said in unison.

“I thought that loser was dating Kimi Kanasket,” Hastey said to Eric.

Eric gave Darren a look that was supposed to be a warning, but at six two and 180 pounds, Eric was no match for Darren, and he knew it. It wasn’t just the difference in size. Darren was the strongest kid on the team, and he proved it every day in the weight room.

“Kimi dumped Moore’s ass, and Moore asked Cheryl out,” Darren said.

“And she went?” Hastey said.

“’Course she went,” Archie said. “That girl’s hornier than a sixteen-point buck. You might even have a chance, Hastey.”

“Why don’t you just broadcast it to the whole fucking school,” Eric said to Darren.

“Why’d she go out with him?” Hastey asked.

“Because she
is
a whore,” Eric said.

“Yes, but she was your whore,” Archie said.

“That’s it. I’m going to kick your ass.”

Eric slid off the hood and started toward Archie, eyes blazing. Hastey stepped between them, allowing Archie a chance to quickly retreat into the underbrush. Archie was fast, but that was because he was smaller than the rest of them and slight, maybe 150 pounds. Eric would crush him.

“You better run. And good luck getting home, you pussy.”

“Don’t take it out on him,” Darren said, tossing the stripped piece of wood to the ground and looking for another.

“Why’d you bring it up?” Eric said.

“Because you’ve had your panties in a bunch all night about it, and we’ve got a game tomorrow night.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll do what I have to do.”

“Good,” Darren said. “Because I’m not going all the way to Yakima to lose the last game I ever play.”

“Let’s just get out of here and go home,” Eric said, fishing the keys from his jacket pocket. “Grab the lantern.”

“Fine with me,” Darren said, picking up the lantern.

“What?” Hastey whined. “We got three beers left untapped. It’s not even midnight.”

“Leave ’em,” Eric said.

“I cannot do that.” Hastey snapped to attention, his belly falling out the bottom of his shirt and hanging over his pants. He gave a mock salute. “A United States Marine will leave no soldier behind.”

“Leave them,” Eric said. “I don’t want them in my car if we get pulled over.”

“Shit, nobody’s going to do anything to us. We rule this town.” Hastey howled loud and long.

“Just get in the truck,” Eric said.

“Shotgun.” Hastey knocked into Archie, who had emerged from the brush, pushing him nearly to the ground, and grabbed the passenger-door handle. “You ride in the back.”

“Need a crane to lift your fat ass into the bed, anyway,” Archie said.

“You want us to get you a stepladder so you can climb in?” Hastey said.

Darren killed the lantern, plunging them into darkness, and climbed into the open bed of the Bronco. He and Archie sat with their backs to the cab, and Darren could now feel the cold through the seat of his jeans. When he flexed his fingers, they felt thick as sausages, and the joints were tight. He thought it good preparation for the game, which the weathermen were forecasting would be even colder. He hoped it didn’t snow. He hated playing in the snow. Every hit felt like your bones were cracking.