A Triple Thriller Fest (12 page)

“I hope not, Agent Bentley. His parents are two very fine people who have suffered enough grief, what with their daughter—my wife—dying two years ago. Can you imagine how his mother would feel if her son turned out to be a murderer?”

“Captain Rawlings, everyone on death row has, or had, a mother.”

“I guess so,” he said, continuing to stir the ice in his drink. “So, how can I help you today?”

“I was wondering if you could come into our San Francisco office and look over some mug shots.”

“Today?”

“No, early next week, if possible.”

“What are we looking for?”

“You’ve lived in Yolo County most of your life. I thought you might recognize someone in the photos we’ve taken of the members of the militia and could help us with background.”

“Yeah. I could do that, I suppose. Any particular day?”

“How about Tuesday?”

“Fine. Tuesday would suit me. Late morning?”

“Good,” Nicole replied, finishing her drink and standing. She took a dollar from her purse and left it on the table. “Until Tuesday, then.”

“Agent Bentley,” Dan said, also rising and picking up the check, “will I find my picture in those mug shots?” He smiled.

“Not likely, Captain Rawlings, and I can advise that you are not considered a ‘person of interest,’ either.”

“Well, I am to the other side, it seems,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He reached into his uniform pocket, retrieved a small piece of paper, and handed it to her. “This was under my windshield wiper in the cemetery parking lot just now.”

She unfolded and read the note.

Captain Rawlings:

Treason is a hanging offense.

Patriots unite!

She quickly refolded the note and looked up at Dan. “May I keep this?”

“It certainly isn’t going in
my
scrapbook,” he said, smiling.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday, Captain Rawlings.”

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Just before sunset, Dan and his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, took a half-mile walk up to a favorite vantage point on the mountain above the older man’s farmhouse, located some thirty-five miles from Woodland, up State Highway 16, in Rumsey Canyon. There, the two men sat quietly on their haunches, watching twilight dissolve and darkness begin to envelop the valley and tree-lined creek bed below them. The steep hills, covered at that time of year with a stand of tall, dry grass and the scattered groves of oak trees, provided rich pasture for grazing cattle. Below, on the flatter ground, they could see the orchards of nut trees, laid out in neat rows. It was a scene they both loved, and they sat watching without speaking, enjoying the nightly procession of shadows deepening in the arroyos carved into the hillsides by centuries of winter rains.

“How are you finding your work, Dan?”

Dan smiled at his grandfather, wondering how the old man was always able to tell when something was wrong—from Dan’s skipping school in the early years to the dreadful months after Susan’s death—even when Dan thought he was carrying on quite normally.

“The world is changing, Jack. You read the papers and watch the news. Between the clamor for California’s independence and the planning commission’s movement to break up the large farm holdings in Rumsey Valley, well, it’s a tumultuous time. I don’t know that I want to preside over the demise of this valley.”

“We’ve got nearly eight thousand acres of prime land in our family, down considerably from the fifteen thousand we once had, but still a nice holding. Almonds and walnuts have been this family’s life. You’ve got the land in your soul, even if you did opt to be a lawyer and a county administrator instead of a farmer.”

Rawlings smiled at his grandfather, who was now eighty-one. “I don’t farm the land, Jack, but you’re right, I care about it a lot.”

Jack shifted his position. “Our family has always cared about this land. It’s been like that since your fourth great-grandfather, Colonel Howard Rumsey, settled this valley right after the Civil War.”

Dan quietly chuckled and braced himself, knowing he was due for another of Granddad’s stories about Rumsey Valley. Jack started to speak, but caught himself. Cocking his head and grinning at his grandson, he said, “I guess you’ve heard that one already.”

Standing up, Dan looked west, watching the fading rays of light create a kaleidoscope of color between the evening clouds and the tops of the mountains, their purple hue changing even as Jack began the family homily. Yes, he did know that one, and the one about the one-room schoolhouse off to the right a half-mile, where his great-grandmother and grandmother had completed their schooling. His mother had broken out of the mold and left for San Francisco and a college degree—the first in the family. He also knew the one about the steep mountain trail above them. At the close of the last century, his great, great-grandfather had followed it east on horseback, over into the Sacramento Valley every weekend to court the Morris girl until she agreed to marry him and move across the foothills to Rumsey Valley.

Dan’s head was full of Jack’s stories. He’d heard them all, and listening to them, he had learned to be patient with his grandfather. As Dan had matured, and he and his grandfather became peers more than mentor and pupil, Dan had been able to make something of a joke of his grandfather’s natural loquaciousness. Even Jack laughed when Dan introduced him by saying, “Granddad never met a man he couldn’t bore.”

Dan turned now toward Jack and held his eyes, as his grandfather had taught him to do, in order to take the measure of a man.

“I know most of it, Granddad, but what eluded me for so long was
how
I knew it, or rather how I
felt
it inside, like it was part of me.”

“It is, son. Not everyone in this family has that understanding, but I saw it in you early on.”

“That book Dad bought me, you know—the one I showed you about heritage, DNA, and our recollections of our ancestors? The genealogy book by G.G. Vandagriff. That’s where I figured it out. I’ve got their voices in my blood, Granddad, just like the author said.”

Looking back down the valley, Dan paused, as if expecting his ancestors to appear—to tell him how to handle his problems. “They all speak to me somehow, and from them, I’ve … well, I’ve inherited their feelings, not only for this valley but for the nation. And from you, Granddad,” he said, smiling at Jack. “All you’ve taught me; shooting my first buck, how to cast a fly, irrigating the almonds.” The memories flooded through him, and he knew Jack could sense his feelings.

Jack got to his feet and started down the hillside, turning to look back at his grandson.

“It’s a rare thing, to be connected that solidly to the land of your birth and to your forebears, Dan. These radicals, both conservative and liberal, just don’t get it. What they describe as patriotism has nothing to do with what’s best for this country. They don’t value the hard work, personal sacrifice, and blood that have made this country what it is. They only want to exploit the advantages for their own gain.” Jack resumed his downward path, and Dan followed. “You know that your father and I haven’t always …” Jack hesitated.

Dan had often felt like a pawn in the friction between his grandfather and his father. As a young boy, he had struggled to keep his balance in that storm—to continue loving them both.

Jack laughed out loud and continued his thoughts. “We haven’t always agreed since he and your mother split up. But your father was right about one thing—you needed to leave this valley and make your mark. It’s inside you now. You’ll always come back. You
are
the valley, and your children will be, too.”

Dan laughed. “Jack, I’m only forty miles down the road, in Woodland.”

Jack ignored Dan’s protest and continued his descent, looking over his shoulder at his grandson. “Time was, it was a full day’s trip, each way. It’s ‘outside’ … townies.”

“Well, I’ll try to keep some dirt on my shoes, if it’ll make you feel better.”

They made their way confidently through the darkened but familiar landscape.

“I know you’ll do right by us, Dan. I wish … if only your grandmother could’ve seen what’s become of you. She would have been as proud of you as I am.”

As they reached the bottom of the hill, Dan looked at his grandfather for a moment before speaking. “Jack, I know how much you miss Grandma. I got a bit more understanding of that after Susan died. I want you to know that everything you and Grandma taught me over the years is still with me, including a love for the land. But as important as the land is, it’s nothing without the people who love it. And we all serve this valley in different ways. I’m afraid the ‘townies,’ as you call ’em, have discovered that the Valley is more than just a road to Clear Lake. They’re coming, and we have to be prepared for that.”

“
You
, maybe, but not me. I’ve had my day. It’s your turn now, and I hope I’m not here to see it. That, and the success of this ridiculous separatist movement Turner’s promoting. Stand up to them, Dan. Our family and friends fought hard to make this land part of America. Don’t let Turner and his bunch throw that all away.”

“I feel the same way, but people are angry and frustrated at Washington. You know that. It’s damn near impossible to get the Feds to change or to get them to stop regulating everything we do—from building roads to doing business to even deciding what crops farmers can grow. Now that they have their new health legislation, they want to regulate our health check-ups and medical treatment. It’s becoming ‘
Is Grandpa too old for a hip replacement?’
mentality. They’ve gone too far, Jack.”

Jack shook his head. “They’ve climbed on our back, that’s for sure, but life
is
change, Dan. I’ve watched it for eighty years.” He hesitated, a grin spreading across his face. “Most people favor progress—it’s the change they don’t like,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

“So I’ve heard you say,” Dan laughed also. “But it’s getting out of hand, and people are going to get hurt … have
already
been hurt, in the process.”

“If you’re talking about that young soldier they buried today, it’s an outrage.”

“I know. I went to his funeral this afternoon. Jack, have you ever heard of the Shasta Brigade—a militia group up north?”

“Sure. Are you thinking they’re involved in this?”

Dan looked west, to the last sliver of light clinging to life just over the crest of the mountain. “They could be. It’s a bold move if they are, but they’re acting pretty cocky lately, with all this hue and cry for secession.”

Jack put his hand on his grandson’s shoulder, darkness fully surrounding them now. “Cocky doesn’t cover it. They’ve already claimed responsibility for murdering the judges, haven’t they? If this is their work, they’ve got to be held accountable.”

“And what about California? Am I wrong in thinking that secession isn’t something we can abide?”

“Can the head function without the body? Or the land without the water? Or the man without the woman?” Jack paused. “We’re united, Dan. Sure, California could function as a separate nation and probably do quite well—maybe better than most—but our ancestors fought long and hard to become a
nation
of states, each connected to the others.”

“Maybe,” Dan replied, “but many of the original colonists thought we should remain aligned with England before they declared independence. Some of our complaints are nearly identical to the ones had by the early settlers. The federal government seems to have gotten too big for its britches, as I’ve heard you say often.”

“Oh, a change is necessary, all right. We’ve had well over a century of politicians promising entitlements to everybody. Cradle-to-grave largesse. Eventually it catches up, and somebody has to pay the bill. You remember the story I used to tell you about the farmers co-op hauling the sheep to market in the community wagon? One of them got sick and they put him in the wagon with the sheep and he rode the rest of the way. Pretty soon, the lead farmer got really tired and turned around to ask the others to pull harder.
Everyone
was in the wagon. He was the only one pulling. Our nation has gone down that road, Dan. We
all
can’t ride in the wagon.” Beginning to walk again, Jack said, “For my part, I’m going home to get some sleep. I’ll let you young’uns solve the world’s ills.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Dan laughed.

“Think nothin’ of it, son. Glad to help. Oh, and Dan, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Watch yourself. Don’t underestimate those fanatics in the Shasta Brigade. They won’t look kindly upon those who get in their way.”

“Believe me, I know it. And the sheriff’s telling me the same thing. On his advice, I’ve started carrying a pistol in my vehicle. You’ve carried one as long as I can remember.”

Jack nodded. “He’s probably right. Now, c’mon back to the house and let’s rustle up some dinner.”

* * *

Just after 10 p.m., Dan drove past the rural area adjacent to Yolo County Airport on his way home after leaving Jack’s house. When he saw a van stopped crosswise in the center passing lane of the highway, blocking passageway in both directions, Dan slowed his Blazer. The van’s flasher lights were activated, and it looked like a minor accident had occurred.

Approaching carefully, he stopped about ten yards short of the vehicle, just off the southern end of the single airport runway. About fifty yards away, just inside the fence line, a small Cessna was on the edge of the main runway, with two men silhouetted in the cockpit, the engine idling. He couldn’t see the driver or passengers from the van, but the vehicle lights were still on, and he could see slight exhaust fumes from the tailpipe, as if the vehicle engine was also running. Dan’s instincts went on full alert, and he reached into the glove box to retrieve his Beretta and an extra clip. The intuitive response action saved his life.

Two men came out of the ditch to the far side of the van, each wielding pistols and approaching Dan’s car from both angles. Each man wore a balaclava that covered his face. Instinctively, Dan floored his Blazer, ramming the back of the van, pushing it toward the edge of the road, but still not leaving enough room for Dan to drive around it without dropping into the three-foot-deep ditches.