In the Clearing (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 3)

by Robert Dugoni

  A noise, what she first thought to be the low, drawn-out hoot of a barn owl, drew her attention to the top of the hill. But it wasn’t an owl. The limbs of the trees, stripped of their fall foliage, began to whip and sway, and she watched the blades of tall grass fold over as a gust of wind shot down the hill. It sounded just as Earl Kanasket had described it, like a man moaning. The wind rushed at her, strong enough to blow the hair back from her face, and felt as though it was passing right through her. She turned and directed the beam of her flashlight to the edge of the clearing, following the wind as it flowed in a clockwise direction, the branches of the pines dancing and swaying. She felt as though she were standing in the eye of a tornado and wondered whether the swirling wind, and not some hanged man’s curse, was the likely reason nothing grew here.

  As she followed the wind’s progress, the beam of light fell on something moving at the edge of the clearing. From its brown coloring, Tracy first thought it was an animal—a deer or a bear. But deer and bears didn’t walk upright on two legs.

  “Hey,” she yelled, starting across the field. “Hey!”

  The man looked back over his shoulder before disappearing quickly into the tree line. Tracy ran after him. “Hey. Stop. Hang on a minute.”

  The man didn’t stop, and Tracy gave chase. At the edge of the forest, she unholstered her Glock and used the beam of light to search between the trees, but she didn’t see the man or a defined path he might have taken. She stepped farther in, ducking and bending and picking her way carefully over fallen trees. She thought she caught a glimpse of the man off to her left and continued another fifty yards, but she saw no sign of him. She was about to turn back when she sensed the brush and the trees beginning to thin, so she kept going, and soon stepped out onto a power line easement. Electrical cable strung between metal towers continued up and over the ridge.

  But no one was there.

  She wondered if her eyes had played a trick on her, or maybe she had seen Henry Timmerman’s ghost, as Élan had warned. She directed the flashlight to the ground, searched a moment, and found what looked to be bootprints and the tread of a thick bicycle tire, likely a mountain bike of some sort. Both appeared to be fresh. The tire tread followed the path of the electrical cables up the hill to the ridge.

  Ghosts didn’t ride bicycles. Not to her knowledge, anyway.

  She took a few pictures with her phone before making her way back through the trees to the clearing. There, she spent a few minutes shining the beam of light over the ground looking for shoe imprints, but something else caught her eye—a small shrub. She bent to a knee, touching the freshly tilled soil.

  Nothing grows in the clearing, Earl Kanasket had said.

  Maybe not, Tracy thought, looking back to the edge of the clearing where she’d seen the man, but someone’s trying anyway.

  CHAPTER 15

  In the morning, after another early run, Tracy headed out to get a pulse on the town. Downtown Stoneridge was an odd mixture of alpine architecture, reflecting German and Scandinavian immigration to the area, and the more traditional nineteenth-century Pacific Northwest stone and brick buildings that reminded Tracy of Cedar Grove. Whereas Cedar Grove had one stoplight, Stoneridge had only a stop sign at the end of a long block of businesses—a general store, pharmacy, hardware store, and post office, among others, on the north side of the street, and a pizza and brew pub, flower shop, and art gallery displaying Northwest Native American pieces on the south side. It should have been quaint, a town that quietly exuded history and tradition, but something about the tableau was unsettling, something that made the town seem as fragile as a Hollywood set—a façade lacking depth, a town that did not exude its history but seemed intent on hiding it.

  As she drove down the block, a white sedan slowed its approach as it drove toward her from the opposite direction. Tracy considered the blue lettering and shield on the door panel identifying it as a Stoneridge Police Department vehicle. She waved and briefly considered stopping to introduce herself but instead continued to the end of the block. When she checked the rearview mirror, the police car had pulled to the side of the road and parked.

  She turned left and drove past several churches, Baptist and Methodist, and a building that housed some fraternal order. The homes were small, mostly one-story, with yards going dormant for the winter, lawns a little ragged, and cut wood stacked neatly beneath overhangs. Her GPS directed her to a tree-lined street, and she pulled to the curb at the base of concrete stairs leading up to the red brick Stoneridge Library, which resembled something out of colonial America, with two white pillars and a pediment over the entrance.

  She climbed the steps and felt the warm air as she pulled open the door. Inside, Tracy interrupted a middle-aged woman applying makeup while sitting behind the reference desk.

  “Sorry,” the woman said, slipping a compact into her purse and sliding the purse beneath the counter. “I didn’t get a chance to put my face on this morning.”

  “Not a problem,” Tracy said.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m hoping to review some old high school yearbooks and newspaper articles from the Stoneridge Sentinel,” Tracy said. “Would that be possible?”

  The woman grimaced. “How far back are you looking to go?”

  “1976.”

  “Are you writing an article on the reunion?”

  No point in lying. Having lived in a small town, Tracy knew word of her presence would spread quickly, no matter how low a profile she kept. “Actually, I’m a police officer from Seattle,” she said, showing the woman her ID and shield. “I was hoping to review some articles written back then. I assume the library keeps them on microfiche?”

  “We did,” the woman said. Tracy didn’t like the sound of that. “We had a fire in 2000, and what the fire didn’t burn, the sprinklers ruined. We don’t have any archives before that.”

  Tracy considered this a moment, then asked, “Would any other libraries in the area have kept copies?” She thought it doubtful but worth a shot.

  “Not likely the Sentinel. That was primarily local Stoneridge news. They might have some of the bigger newspapers, like the Columbian and the Oregonian. You could try the library in Goldendale. It’s about an hour northeast of here.”

  Tracy didn’t see the point in that. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Me? My entire life.”

  “Have you heard of a couple of companies called Columbia Windshield and Glass, and Columbia Auto Repair?”

  “Sure.”

  “You have? I couldn’t find either one online. I was assuming they’re out of business?”

  “Oh, yeah. They’ve been out of business for some time now,” she said. “Shortly after Hastey Senior passed.”

  Tracy recalled that name from the article on the reunion and pulled out the newspaper, finding the photographs and the caption. “Hastey Devoe?” she asked, handing the woman the newspaper.

  “That’s young Hastey. The father owned both businesses. They were side by side, out on Lincoln Road. His wife closed both businesses shortly after Hastey Senior died.”

  “Is his wife still alive?” The chance that Devoe’s wife would have any information about two incomplete invoices was slimmer than none, but Tracy knew that small businesses in small towns were often family affairs, and the wife could have also been the bookkeeper.

  “I really don’t know. Last I heard she was living in a nursing home in Vancouver and had Alzheimer’s or dementia.”

  “What does the son do now?”

  “Hastey Junior? He works for Reynolds Construction, I believe. At least I’ve seen him driving one of their trucks around town. Don’t ask me what he does though.”

  Tracy considered the newspaper photograph and caption. “Would that be Eric Reynolds’s company?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does Hastey Junior still live in town?”

  “In the house he grew up in, over on Cherry.”

  Tracy made
a note on her notepad and thanked the woman. As she stepped away, the woman said, “You might try Sam Goldman. He might have copies of the paper.”

  “Who’s he?” Tracy asked.

  “Sam was the publisher of the Sentinel. Publisher, reporter, photographer. He and his wife, Adele, did just about everything. He’s retired now. We call him Stoneridge’s unofficial historian.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  “They live over on Orchard Way,” the woman said, already reaching for a pen and a pad of paper to jot down an address and directions.

  Minutes later, directions in hand, Tracy descended the front steps of the library. As she did, she noticed the white police vehicle parked around the corner, only partially hidden behind the trunk of a cottonwood tree.

  Following the librarian’s directions, Tracy took a right at the end of the block. Rather than stay straight for a mile, however, she took the next right, then turned right a third time and slowed. She stopped behind the cottonwood, which the police vehicle had vacated. It was now parked in the spot where Tracy had parked, at the foot of the library stairs. A Stoneridge Police officer was shuffling up the concrete steps, hands on his utility belt.

  Her presence in town had been duly noted.

  She pulled from the curb and drove out past the elementary school, occasionally glancing in the mirrors, though she didn’t expect to see the police car. The officer didn’t need to follow. He’d know soon enough where Tracy was going, and why.

  Orchard Way was a quiet street of barren trees and wires sagging between telephone poles, but no street lamps or sidewalks. It wasn’t unusual for the older towns. As residents moved farther away from the city center, they focused on essential utilities like electricity, phone, and gas and sewer. Street lamps and sidewalks were far down the priority list, and often never installed.

  Tracy parked just off the asphalt, alongside a white picket fence that would need painting after another winter. The fence enclosed a narrow stretch of lawn, split in two by a concrete walk leading to a single-story A-frame home. A satellite dish protruded from the roof like one large ear.

  She pulled open the screen and knocked, then closed it and stepped back. There was a window to the left, but no one looked out before the door rattled open. A woman Tracy estimated to be in her late sixties or early seventies pushed open the screen. “Can I help you?” Her voice was tentative—strangers did not likely come knocking often—but not unfriendly.

  “I’m looking for Sam Goldman,” Tracy said. “Evelyn at the library gave me this address. She said he might be able to tell me about Stoneridge back in the seventies.”

  The woman frowned, but not in a displeasing manner. “Well,” she said, “Sam would know.”

  “Who is it, Adele?” The man who came to the door was no more than five six, with a head of curly dark hair, graying at the temples. He adjusted his sturdy black-framed glasses as he looked at Tracy with a bemused, curious expression that made his eyes sparkle as if he held the world’s biggest secret.

  “Evelyn over at the library said you could help this woman,” Adele said.

  Sam Goldman peered at Tracy. “What’s this about, friend?”

  “I was hoping to get some background on Stoneridge—what it was like here in the seventies. I understand you’re sort of the town historian since the fire in the library.”

  “September 16, 2000,” Goldman said, his voice becoming more animated. “A three-alarm blaze. We could see the smoke from our offices on Main Street. I thought Timmerman’s ghost had returned and the whole town was going up in flames again. Most excitement we’ve had since Dom Petrocelli punched out Gordie Holmes at a town council meeting in 1987.”

  “I understand it wiped out all the back copies of your newspaper at the library.”

  “Burned the copies and melted the microfiche,” Goldman said. “They were in the process of raising funds to scan and convert the microfiche to discs, but their dreams went up in smoke faster than the Pony Express.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tracy said.

  “Old news,” Goldman said, grinning. “I have everything stored up here.” He tapped his temple. “Best computer north of the Columbia. Are you a reporter, hero?”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  Goldman’s eyes widened, along with his smile. He turned to his wife. “The plot thickens, Adele.” He pushed the screen door fully open. “Come on in so we’re not heating the neighborhood.”

  The home was modest but tasteful, with well-used but clean furniture. Tracy noted that Goldman had been watching ESPN on a flat-screen TV. He reached for the remote control on the coffee table and shut it off.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tracy said.

  “The only thing you’re interrupting is our forced retirement,” Goldman said. “We can rest at the funeral home. Have a seat.”

  Tracy sat on the couch. Goldman sat in a cloth chair that swiveled to face her. Two folded TV dinner trays leaned against a brick fireplace beneath a painting of a coastline. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?” Adele asked.

  Sensing that Adele wasn’t sure what to do with herself, Tracy said, “Tea would be wonderful, thank you.”

  Adele stepped from the room, and Tracy heard her opening and closing cabinets and filling a kettle at the sink.

  “Where do you want to start?” Goldman asked.

  “How about the state championship game,” Tracy said, wanting to give his memory a point of reference, which turned out to not be needed, before diving immediately into Kimi Kanasket.

  “Saturday, November 6, 1976.”

  “What was it like around town back then?”

  “Like Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one,” he said, animated. Tracy had clearly picked a topic that excited him. “The town was so puffed up it was bursting at the seams. Up until then, Stoneridge couldn’t have won a one-legged race with two legs. That was the start of it.”

  “The start of it?”

  “The championships. Football mainly, but also swimming, basketball, baseball, soccer.”

  “So what happened? What changed?”

  “Ron Reynolds rode into town like John Wayne in Rio Bravo. He changed the culture. The kids were used to losing, and content to do so. Reynolds put an end to that.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “You paid in sweat to play sports for Ron Reynolds. If the kids weren’t playing games, they were practicing or conditioning. Initially, some parents moaned about the time commitment interfering with schoolwork, but Ron just charged ahead like Teddy Roosevelt up San Juan Hill. He didn’t care what people thought of him. The complaints stopped when the banners started flying in the gym and people started reading their kids’ names in my paper. Then a few started getting scholarships. Money talks, friend. The complainers got quieter than a nun in the confessional.”

  “He was the football coach?”

  “They hired him as the football coach. They made him the athletic director, and he stayed on thirty-five years. They had a big retirement party for him in the school gym a few years back.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Lives in the same house he bought when he moved here.”

  “I read in the paper they’re naming a stadium after him.”

  “That’s the son’s doing. His company’s providing the material and labor. The town isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Tracy wasn’t much of a football fan. She’d grown up listening to Mariners baseball games with her father, but sensing Goldman’s excitement for the topic and hoping to establish a rapport, she asked, “You covered the championship?”

  “They would have lynched me and burned the Sentinel building if I hadn’t. The town was all caught up that year in the Four Ironmen.”

  “The Four Ironmen?”

  “Eric Reynolds, Hastey Devoe, Archie Coe, and Darren Gallentine.”

  Tracy recognized the names Devoe and Reynolds from the recent ar
ticles in the newspaper. “Why were they called ‘the Four Ironmen’?”

  “Never missed a down in three years of varsity football, and they played both ways.”

  “Played both ways?” Tracy asked.

  “Offense and defense,” Adele said. She’d entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot and ceramic mugs. She made a face that conveyed, You’d be surprised what you learn after fifty years.

  “Reynolds was the all-American,” Goldman said as Adele handed Tracy a cup of tea. “He was the straw that stirred the drink. Without him, they don’t win. Devoe opened the holes on the offensive line, and Coe and Gallentine ran through them. Coe was fast and shifty. Gallentine was the hammer. On defense Devoe played nose tackle, Gallentine played linebacker, Coe was the cornerback, and Reynolds was the free safety. He had five interceptions his senior year.”

  Tracy took a sip of her tea, which had a mint flavor. She set the cup on a coaster and retrieved the file from her briefcase. “I saw a photograph in the paper.” She showed Goldman the picture of the four young men hoisting the trophy into the stadium lights, and this time noted the names in the caption.

  Red Raiders senior cocaptains and Ironmen Hastey Devoe (far L), Eric Reynolds (L), Darren Gallentine (R), and Archibald Coe (far R) hold aloft the Washington State 2A Championship trophy.

  “I took that,” Goldman said. “I got the four of them together right after the game; didn’t see the steam rising off their heads until it was developed in the darkroom.”

  “It’s a great shot,” Tracy said. “Sounds like the whole town was wrapped up in the winning.”

  “They filled the stadium every home and away game. It didn’t matter if you had a kid playing or not. That trophy belonged to every man, woman, and child in Stoneridge.”