Davis, California
Daniel Rawlings stood under the shower nozzle, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Rivulets of steaming hot water ran down his face as he tried to wash away the night sweat and anxiety that always accompanied the dream. For over two years, he had been haunted by a recurring nightmare. It always woke him and left him sitting up in bed, his heart racing. Over and over, he had been forced by an involuntary, self-inflicted penance to watch Susan die, each time as realistically as the first, though in the dream his wife’s face was absent-replaced by a blurred image beneath her fur-lined hood.
He’d knelt in the snow and held her in his arms while she died, but she’d not been able to speak. Ever since, he’d been unable to convince himself that there wasn’t something, anything, he could have done to prevent her death.
The dream always brought Dan awake, sweating and trembling, wishing for the thousandth time that it might only be a dream. Then, unable to erase the gruesome image from his mind or fall back to sleep, he would get out of bed and climb into the shower, hoping the hot water and steam might somehow purge the painful memories.
Stepping out of the shower, Dan toweled off, wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, and lathered his face. Staring back at him were the same blue eyes, the same thick, dark brown hair and heavy overnight beard. There was even the same body, exercised regularly in an almost ritualistic pattern. At slightly over six feet, Dan had maintained every aspect of his physical attributes that Susan had so loved. It seemed peculiar to him that all physical signs were void of the devastation that had occurred within his heart, his soul. Those he had been unable to maintain, to exercise, even to control.
He and Susan had been married for less than a year when she died, and his morning ritual-a return to reality more than an awakening from sleep-was born of frustration at a reluctant but forced acceptance of the ever-present nightmare, of Susan’s absence, and the brevity of the marriage they had been promised. A widower at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, eternity seemed a long time away.
The one redeeming benefit of waking so early was that after clearing his head of the memories, he was able to shift mentally into another frame of mind and make good use of the pre-dawn hours to work on the novel he was writing. He had spent hundreds of hours at his computer, his imaginary characters filling the lonely void in his life. In many respects, Voices in My Blood had been his salvation.
Despite the bitter cold of the winter morning, sweat saturated the young soldier’s ragged uniform, and salty droplets ran from his forehead, stinging his eyes. Four of them lay abreast in their shallow log bunker, awaiting the next assault by the British regulars.
“There’s no hope, Ned,” the young man said, his voice tight with fear.
“Don’t give in, Tommy, we ain’t dead yet. An’ you’ll see, sure as shootin’, Ethan’s boys’ll come swoopin’ down outta them Green Mountains, and the redcoats’ll scatter like scared rabbits.”
Nearly four hundred and fifty pages of his heart and soul, not to mention personal satisfaction derived from the effort, lay on his desk, ready to be sealed in a U.S. Priority Mail envelope and sent off to a New York literary agent. Born of a year’s worth of sleeplessness, early morning hours, and long, nighttime sessions that had replaced, in large part, any semblance of a social life, the book he hoped would be the next great American novel was finally finished.
Rawlings had needed an outlet for the persistent pain, and he had turned to what he had come to think of as “the voices in his blood” for diversion. Fired by the stories told him by his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, Dan’s feelings for his ancestors had always been strong, but in researching and writing their histories, he had developed a sense of being literally connected to them. Unable to objectively judge its worth, Dan came to view his novel-tentatively titled Voices in My Blood-as a catharsis for his grief following the death of his bride. The task of writing a novel had proven far more daunting than he had imagined, but it had also consumed him.
The Rumsey family, his progenitors on his mother’s side, had come from England to the American colonies with the first wave of settlers early in the seventeenth century. Over several generations, they had pioneered the frontiers and been involved in pushing the borders of the fledgling United States ever westward, some crossing the plains in the traditional route, untended grave sites marking the extent of their passage.
The Rumseys, a current-day amalgamation of Macabees, Standishs, Morrins, and a host of other Anglo-Saxon and northern European names, had become a hardy bunch. Together with a smattering of native American Indian blood, they had lived, labored, fought, and propagated during a volatile and romantic period in American history. Like many families of that turbulent era, some were more adventurous, exhibiting a restless bent that brought them at last to the fertile valleys of central and northern California.
Dan Rawlings loved the beautiful Rumsey Valley, nestled in the eastern foothills of the California coastal range, northwest of Sacramento. Another branch of his ancestors had eventually settled there in 1867, the final stop for the formerly South Carolina Rumseys who moved west after the Civil War. It was where he had chosen to continue living, surrounded by the echoes of the past.
Rawlings had found it easy to identify with these robust, often reckless people. Indeed, after he had researched their names, histories, and genealogy, the characters had taken on lives of their own, something Dan found immensely intriguing. The daily task of writing had become an adventure, and as he turned on his computer each morning, he did so with a feeling of curiosity, wondering what his characters might end up doing as he explored their lives and feelings. The “voices in his blood” sang to him, and he found it emotionally satisfying to speculate about their lives and to embellish their stories.
After earning a degree in political science from the University of California at Davis, Dan had then graduated with honors from Stanford Law School. Out of a sense of patriotism, or perhaps his family’s sense of performing their civic duty, he joined the California National Guard in Sacramento, spending six months on active duty at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, becoming a JAG officer.
His marriage to Susan completed what he felt was the foundation of a wonderful life, personally and professionally. Landing a job as the city attorney in Susanville, California, high in the Sierra Nevada mountains, was the finishing touch. With work he loved to do and living near the skiing that Susan loved so much, the two of them seemed destined to enjoy the good life. But Susan’s tragic death just one year later had instantly changed all that. She was twenty-four, he was twenty-six, and their marriage was barely one.
Five months after the accident, still numb from the loss and unable to deal with the memories he and Susan had built in Susanville, Dan resigned his position as city attorney and accepted a job as county administrator in Yolo County, near Sacramento, returning to the geographic roots of his ancestors. Rather than live in Woodland, the county seat, and the town where the county offices were located, he had chosen to live in Davis, near the University of California, where he would have easy access to the library and its resources. Dan had disciplined himself to work at least a few hours each day on his manuscript, and the daily routine had proven to be his salvation in the two years that had passed since Susan’s death. He had settled into a lonely, but comfortable, routine, and it was only a fifteen-minute drive to work-just enough time to clear his head and make the transition from aspiring novelist to county administrator.
The periodic nightmares in which he relived the horror of Susan’s death were a continuing curse and a cruel mocking of what might have been-should have been. He hated seeing her broken body lying amidst the blood. When he allowed his mind to drift, he missed her terribly, his breath came in short, ragged gasps, and the pain in his chest, more emotional than physical, was, to his way of thinking, indiscernible from an actual physiological trauma.
But there were also satisfying memories. Even now, while driving or sitting quietly in his office, he often found himself lost in thought, trying desperately to recall her scent, the texture of her hair and the feel of her skin. He would think about how she spoke to him with her eyes, her smile, and the bold and intimate things she would say and do as she draped herself on him, entwining her fingers in his hair, breathing her sweet breath into his ear, growling outrageous threats, slowly building his emotion and desire, and purring in response when he held her tightly in his arms, his face buried in the fragrant hollow of her neck and shoulder.
Yet also in that quiet solitude-that memory-induced coma-he also missed her softer side, so often exposed as she sat quietly on a quiet hillside at sunset, writing in her journal, the moisture filling her eyes. After some months, he came to realize that her head-turning physical attributes had never been the source of his deeply felt love. He had lost his companion, his partner in life, and his lover, and her absence left him empty, at times inconsolably bereft of emotion.
His grandfather had been right. Life often wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that less than a year after being married, she had been cruelly and needlessly snatched away from him. It wasn’t fair that he was alone. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t want to be alone, but that he could not, for the life of him, envision being with anyone else.
Writing the book had at first only been an escape, and so he was more than mildly surprised when a New York literary agent to whom he had submitted early parts of the manuscript had asked to see the rest. Since that telephone call, the pressure had been intense to finish the book, and he had worked late at night and early in the mornings through several drafts to polish his story and put it in final form. He was ready now to send it off, but he was doing so without much confidence. He had never written anything for publication, and he’d heard the horror stories about how hard it is to get a publisher to pay any attention to an unknown author. He had prepared himself to be disappointed, certain his manuscript would generate only a series of rejection slips.
He was consoled when he considered that the writing had helped him cope with the loss of Susan and also put him in touch with his ancestors. No matter what came of it, Voices in My Blood had served a great purpose.
The phone rang just as Dan was grabbing his keys and preparing to leave his condo for work.
“Good morning, this is Dan.”
“Morning, Dan. It’s Tony.”
“Well, Sheriff, you’re on the job early this morning. Trying to set up a game this afternoon?”
Antonio Sanchez was the Yolo County Sheriff, and the two of them sometimes knocked off early to get in a quick nine holes at the Yolo Country Club after work. But instead of responding to the question, Tony said, “Can you meet me on I-5 at the north end of the Memorial Bridge?”
“Sure. I don’t have staff meeting ’til ten. What’s up?”
“I’d, uh, rather talk with you in person.”
“Understand. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The flashing lights and multiple vehicles parked on both sides of the interstate at the north end of the bridge were visible for nearly a mile across the flat, flood plain northwest of the river and gave ample direction to the scene. Dan pulled off the freeway and around to the northwest side of the bridge that crossed the Sacramento River. Named the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge after a long campaign waged by veterans from Yolo and Sacramento counties, the bridge was sorely in need of repair or replacement.
At least a dozen vehicles-sheriff’s department, emergency medical services, and civilian-were scattered on the shoulder of the road on both sides of the bridge. Dan pulled his Blazer behind a sheriff’s patrol car and got out to peer over the side of the bridge. Slightly below and partially under the bridge in the dry creek bed was an ambulance. Dan made his way down the dusty slope and toward a cluster of sheriff’s deputies and several civilians-whom Dan took to be detectives-standing around Sheriff Tony Sanchez.
Rounding the back of the ambulance, Dan instantly came to a halt. An EMT was sitting on the shoulders of another EMT, trying to undo the rope around the neck of a man wearing camouflage BDUs similar to what Dan wore on guard weekend drills. The lifeless body hung from the underside of the bridge abutment. The body was turned the other way, and Dan was unable to see the face.
“A rotten way to start a Monday morning,” Tony said, excusing himself from those surrounding him and stepping in Dan’s direction. The sheriff took him by the arm and led him away from the group.
“Deputy Collins was shot and killed here last night.”
“Darin Collins? What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. A passing trucker reported seeing his cruiser parked at a funny angle up there at the end of the bridge. When a deputy checked it out, he found Collins lying alongside the car. He’d been shot in the head.”
“I can’t believe it. Any theories as to why?”
“Nothing. He had his weapon out of its holster, and he had been shot at close range, in the forehead. That’s as much as we know. The body’s been taken to the coroner.”
“Geez. Darin’s married and has some kids, doesn’t he?”
“Two, and one on the way.”
Dan shook his head, imagining how Darin’s wife was going to react to the news. “What’s up with this?” He nodded toward the body that had been cut down and was being placed on a stretcher.
“I wish I knew. While the deputies were securing the crime scene, one of them came down here and found this man hanging under the bridge.”
“A suicide?”
“Not likely. His hands are tied behind his back. Do you recognize him?”
Dan looked again toward the body as the EMTs were preparing to place the collapsible gurney in the ambulance. Reluctantly, he walked to where he could look at the contorted and discolored face.
“Damn! McFarland!”
“Then you do know him?” Tony said.
Dan nodded slowly. “He’s a member of the 324th. Lieutenant Richard McFarland.”
Tony jotted down the name.
A male civilian in a suit spoke from behind them. “Are you a member of this man’s military unit?”
Dan looked at the man and turned back toward Tony, hesitating.
“Dan, this is Special Agent Samuels and his partner, Special Agent Bentley, of the FBI. They arrived about thirty minutes ago.”
Dan nodded, looked back toward the stretcher, and then responded to Samuels. “We’re both in the 324th Mechanized Infantry Battalion, California National Guard. McFarland is. . was. . a platoon leader. . a lieutenant.”
“Are you his commander?” Agent Bentley asked.
Dan turned away from the stretcher now being loaded into the ambulance and focused his gaze on Bentley, who appeared to be in her late twenties. She was dressed in a tailored, dark-blue suit. Her hair was jet black and cut close, just above the neck line. She stood about five-five in low heels, Dan noticed, and presented herself as all business.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m assigned to the JAG. Richard was a grunt.”
“Grunt?” she questioned, then nodded her understanding. “Infantry.”
“That’s right,” Dan said.
“Did you have frequent contact with Lieutenant McFarland?” Bentley continued.
Again Dan hesitated, his thoughts gathering after the shock of seeing McFarland hanging by the neck from a thin strand of what appeared to be nylon ski rope. As his legal training kicked in, his mind began to function more formally, and he addressed his comments to Tony.
“Are we still in Yolo County, Tony? I mean, the Sacramento County line is over the river, isn’t it?
“Yep, this is still my jurisdiction. But if, as you say, the deceased is a federal military officer, then Agents Samuels and Bentley may have priority in the investigation.”
“Agent Bentley, if you don’t mind, before answering your question, I’d like to call our commander, General Del Valle.”
“That will be fine, uh, Mr. . ”
“Dan Rawlings. I’m the county administrator here in Yolo County and a captain in the Guard’s JAG Corps.”
“Well, Mr. . Captain Rawlings, we intended to call for an appointment with General Del Valle immediately after we leave here. Perhaps we could all meet together.”
“Fine. I’ll call the general and apprise him of the situation. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, stepping away and walking back up the slope toward his car, followed by Tony.
“What’s the story, Tony? How’d the Feds get involved so quickly?”
“I don’t have a clue. They were here within forty minutes after the body was reported.”
Dan halted and looked at his friend. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a good morning for either of us, has it?”
“I’ve had better,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Look, you call your general, and I’ll finish here with the crime scene. I’ll stop by your office later and let you know what we find-if anything.”
“Okay,” Dan said, already dialing his cell phone.
Dan stood at the driver’s side of his car, waiting for the call to be transferred to the general and watched as the ambulance lumbered up the slope, slowly traversed the multiple vehicles, and made its way onto the highway. Down the slope, Agents Samuels and Bentley were talking with Sheriff Sanchez.
“General Del Valle,” the phone echoed.
“Sir, this is Captain Rawlings. We’ve had an unfortunate incident with one of our officers. . Lieutenant Richard McFarland.”
“I know the young man, Captain. What happened?”
“He’s dead, sir.”
“Dead? How?”
“He was found hanged.”
“A suicide?”
“The sheriff doesn’t think so. I’m on scene at the I-5 bridge leading into Yolo County. Two FBI agents are here with the sheriff and have advised me that they would like to meet with you this morning. Is it possible that we come in immediately, sir?”
“Captain, does this have anything to do with ‘Deadbolt’?”
“It could, sir, but there’s no way of knowing at this point.”
“I’m booked for my annual helicopter check ride at 10:00. You say you’re at the I-5 bridge into Yolo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll cancel the instructor pilot and reschedule. Meet me at the private plane area at Sacramento International. I’ll be there at, uh, 10:30. Be on the runway side of the hanger. And tell the FBI agents I’ll see them in my office at 4:00.”
“Yes, sir. Sacramento airport at 10:30,” Dan repeated, checking his watch.
Dan punched “end” on the phone’s keyboard and walked back down to where Sheriff Sanchez and the two FBI agents were still in conversation. He waited several moments until their discussion ended and Agent Samuels looked at him.
“General Del Valle said 4:00 this afternoon. If there’s nothing else, I’ll meet you at the Sacramento Armory at 4:00.”
“That’ll be fine, Captain. Thank you for your cooperation,” Samuels said.
Dan glanced quickly at Bentley and gave a loose wave to Tony. “I’ll talk to you later, Tony. Call my cell phone if anything breaks.”
“Right, Dan. Sorry about your friend.”
“Neither of them deserved to die, Tony,” Dan said, retracing his steps to his vehicle. “Certainly not this way.”
Pulling onto I-5, Dan thought momentarily about driving home and changing out of his suit into his uniform. It was nearly 9:00, and General Del Valle had said to be there at 10:30. Barely time.
Just over an hour later, on the return trip, some of the emergency vehicles were still gathered at the crime scene as Dan drove over the bridge again. The sight of McFarland, his face purplish and distorted, had etched itself into Dan’s mind, an image he now wished he could have avoided. He already had one of those-of his wife, Susan-and it had plagued his nightly dreams.
McFarland had only been on his infiltration assignment three months and in the guard less than a year. Clearly the Shasta Brigade was dangerous, if indeed, they were responsible. But who else? The extremist paramilitary group had already claimed responsibility for killing two federal judges, hadn’t they? At least, someone in the patriot movement had, and according to Army intelligence, the Shasta Brigade was integrally involved in the movement. If it proved true, there was no turning back for the brigade, and killing a National Guard lieutenant wasn’t going to make matters any worse, although Deputy Collins was a different story. Killing a cop always brought out the wrath of the blue brotherhood from other law enforcement agencies.
Dan turned his Blazer onto the approach road to the airport and pulled into the first parking area, in front of the private plane ramp. As he walked toward the hanger, he saw the guard helicopter approaching the far side of the building and could see General Del Valle at the controls. If the general was his usual self, he’d want answers and he’d want them now.
How did the FBI get to the crime scene so quickly? Sheriff Sanchez had never before mentioned their involvement in a local murder case. Sure, McFarland was a federal military officer, but for two FBI agents to be on scene within an hour of notification? There was more to their presence than was readily apparent. That was one question Del Valle would ask immediately, and one for which Dan had no answer.