EPILOGUE
Tracy adjusted the knot of her red bandanna just off center, dug at the ground with the toe of her boot, parted her legs, and squared her shoulders. Then she mentally went through the progression of shots.
“You ready, Kid?” the range master asked. “I can go over the sequence again if you need. I know it can get confusing keeping it all in your head. We like to give everyone a fair shake, especially the beginners.”
On this early Saturday morning, a month after Tracy had returned to Seattle, the sun filtered through the canopy of trees. The sunlight added intrigue to the fa?ades of makeshift storefronts built to replicate an Old West town, and cast shadows across the dozen other competitors. Dressed in old-fashioned cowboy attire, they chatted amicably or readied for their turns to shoot.
Tracy looked again at the targets through her yellow-tinted shooter’s glasses. “Sure,” she said, sensing he wanted to run through it again. Besides, her father had always taught her to take any competitive advantage she could get.
“Two shots each,” he said. “Then you move to the second table and use the shotgun to take down the tombstones. When you’re finished, you run to that storefront and shoot out the window at the five orange targets. One shot each.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think I got it.”
“Okay, then.” He stepped back and called out. “Shooter ready?”
“Ready,” she said.
“Spotters ready?”
Three men raised their heads and stepped forward. “Ready.”
“On the beep,” the range master said. “You got a line you like to use?”
“A line?” she asked.
“It’s something to let me know when you’re ready. Some people say things like, ‘I hate snakes.’ I say, ‘We deal in lead, friend.’ It’s from The Magnificent Seven.”
She considered what she’d always said in competition, what Rooster Cogburn had said in True Grit right before he’d ridden across the open field, guns blazing. Fill your hands, you son of a bitch. “Yeah, I have one.”
“Well then, let’s hear it when you’re ready.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled. Then she shouted, “I am not afraid of the dark!”
The timing mechanism beeped. She grabbed the rifle from the table, shot, and levered the second bullet as the first shot hit metal with a ping. She hit the target a second time, levered, shot again, and continued until she’d hit the four remaining targets twice in rapid succession. Already on the move, she picked up the shotgun from the second table and hit the first tombstone. Before it had hit the ground, she’d already pumped and fired at the second target, taking them left to right, the big gun barking. She placed the shotgun down and hurried to the makeshift storefront, stepped inside, squared her shoulders to the window and drew the pistol from across her body. She shot out the window and hit each target in sequence, multiple pings ringing out.
When she finished, she spun the pistol and fit it back in its holster.
“Time!” the range master yelled.
No one spoke, not a word, though every competitor now stood watching.
Wisps of smoke filtered in the morning air and brought that familiar, sweet smell of gunpowder. The three spotters each held up a fist, looking to one another as if uncertain.
Tracy had no doubt. She knew she hadn’t missed a target.
The range master considered the timer, looked to another competitor as if disbelieving, and considered the timer again.
“What is it, Rattler?” The question came from an older competitor seated on a barrel. He had his legs apart, his hands resting on his thighs. His cowboy handle was “The Banker” because he wore a bowler hat and a red-paisley vest with a gold pocket watch and chain. “Did it malfunction?” he asked, though his handlebar mustache twitched as he said it, and his mouth broke into a shit-eating grin.
“Twenty-eight point six,” Rattler said.
The other competitors looked at Tracy, then at one another. “Are you sure?” one of them said.
“That can’t be right,” another said. “Can it?”
Tracy’s time was six seconds faster than that of the fastest shooter, three seconds slower than her best time when she’d seriously competed.
“What did you say your name was?” the range master asked.
Tracy stepped from the storefront and reholstered her Colt. “The Kid,” she said. “Just the Kid.”
As the light of day faded, Tracy pulled her rugged cart across the dirt and gravel in the direction of the parking lot. It was the same cart her father had handcrafted for her. She’d retrieved it from storage, along with her guns, when she had gone to get some of her parents’ furniture. She’d moved into a two-bedroom home in West Seattle and needed to fill the rooms. It had a big yard for when Rex and Sherlock came to visit.
The Banker, who had kept a keen watch on Tracy throughout the rest of the competition, came up beside her. “You leaving?”
“I am,” she said.
“But they haven’t announced the winner yet.”
She smiled.
“What should we do with the belt buckle?”
“Is that your granddaughter I saw shooting today?”
“Yeah, she’s mine.”
“How old is she?”
“Just turned thirteen, but she’s been shooting damn near since she could walk.”
“Give it to her,” Tracy said. “Tell her to never stop.”
“Appreciate that,” he said. “Twenty years ago, I saw a shooter, went by the name Kid Crossdraw, I believe, though everyone just called her ‘The Kid.’?”
Tracy stopped.
The Banker smiled and continued. “I saw her in Olympia. Best shooter I ever saw, until today. Never saw her again after that, though. She had a father and a sister that were pretty good too. You wouldn’t happen to have heard of her, would you?”
“I have,” Tracy said. “But you’re mistaken.”
“What about?”
“She’s still the best shooter.”
The Banker played with an end of his mustache. “I’d love to see it. Do you know where she might be competing next?”
“I do,” Tracy said. “But you’re going to have to wait a bit. She’s shooting at higher targets now.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, there are many to thank. First and foremost, before anyone e-mails to tell me I don’t know my geography, Cedar Grove is a fictional town I created in the North Cascades. Yes, there is a Cedar Grove, Washington, but I’ve never been there. I created the town name because I liked the ring of it, and when I later learned of the actual town’s existence, I didn’t want to change it. So there!
I’ve received so much help from so many sources that it is hard to know where to begin. This book was a long time in the making, so some of the interviews and research go back several years. As always, the people acknowledged are experts in their fields. I am not. Any mistakes or errors are mine and mine alone.
Thank you to Kathy Taylor, forensic anthropologist with the King County Medical Examiner’s Office, for all of her insight on the excavation of a decades-old grave site in a wooded, hilly terrain. Thank you also to Kristopher Kern, forensic scientist and member of the Crime Scene Response Team with the Washington State Patrol, for his similar but distinct expertise.
Thank you to Jennifer Gregory, PhD, LICSW, Western Regional Medical Command Care Provider Support Program Supervisor of Joint Base Lewis-McChord, and to David Embry, PhD, PT Research Program Coordinator, Children’s Therapy Unit of the Good Samaritan Movement Laboratory. David approached me at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference when I shared with an audience a general idea for my next novel, and he put me in touch with Jennifer Gregory. They provided fascinating insights into the minds of sociopaths and psychopaths, which are truly frightening. Their assistance helped me to write this novel and the next.
I’ve also been fortunate to meet many wonderful people in the police community who are always generous with their time and their knowledge. I could not have written this book without the assistance of Jennifer Southworth, Detective, Violent Crimes Section, Homicide Unit, Seattle Police Department. Jennifer first helped me when she was working for the CSI unit. She has since been promoted to Homicide and became an inspiration for this novel. My thanks also to Detective Scott Thompson, King County Sheriff’s Office, Major Crimes Unit/Cold Case Homicides. Scott’s willingness to always help me with his knowledge, or to put me in touch with others who can provide needed information, has been invaluable. One of those individuals was Tom Jensen, King County Sheriff’s Office, Major Crimes Unit. Some say he was the last man standing on the Green River Killer Task Force which, after twenty years of dedication, finally obtained the evidence to convict Gary Ridgway.
Thanks also to Kelly Rosa, Senior Paralegal at the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office and lifelong friend. Kelly has helped me on just about every novel I’ve written and promotes them like crazy. I thought it time she took the next step and became a character, and decided that a forensic anthropologist would be just perfect. Thanks, Kelly—you continue to be the best!
A shout-out also to Brad Porter, Sergeant with the Kirkland Police Department. I met Brad during a horrific trial in King County related to a case where he was the lead detective. Brad has remained a friend and sounding board. He’s also the physical inspiration for the character Kinsington Rowe, the Sparrow, though Kins’s personal life is fictional.
Thank you also to Sue Rahr, former King County Sheriff and now Executive Director of the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission, the Police Academy. I didn’t know it when I wrote the novel, but Tracy also has bits of Sue in her: toughness, determination, and a sense of humor. Thanks for taking the time to give insight into your career in what remains a largely male-dominated profession. I want to thank Detective Dana Duffy, Violent Crimes Section, Seattle Police Department, for the same reason. Detective Duffy was Seattle’s first female homicide detective; she too took the time to speak with me candidly not only to describe her career and her job but also to provide necessary perspective.
My thanks to Attorney Kim Hunter of Covington, Washington, for her expertise on the post-conviction relief process and criminal law. I was stuck when I met Kim, and she helped get me unstuck!
The best part about my job is all the cool things I get to do, like attend a Cowboy Action Shooting competition on a foggy winter morning at the Renton Fish & Game Club. That was a hoot, like stepping back into the Old West. The participants are in full costume and take their responsibilities, including gun safety, very seriously. Their skills are likewise serious. These men and women can flat-out shoot. They welcomed me and provided me with insight and information that I could have never found in a book. So, thank you to Diamond Slinger, Jess Ducky, Driften Rattler, Dakota, and Kid Thunder, among others, who all took time to answer my questions.
Another fun part of my job is giving away characters in books for charity—in this instance, to raise money for my son’s high school, Seattle Prep. Thank you to Erik and Margaret Giesa for their generous contribution in exchange for allowing me to use their names as characters in this book. I wish I had space to print Erik’s e-mail describing his wife. Every wife should be so lucky to have a husband describe her as “incredibly beautiful, with great curves and incredible calves and a smile that reflects in her heart.” Happy twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
I do a lot of reading to research my novels and usually don’t acknowledge those printed sources, but I want to take the time to identify just a few of the books, manuals, and articles that I found helpful:
Godwin, Maurice and Fred Rosen, Tracker: Hunting Down Serial Killers
Reichert, David, Chasing the Devil: My Twenty-Year Quest to Capture the Green River Killer
Yancey, Diane, Tracking Serial Killers
Keppel, Robert D. and William J. Birnes, The Psychology of Serial Killer Investigations: The Grisly Business Unit
Morton, Robert J., Serial Murder: Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators, Behavioral Analysis Unit, National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime
Brooks, Pierce, “Multi-Agency Investigative Team Manual,” United States Department of Justice, National Institute of Justice
Thank you to super-agent Meg Ruley and her team at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. Meg just keeps working wonders for me. I’m grateful to have been one of her writers for nearly a decade. She has an infectious personality that always sees the glass as half-full. I am indebted to her and her team, who read my drafts and offer suggestions. I do appreciate all of your support. I couldn’t do it without you.
Thanks to Thomas & Mercer for believing in My Sister’s Grave and in me. Special thanks to Alan Turkus, senior editor; Charlotte Herscher, editor; Kjersti Egerdahl; Jacque Ben-Zekry; Tiffany Pokorny; and Paul Morrissey. If I missed anyone, you know you have my thanks.
Thanks to Tami Taylor, who runs my website and does a fantastic job. Thanks to the cold readers who labor through my early drafts and help make my manuscripts better. Thanks to Pam Binder and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association for their tremendous support of my work.
Thank you also to the loyal readers who e-mail me to tell me how much they enjoy my books and await the next. You are the reason I keep looking for the next great story.
I’ve dedicated this book to my brother-in-law, Robert A. Kapela. Robert was a good man with a big heart and bigger smile. Over the last few years, he lost his joie de vivre while suffering from the lingering effects of a severe medical issue and in the midst of a contentious divorce. Robert’s life ended March 20, 2014. My family was blessed to have Robert come and live with us the final week of his life. My kids loved their “Uncle Bert,” and my wife loved her brother. He was the “fun” uncle who made summers especially memorable on his boat.
I realize the tremendous hole that is left when a loved one dies. I felt it when my father died six years ago and think of him every day. The hole will never fill completely. Robert’s death has touched us all deeply. The morning after he died, I sat on the porch to watch the sunrise. My wife joined me. It was a brilliant magenta sky, and as we sat watching I suddenly remembered that the day before I got married, the priest had asked me what I wanted, and I had said, “I want to watch the sunrise with Cristina for the rest of my life.” I am certain the sunrise that morning was Robert’s gift to us, reminding us to see God’s beauty in every day, to feel his love, and to always stay in the light. My prayers and thoughts remain with Robert and his three sons.
To Cristina, the love of my life and my soul mate, who has stood beside me with each step of this life journey. You get more beautiful with every day. Remember the sunrises we’ve promised each other, and always see the beauty, love, and light in every day. To my son, Joe, now a man, I wish for you everything in life that you need to make you happy—love. To my daughter, Catherine, you light up every room you enter. Never lose that glow or joie de vivre.