In the Clearing (37 page)

She picked up the reports, skimming through them. She moved next to the photos. Was there something staring her in the face that she wasn’t seeing? Maybe, but it was unlikely Kaylee Wright would have missed something obvious. She reached the same conclusion with respect to Kelly Rosa and her analysis of the coroner’s report. She ruled those out.

Her mind shifted to the evidence she hadn’t yet completely fit into the puzzle, and she picked up the receipts for the bodywork and windshield repair at Hastey Devoe Senior’s two shops: $68 to Columbia Windshield and Glass, and $659 to Columbia Auto Repair. Buzz had included those in the file because that was where the Bronco had been repaired, for cash. She was surprised a cash receipt even existed, that Eric Reynolds would have asked for one, and even more surprised Buzz had located them.
How
was not the question though.
Why
was the question. Why would Buzz have gone searching for the receipts?

She thought again of Eric Reynolds’s statement that Buzz Almond had come to the house to ask if he had been out Friday night. Why would Buzz have suspected Eric? He wouldn’t have, not unless he’d first suspected that the tire tracks could have been made by the Bronco’s tires. It was more likely that if Buzz had visited, it was not to talk to Eric but to see the car, to determine if the car had any damage. And if the car had still been damaged, Buzz would have never tracked down the receipts because he wouldn’t have known it had undergone repairs. The fact that he had the receipts, therefore, had to mean that the Bronco had already been repaired.

That’s when what had been gnawing at the back of Tracy’s mind—not one thing it turned out, but several, all interrelated—began to become clear.

And Tracy realized she’d been dead wrong.

Kaylee Wright hovered over the table, using a magnifying glass with a bright light on an extension arm to inspect the photographs. Tracy stood beside her, in Wright’s home office, trying not to crowd her, or to rush her. She’d called Wright’s cell, told her what she suspected, and asked if Wright could go over the photographs again. After nearly ten minutes going over multiple photographs, Wright straightened and moved the magnifying glass out of the way. Tracy felt like she was in court, waiting for a jury’s verdict.

Wright looked to her and sighed. “You’re right. I missed it.”

Tracy felt a huge surge of adrenaline. “How certain can you be?”

“Very certain. I’m sorry. I should have seen this.”

“Don’t be. You hadn’t finished your analysis.”

“I should have seen it.”

“Water under the bridge, Kaylee.”

“The truck that made those impressions entered and exited twice.”

Tracy forced herself to ask questions one at a time, not to rush, to be certain they had the evidence to support her hypothesis. “Will you explain to me how can you tell?”

Wright picked through several of the photographs on her desk until settling on the one she wanted. She adjusted the magnifying glass over it. “Take a look,” she said, stepping aside.

Tracy looked at the enlarged image as Wright spoke. “This is the best photograph depicting the tire tread. You can clearly see two defined paths in, and two defined paths out. The paths overlap in certain places, but cars, like people, don’t move in a perfectly straight line. You can see clearly where the paths deviated.”

“Could it have been two separate vehicles, one following the other?” Tracy asked, wanting to eliminate that possibility.

“No. Both sets of tracks were made by the same tires, and within a relatively short period of time.”

“How can you tell it was a short period of time? Why couldn’t it have been a week or a month apart?” Tracy knew that had not been the scenario because, according to Buzz Almond’s report, he’d taken the photographs the Monday after Kimi Kanasket had gone missing.

“Again, you have to look at the impressions. If the second vehicle had come at a time significantly after the first, I would have expected the photographs to depict bits of crumbled dirt. Remember, I said that in my opinion, to get this quality of impressions the ground had to have been wet and then frozen in a relatively short period of time. These impressions in the dirt would have hardened like a plaster-cast mold. If a second vehicle came at a later date, it would have torn up the first set of tracks and obliterated the first vehicle’s impressions. We would be seeing large clumps of chewed-up dirt. I don’t see anything like that here.”

“So the same vehicle had to have come back before the ground had time to freeze.”

“I’d say within an hour or two. I’m not certain we can quantify it any better than that. Maybe weather records back that far can tell you the temperatures on that particular night.”

Tracy switched mental gears. “Okay, let’s go over the boot impressions. They lead from where Kimi’s body lay to where the second set of incoming tire tracks stop. Correct?”

Wright nodded. “I’d agree with that, yes. There is a deliberate set of prints between those two points.”

“So the person who came back was wearing the boots, and that person carried the body to the vehicle.”

“Yes. He walked in a straight line to the body and, after getting balanced, walked back to the vehicle.”

Still thinking out loud, Tracy said, “And the fact that the person picked up the body and staggered under the weight, and that there are only the bootprints leading to the vehicle, indicates that he did it on his own, that there was no one else to help him.”

“I would agree with that also,” Wright said. She looked as if she’d been struck by a thought.

“What is it?” Tracy asked.

“Probably nothing, but remember that I told you those boots were made for soldiers and that the company went out of business?”

“Yeah.”

“The company never made boots again . . . which might be helpful to your investigation.”

“Tell me how.”

“For one, they’re rare. You won’t find them now, except maybe on some vintage clothing sites and for a lot more money than what they originally cost. People who owned a pair kept them.”

“You’re saying you think it’s possible that the person who owned these could still have them?”

“The boots were highly sought after because they were so durable. A person might wear them maybe twenty-five to fifty days out of the year. Maybe. Someone who owned a pair would have no reason to ever get a new pair. I’m just saying these are not the kind of boots you throw away or give to Goodwill if you don’t have to.”

Tracy thought about that but didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to tell me what you think it all means?” Wright said.

“Remember when you said that what happened in that clearing that night was ‘truly frightening’?”

“Yeah.”

“I think it goes beyond frightening; I think what happened there was evil.”

CHAPTER 32

A
t just after six that evening, Tracy called Jenny from the car and told her she was coming back to Stoneridge that night to visit Eric Reynolds. Jenny insisted that Tracy have backup, but Tracy declined, and eventually, Jenny conceded. She wasn’t being heroic or stupid. She’d thought it through, and she had a good sense of what was about to happen. “He’s had forty years to do something,” she said.

“He’s never
had
to do
anything
,” Jenny countered. “Nobody has ever accused him.”

“I have my Glock,” Tracy said, “and he won’t be expecting me. Even if he’s armed, I could empty my magazine before he could draw his weapon.”

Jenny argued with her, but only briefly. They compromised and agreed that Jenny would wait nearby in a sheriff’s vehicle with backup and that Tracy would remain in phone contact.

Tracy had the address in the file from the Accurint check, and when she plugged it into her iPhone, the directions popped up and led her without fault to the large home—very large by Stoneridge standards, though certainly not as ostentatious as some of the mansions people had built in Seattle’s wealthier neighborhoods. What the two-story stone-and-wood-siding home lacked in square footage and grandeur, it more than made up for with acreage. After passing between stone pillars, the long drive wound its way through what appeared in the darkness to be a vast expanse of fruit trees and vineyards, as well as a man-made lake. As beautiful as it all was, it also felt isolated and brought to mind the image of a deserted island, uncharted and lonely.

Tracy parked in the circular drive beside a Chevy Silverado truck. The temperature had dropped since she’d left Seattle that afternoon, and a heavy cloud layer obscured the night sky, tempered all sounds, and dampened even the slightest breeze.

She approached a front door of leaded glass and oak and rang the buzzer. She had visions of a butler opening it and greeting her. Inside, dogs barked, followed by Eric Reynolds issuing commands for them to be quiet. They complied.

“Detective Crosswhite?” Reynolds said, opening the door and looking genuinely perplexed. “What are you doing here so late?”

The two dogs looked to be rat terriers. One emitted a low growl.

“Hush, Blue,” Reynolds said, and the dog lowered his head, though he kept his eyes on Tracy.

“I have a few more questions. I know it’s late, but with all the festivities going on this weekend, I suspected you’d be a hard man to run down.”

“I just got home from the banquet,” he said. He wore black loafers, slacks, and a button-down beneath a V-neck sweater. Tracy detected a subtle humility to his demeanor not present when they’d spoken at the golf course. Reynolds looked tired and emotionally spent. She wondered if he’d been drinking.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” she said. “Just a few questions.”

Reynolds stepped aside. The dogs retreated. Like the exterior, natural wood and stone dominated the decor, keeping a rustic theme. Tracy didn’t note a single family photograph amid the paintings and sculptures as Reynolds led her to a den. Entering, she noted a handgun on a poker table, along with a cleaning kit. She smelled the distinct odor of Hoppe’s No. 9 cleaning solvent.

“Doing a little maintenance?” she asked.

Reynolds looked to the table as if he’d forgotten the gun was there. “Actually, I was just starting to watch a movie.” He gestured to a very large television across the room. Bradley Cooper, wearing an Army uniform, stood frozen on screen.

“American Sniper,”
Tracy said. “Late to be starting a movie.”

“I’m usually up late.”

“You don’t sleep well?” she said.

“No. No, I don’t. Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, moving again toward the poker table and the gun, the wet bar to his right.

“No, thank you,” Tracy said. “You have a lovely home. Is it just you?”

“Just me,” he said, offering a wistful smile “Well, and Blue and Tank here. I’m divorced. Twenty-five years now.”

“It must get lonely out here.”

“Not with Blue and Tank around. I’m used to being alone.”

“No children?”

“No. You?”

“Also divorced. Also many years ago. Also used to living alone.”

“No dogs?”

“A very needy cat.”

Reynolds offered her a leather chair facing the stone fireplace. Tracy noted a large gun safe in the corner of the room, the heavy door partially open, the stocks of rifles visible. Reynolds took a seat on a matching sofa near one of two table lamps offering soft light. The two dogs hopped onto the couch and curled up beside him, Blue keeping a watchful eye.

When Reynolds crossed his legs, his slacks inched up, revealing tan socks. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m just returning from Seattle,” Tracy said. “I spoke with Tiffany Martin, Darren Gallentine’s widow, and his two daughters.”

“Oh?” Reynolds scratched Blue behind the ears and about the head.

“The daughters were seventeen and fourteen when their father took his life. They never knew why he did it.”

“He didn’t leave a note, then.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“A terrible thing,” Reynolds said.

“You can’t imagine unless you’ve gone through it,” Tracy said. “We like to believe our parents are perfect, but then you realize they’re human, with all the same faults and imperfections. I think that’s the hardest thing to accept.”

“You have personal experience.”

“My father shot himself.”

“I’m sorry.” Reynolds continued to pet his dogs. His right foot bounced rhythmically.

“Darren was in therapy at the time he killed himself.” Tracy paused, making sure she had eye contact. “The therapist kept a file. The family had never asked to see it. You can imagine. On the one hand, it could provide answers; on the other, it could reveal faults and imperfections. They’d decided to move on. Only they found that it wasn’t so simple to just move on from something that traumatic. Their father certainly couldn’t. Neither, apparently, could Archibald Coe. Hastey doesn’t appear to have either, and, despite appearances, I don’t believe you have.”

“I can assure you I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.” Reynolds didn’t sound defiant. He sounded tired.

“Yes, you do, Mr. Reynolds. Because I have Darren Gallentine’s file, and he told his therapist what happened the night Kimi Kanasket died. I’m talking about how the four of you were out drinking beer and getting high. About how you were upset because Cheryl Neal had gone out with Tommy Moore, about how fate, cruel and horrible, put Kimi Kanasket in your path.”