The Summerland (10 page)

Arden was as surprised by the invitation as Bill was in giving it, and the warning bells it sent off quelled that sweet, whole body hum their light flirtation had set into motion. For a moment she considered rejecting the offer, as inviting as it was.

She was very attracted to this man, and from what she could see in his eyes, it wasn’t one-sided. She didn’t need the extra complication of the sexual relationship she could easily envision developing between them. She needed to devote her time to figuring out what the hell had happened to Samantha. Then again, she considered, she also needed the Sheriff to help her solve the mystery, needed him to tell her more about this area and the people who lived in it. So she set aside her qualms, nodding her head. “Sounds good to me. Did you drive up here, or run?”

Bill chuckled; all nervousness set aside for the time being. “What self-respecting runner would drive to the track? That’s a sin against the sport.” And so they walked down the hill, letting the silence of early twilight settle over them like a warm blanket.

Chapter Ten

Thursday morning dawned crisp and clean, with no hint of the scorching heat that was sure to come. Arden stretched luxuriously across the silky cotton sheets, feeling the minor aches and pains that always seemed to accompany a run over unfamiliar terrain. It was barely six, and the sun was already trying to show its face.

Crawling out of the huge half-tester bed, she beat a path to the bedroom door, hoping against hope that her request for morning coffee had been granted. Lo and behold, a tray waited beside the door, with a carafe, a cup and biscotti. Expensive or not, she thought with a slow, satisfied smile, this was definitely the way to go. She hefted the tray, placing it on a small sitting table, then plopped into the comfortable chair beside it, gratefully pouring steaming coffee from what appeared to be an antique Victorian decanter. Puzzled at how the coffee had stayed warm for any period of time, she rapped the side of it with her knuckles and was amazed to hear the thunk of metal beneath. The thing was insulated, for God’s sake.

She knew she was in bad shape when she marveled over things like a coffeepot. Inhaling the fragrant aroma of good coffee, she reveled in the beauty of a country sunrise. She hadn’t seen anything like it since she came home from Portugal, and it was just as magnificent, though different. She hadn’t thought towns like this existed anymore.

Small towns, where the Sheriff was the hero on the white horse and half the town’s populace seemed to be wearing a buckle the size of a hubcap on their belts. She had seen the way heads had turned when they entered the Stage Stop together and she knew the rumor mill would be churning by the time the first hash and eggs were dished up at the Sugar Pine.

It had been an interesting dinner, to say the very least. The smoothly polished man who had shown up at her door sent her pulse spiking at the mere sight of him. She marveled at the disparate but totally compatible Bill Ashton’s she’d seen in less than twelve hours. She now knew what he looked like in almost every kind of clothing, from cowboy sheriff to jock to eminently datable stud. The fact that he seemed to be a good guy to boot almost made him too good to be true.

From the moment when he’d preceded her into his office yesterday she’d felt that frission, that warm, flowing pull almost impossible to describe. Their mutual appreciation of each other throughout the evening and their meal together had only solidified the feeling of impending intimacy. It was one of those low-frequency feelings that begs investigation, but she continued to shake it off. She was here looking for her sister, not trying to get a little side action with the local peace officer, she reminded herself.

As she went over the evening in her mind what amazed her the most about the meal was their total lack of shoptalk. She’d been armed, ready to slide into interview mode, more than prepared to ask him a slew of questions about Sam and the town and exactly what she could expect from his department when it came to locating her sister. But as they enjoyed a quiet drink at their table she simply didn’t have the urge. Instead, she wanted to just sit and talk.

As a matter of fact, she felt almost compelled to talk to this man that she’d known less than a day. And he seemed to want to do the same.

The wine had been outstanding, a local pressing she’d never heard of. She was sure the meal was excellent, but to tell the truth, she couldn’t remember much about it. Maybe because her dinner companion was handsome and witty and had a wonderful, if reluctant, laugh. Whatever it was, she relaxed, really relaxed for the first time in a very long time.

She found herself talking about Portugal and the way the ocean beat against the volcanic rock in a fury and how the wind howled like a banshee across the North Atlantic. She told him of the festivals and the bullfights and the way the islanders welcomed you into their home for pot roast and potatoes cooked in volcanic vents. And he sat there and listened, actually listened, with a look of interest and something close to repulsed awe as she described the island custom of eating raw, sometimes living barnacles seasoned with garlic and oil, chased with the local unregulated beer.

Arden couldn’t remember talking that much in a long time. Or enjoying herself or her company quite so much. She tried to remember the last time she’d actually been out for an evening with someone she was genuinely interested in and attracted to and came up blank. The dating pool for senior Captains at any military base was depressingly dry. And if she were honest with herself, and she usually was, she just hadn’t been interested since her divorce had become final.

While Tom certainly hadn’t set her pulse to fluttering or left her trembling with passion, he’d filled a space that was achingly empty, and in doing so had made her feel special, treasured. To her utter mortification she discovered that he had that affect on many women, including their upstairs neighbor in base housing.

Well, she mused, snuggling deeper into the comfort of the chair, it was all water under the bridge. She could say that now, with the pain and distaste of the divorce nearly three years behind her. The only thing Tom had really damaged was her pride, but it had been a hell of a blow. No woman liked seeing the proof of her husband’s infidelity. No woman liked coming in second in her own marriage. So she’d tried to be the woman she thought he wanted, needed to stay faithful.

When it hadn’t worked and he continued in his old ways, she’d snapped.

In the last days of their marriage, the Arden Jones of today had surfaced. The tough, in-your-face woman who knew what she wanted, and got it.

The Arden Jones she was now had been about two steps away from castrating the bastard in those last hours.

How dare he humiliate her like that, especially within the small, incestuous confines of a military base? Worst of all, how could she, strong, sure Arden Jones, have sunk to the level of desperation she had? How could she have so totally changed herself for a man? She’d done everything but beg the man to stay.

Then, with a little time and lot of tequila, she’d accepted that she hated the
idea
of Tom’s infidelity much more than she hated the fact that he’d done it. She also found that she had been in love with
being
married, rather than being married to Tom. When it came to him, she found she really didn’t give a shit.

She’d known it was really over when she signed the papers with little more emotion than she’d show a monthly bill. The only thing she really missed, after all was said and done, was the one thing she’d been able to count on from Tom—good, sweaty sex.

Now she was a new, stronger woman. While she understood on a purely instinctive level that she would marry again, consciously she had decided that she would never again let a man have the upper hand. Never again would she be the one who hurt, who yearned for something more. Her next relationship would be exactly as
she
decreed it.

So with that on her mind, she sat in her ritzy bed and breakfast, sipping heaven and munching on biscotti, contemplating the man she had spent last evening with, not even touching on the real reason she had come to this quiet town.

* * * *

They discovered the anomaly at the Ross crime scene while trying to take a candle wax sample. In the southwest quadrant of the circle, right next to the victim’s head, they had unearthed a flat, oblong piece of granite that the candle appeared to be seated in before removal. The rock had not been noticeable initially because it had been almost completely covered by the brown, baked clay native to the area. After re-photographing the site carefully as a precaution, the agents had begun to remove the dirt surrounding the stone, assuming at the beginning that the candle had been placed in a convenient, natural hollow. As they delved deeper they discovered that the stone had a smooth, almost finished feel. Carved into the bottom portion was a mysterious symbol. Upon further excavation they found that the resting place for the candle had also been precisely carved.

With this obvious intent in mind, they looked to the other circles of death and encountered what they most feared. In each of the five cases an almost identical piece of granite was discovered. In each case, the rock looked like it had been there forever. And in each case the same enigmatic symbol was carved into the base of the stone.

Samples of the clay and surrounding compost were collected for age analysis. To a man, or woman, the technicians were puzzled and more than a little dismayed. The Ross crime scene showed no recent digging around the area, yet the body could not have been there for more than one week at the very most. There would almost certainly have been some sign of digging around the rock if it had been placed at the time of her death.

Bill shared the same thoughts as the technicians as he slowly surveyed the scene for the third time in four days. Other than the absence of Kimmie Ross’ body, nothing had changed from his initial viewing. Squatting down in front of the unearthed stone he was struck by something, something once again squirming at the back of his mind. Rather than try digging it out, he let his mind run free, staring blindly at the pattern the dried and crackly buck brush leaves made at his feet.

Drebin was standing under an ancient black oak, surveying the scene as a whole, looking for the bigger picture. He was sure the location of each body played a significant role in how and why each body was placed, he just hadn’t figured it out yet. He looked over at the Sheriff, wondering what was going on in that brain of his. He could tell by Bill’s posture that he was as relaxed as a cop can get, but there was a fine tension underlying that casual demeanor. He was working on something.

Pushing away from the shade of the tree, Drebin entered the full force of the morning sun and winced at the brightness. Pulling on the Ray Ban shades that were almost a uniform to government employees, he sauntered over to the Sheriff, his easy gait betraying none of the uneasiness he felt looking around this desolate, brushy wilderness. Even though he and Ashton had been over the crime scene yesterday afternoon, he still got a chill down the middle of his back when his peripheral vision caught sight of the sinuous, ghostly aura of heat waves that arose even at this early hour.

“
What have you got, Bill?” Drebin hunkered down beside him, looking intently at the granite stone that had so transfixed the sheriff.

“
It’s a goddamned altar. I was reading up on some of this stuff last night. See this marking here?” He used a stick to point to the arcane marking. “That’s a sigil. It means something to him, and only him. We’d never be able to translate it even if we tried. The fact that the earth around these stones, and this one in particular, hasn’t been disturbed means that he planned this. I’m almost afraid to poke around and see if he’s got anymore planted somewhere. This wasn’t a crime of passion. It wasn’t even a crime, at least not to him. It was a fucking offering. He sacrificed these girls.” Bill stood up suddenly, straightening his long body in a controlled rush, then stalked away into the underbrush.

Chapter Eleven

After fully perusing the aisles of the Prospector’s Market, Arden was positive the citizens of Mariposa County were primarily carnivores. The fruit and vegetable selection was meager at best, and the hub of the store seemed to revolve around the enormous meat section. As she stood there slightly stunned, gazing at what seemed like acres of bloody red beef, she unconsciously tuned into the conversation going on between the two middle-aged men in front of her.

“
Well I heard that the whole trunk was full of it. And guns too. My cousin Mike works next door to the Chevron station and he said Tony was waving that cash around like there was no Sunday coming. Serves him right if they come looking for him. What did he think was gonna happen, those Compton crack dealers were just gonna say, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Take our money, take our guns.’ Shit no. And that car. Who in their right mind would run guns in a red convertible, for God’s sake? The Holsteins just look for those cars to pull over.”

At the balding man’s mention of a red sports car Arden’s interest peaked and she began to openly listen to their conversation.

“
Well, I dunno Carl, that’s not what I heard.” said the other man dubiously. “I heard some woman took the FBI’s seed money and that’s why they’re here, not cause of those dead girls. I heard they were closing in on her so she ditched the car and money and took to the hills. Nobody knows where she is, but the feds are beating the bushes looking for her.”