CHAPTER 12
The second morning after Sarah’s disappearance, Tracy’s father entered his den looking utterly exhausted, despite a shower. Her parents had flown the red-eye from Hawaii. Her mother had not come home. When the plane had landed, she had gone directly to the American Legion building on Market Street to mobilize the volunteers already gathering there. Her father had come home to meet with Roy Calloway and had asked Tracy to stay in the event that the Sheriff had additional questions, though she’d already answered so many she couldn’t think of what else he could ask her.
Did you notice anyone at the competition acting peculiar, hanging around, seeming to take an unusual interest in Sarah?
Did anyone approach either of you, for any reason?
Did Sarah ever indicate that she felt threatened by anyone?
Calloway asked for a list of the boys Sarah had dated. Tracy could not think of a single person on it who would have any reason to harm Sarah. Most of them had been her friends since grammar school.
Her father’s hair, a premature gray, hung in ringlets over the collar of his long-sleeved shirt. Ordinarily it contrasted with his youthful demeanor and inquisitive blue eyes. This morning he looked his fifty-eight years. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses. Usually fastidious about his appearance, several days’ growth competed with his thick mustache, the ends of which he kept long enough to wax into sharp points when he competed in shooting tournaments as “Doc” Crosswhite.
“Tell me about the truck,” her father said to Calloway, and it was not lost on Tracy that it was her father, not Calloway, asking the questions. At parties in their home, her father was never boisterous or demonstrative, but a crowd always seemed to find him. Holding court, Tracy’s mother called it. When James Crosswhite spoke, people listened, and when he asked questions, they gave him answers. At the same time, her father had a quiet and respectful manner about him that made you feel as if you were the only person in the room.
“We had it towed to the police impound,” Calloway said. “Seattle is sending a forensic team to check for fingerprints.” He looked to Tracy. “It appears she ran out of gas.”
“No.” Tracy stood near a red ottoman that matched two leather chairs. “I told you, I filled up before we left Cedar Grove. There should have been three-quarters of a tank.”
“We’ll take a closer look,” Calloway said. “I’ve sent a bulletin to every police department in the state, as well as Oregon and California. Canadian Border Patrol has also been notified. We faxed Sarah’s graduation photo.”
James Crosswhite ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Somebody passing through?” he asked. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Why would someone passing through take the county road?” Tracy said. “They would have stayed on the highway.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed but she caught his gaze too late. He stepped to her and took hold of her left hand. “What is that? Is that a diamond?”
“Yes.”
Her father looked away, jaw clenched.
Calloway intervened. “You’ve reached out to her friends?”
Tracy shielded her hand behind her thigh. She’d spent hours calling everyone she could think of. “No one has seen her.”
“Why didn’t she take her guns?” her father asked, though seemingly to himself. “Why wouldn’t she take one of the pistols?”
“She had no reason to feel threatened, James. I’m guessing she ran out of gas and started walking toward town.”
“You’ve searched the woods?”
“Nothing to indicate she slipped or fell.”
Tracy had never thought that likely. Sarah was too athletic to have tumbled off the side of the road, even in the dark and the rain.
“Sit tight,” Calloway said.
“I’m not going to sit tight, Roy. You know I’m not built that way.” He turned to Tracy. “Get that flier we talked about made up and get it down to your mother. Find a photograph that looks like Sarah, not her graduation picture. Bradley can make the copies for you at the pharmacy. Tell him to run off a thousand to start and put it on my store tab. I want them everywhere from here to the Canadian border.” He turned to Calloway. “We’re going to need a topographical map.”
“I’ve called Vern. He knows these mountains better than anyone.”
“What about dogs?”
“I’ll look into it,” Calloway said.
“Somebody coming home from somewhere? Someone who lives here?”
“Nobody here would do such a thing, James. Not to Sarah.”
Her father looked about to say something else but stopped as if he’d lost his train of thought. For the first time in her life, Tracy saw fear pass over him, something gray and dark and ethereal. “That kid,” he said. “The one they just paroled.”
“Edmund House,” Calloway whispered. He stood, as if paralyzed by the name. Then he said, “I’m on it.” Calloway quickly slid apart the panel doors, hurrying across the marbled foyer to the front door.
“Jesus,” her father said.