by Sarah Lovett
Below vaulted ceilings, the trophy heads of wildebeest, a pair of African lions, and a Cape buffalo were suspended on white walls. Sylvia walked over to the sadly majestic lion heads and stared at the huge oil painting displayed between them. It was a full-length portrait of a regal, blue-eyed blond woman dressed in a simple formal gown. Her golden hair fell softly to her shoulders in a flattering wave. Her oval face was delicately featured. But it was her eyes that caught and held the viewer's attention; they were large and soft and full of promises.
Sylvia stepped close and saw a name etched on a small plaque: ROXANNE GLADSTONE WHITE.
If this portrait was accurate, Dupont's mother was a very beautiful woman.
Sylvia continued across the room past a large powder-blue Chinese vase that looked like a museum piece. Here, the rugs were Persian and the chairs were French Empire.
A door at the far end of the living room banged loudly.
Sylvia followed the sound and came to a long hall. She stopped, ready to turn back, until she heard a voice rise shrilly: "You think I'm stupid?"
A deeper voice murmured in a placating tone.
There were footsteps and then a door shut—slammed this time—somewhere down the hall.
Sylvia stood in the silence. She stifled a cry when she felt a tug on her sleeve. When she turned, Jilly placed a small snapshot in her palm. In faded color, three children posed proudly for the camera. They were all dressed in costumes; they all wore masks.
On the back of the photograph someone had printed HALLOWEEN, 1978.
Sylvia pointed to a boy of eight or nine who stood at attention in a Batman cloak and mask. She asked, "Is that Dupont?"
Jilly's brown pupils sharpened for an instant, and then they went soft again. She clasped her hands in front of her waist. "That's right. He was proud of that costume."
Jilly aimed her little finger at the tallest boy: a cowboy in plastic chaps and a white hat. "And that's Cole. This was taken at the ranch."
"Cole Lynch?" The Counselor.
"That's right. Fuller's little boy."
Sylvia knew that Fuller Lynch had been caretaker of Devil's Den Ranch for the last three decades. Apparently he still supervised the property. She gazed again at the photograph, noticing the stark California high-desert terrain in the background behind the children.
"And who's this?" Sylvia indicated the smallest child—the Green Hornet—hemmed in by the larger boys.
Jilly took the picture back and slid it into her coverall pocket. Sylvia was startled by the woman's expressive transformation. Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth quivered.
"They were so close," Jilly whispered. "But my little girl's gone away." She wiped her hands on the pocket that contained the photograph; the gesture seemed to finish something. Jilly shook her head stubbornly and walked toward the windows.
So the little girl was Dupont White's cousin.
Sylvia joined Jilly at the windows that overlooked the driveway. The fog had burned off completely, and the acres spread out, hill after rolling hill, until they reached the sharper peaks of the Santa Ynez Mountains. Closer to the house, the tennis courts and the turquoise swimming pool beyond were clearly visible. Sylvia could see her rented Taurus parked next to the Lamborghini.
"There's Roxanne." Jilly pointed outside.
Sylvia saw two figures appear around the corner of the house. Roxanne White was following a man. Even from this height, Sylvia could see that Dupont's mother was plump, a coiffed blonde, very well dressed—and not at all like the portrait in the living room.
The man was tall, ruddy, and gray-blond. He wore a black leather jacket and Levi's. His stride was insolent.
"That's Roxanne's friend," Jilly said. "I don't like him." She unlocked the window and pushed it open.
Sylvia saw Roxanne White reach out to touch the man's arm, but he pivoted on his heel, grabbed her by both shoulders, and shook her fiercely.
Jilly cried out, and both her sister and the man looked up. Sylvia stepped away from the window, but not in time.
"Jilly!" Roxanne White's voice rang out. "Who's that with you?"
Jilly said, "Oh, oh."
Sylvia walked quickly from the room and retraced her steps to the front door—she had expected a confrontation with Roxanne White earlier. She thought it best to face Dupont's mother without delay.
She opened the front door and walked down the steps just as the tall man reached the house. They almost collided.
From the drive Roxanne White said, "Who are you?"
The man said, "I'll handle this."
Stalling for time, Sylvia offered him her hand. "Sylvia Strange."
The man did not try to cover his irritation. "What's your business here?" he asked belligerently. "You're trespassing."
Sylvia wasn't about to end up on the bottom of the food chain under this contentious asshole. She stood her ground. "I came to talk to Mrs. White.'' Now, Sylvia directed her words to Dupont's mother. "When I knocked, your sister offered to entertain me until you were free."
"There is a security gate—"
"The gates are open, Garret." Roxanne White stepped forward, effectively dismissing the man, until she was arm's length from Sylvia. She eyed her cautiously, and asked, "Are you a reporter?"
"I'm a psychologist." Sylvia had a close view of Roxanne White. The woman was drastically different from her portrait. Her hair was dry and dyed and heavily sprayed. Her skin was thick with makeup a shade too orange. Her eyes were blunted, haggard, painful to see. Time and circumstance had not been kind to Roxanne White.
"A psychologist? Is this about Jilly?"
Sylvia shook her head. "Dupont."
"You people said you'd bring me his remains." The woman's eyes widened in alarm. "What's going on? When are you going to release my son's body?"
Sylvia guessed that Roxanne White had assumed she was an F.B.I. psychologist. She considered whether to tell the truth.
"Roxanne, don't talk to her."
"Be quiet, Garret". An embittered Roxanne White stared at the man who had shaken her roughly just minutes before. "Leave us alone."
His face reddened and he spoke furiously. "I'm not going anywhere."
Roxanne White shrugged. "Suit yourself." She took Sylvia's arm. "I want to talk to this lady."
The man named Garret grabbed Sylvia's other arm, but she shook him off just as Roxanne stumbled. Sylvia supported the woman's weight
"Let her go," the man barked at Sylvia. "I demand to see your credentials."
Roxanne White's pale blue eyes were fierce. Fine lines were visible under her white powdered skin. She sputtered, "Meet Garret Ellington, the big man himself." She clutched Sylvia and breathed in her face. "Why don't you talk to him if you want real answers?"
Sylvia placed him now. Colonel Garret Ellington. Right-wing. Ex-marine, Vietnam vet. More recently, Mr. Ellington had spent several million dollars in a brief but highly publicized bid to become president of the United States. Although the man hadn't come close, his extremist ideas had attracted an unnerving number of supporters.
Ellington gave Sylvia the creeps.
Roxanne White pulled away from Sylvia abruptly. Clumsily she removed one leather loafer and hurled it at Garret Ellington. Sylvia ducked as the shoe flew past her shoulder and struck the man on the ear.
"Fucker," Roxanne mumbled. She stared at Garret Ellington defiantly as she addressed Sylvia. "You F.B.I. people should go talk to Fuller Lynch again and see what he has to say."
Sylvia saw Ellington's body stiffen.
"Roxanne?" Jilly had appeared on the front steps. "Is he hurting you?"
Sylvia heard Roxanne White groan. The woman aged another ten years as she gazed up at her bewildered sister.
Garret Ellington called an order to Jilly. "You go back inside. This is none of your business."
Jilly started to cry.
With that, Roxanne White lunged toward Ellington, kicking at him with her stocking foot. She shrieked, "You can't talk to m
y sister that way!"
Sylvia tried to ward off Roxanne, afraid the woman would hurt herself in her rage.
Garret Ellington bellowed suddenly. "Stop it!"
The energy drained from Roxanne White. Her arms fell limply to her sides. She sobbed once, then held a hand to her eyes.
Ellington's voice was low and tense. He said, "Why would you upset Jilly? You know what happens when you do." Then he turned, strode toward Sylvia, and announced, "I want you to leave this property this minute."
Sylvia said, "Roxanne—"
Roxanne White held out a shaking hand. Her voice was low. "No. . . I can't talk to you."
"Has he threatened you?" Sylvia asked. "Do you need help?"
Roxanne stumbled to the top of the steps. She shook her head. Tears had streaked her makeup. Her eyes were red.
Sylvia said, "I'm registered at the Biltmore. Sylvia Strange."
"Get in your car, now!" Garret Ellington's eyes were murderous.
As Sylvia walked toward the Taurus, she saw Roxanne's shoulders sag.
Dupont's mother said, "I've talked to so many of you people. But not one of you can begin to tell me what went wrong with my boy." Then she disappeared inside her Spanish mansion.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, as Sylvia passed Punta Gorda on U.S. 101, she realized a state trooper was following her Taurus. He was with her when she reached Ventura. She stayed at the speed limit and maneuvered with care. When he followed her onto Route 126 and was still behind her twenty miles later at Fillmore, she knew he was going to pull her over. Sure enough, his red light began to flash a few minutes later.
A deep male voice boomed out of broadcast speakers: "Pull over, turn off your engine, and stay inside your vehicle."
Muttering to herself, Sylvia eased the Taurus to the gravel shoulder and switched off the ignition. In her sideview mirror she saw the trooper adjust mirrored sunglasses, but he did not get out of his vehicle. Traffic was heavy on the highway, and the wake of passing cars buffeted the Taurus. With the engine off the air-conditioning didn't function, and the car quickly reached an uncomfortable temperature. Sylvia rolled down the driver's side window. She glanced at her watch and gauged that at least four minutes had passed since the trooper's summons. He was still seated in his vehicle.
Sylvia leaned back in her seat and gazed at the rearview mirror. It was beginning to sink in: Garret Ellington was a powerful and well-connected man. He could certainly have a few cops in his back pocket.
The trooper had his radio transmitter in front of his face. On the roof of his vehicle, red lights pulsed an unsettling rhythm.
She stared at her watch again; six minutes gone. Through her open window she heard the faint chatter of the trooper's radio. By now, state computers would have pulled her name off rental agency computer files. With a little diligence, this trooper could find out if she owed money on her Visa card. He'd certainly know she wasn't an F.B.I. agent. Sylvia fanned herself with the refolded state map and cursed the age of computer technology.
When more than twelve minutes had passed, Sylvia had to force herself to stay inside the Taurus. She knew that the balance would shift sharply if she tried to force the trooper's agenda. She jumped when she heard his amplified voice issue a new set of commands.
"Remove your driver's license from your wallet, keep both hands in plain view, stay inside your vehicle."
Sylvia was fumbling with her leather wallet when the trooper emerged from his sedan. He was burly—in her sideview mirror, he looked huge—and his expression was sour. He kept one hand on his sidearm, and he stayed clear of the Taurus's open window.
She held the license out and he slid it from between her fingers. Then he disappeared back inside his car.
"Fuck." Sylvia clamped her fingers on the steering wheel. This was psychological warfare.
An additional eleven minutes passed before he finally tossed her driver's license through the open window. Then he tipped his hat with robotic precision and said, "Obey state laws, ma'am."
She started the Taurus and put some pressure on the gas pedal. The engine gave a snarly roar, a terrific sound.
No. . . she wasn't paranoid. Garret Ellington had her under very obvious surveillance. Either that, or California cops just liked to hassle women in rented sedans who drove the speed limit.
She shifted into first gear.
The trooper was back inside his vehicle, watching her, when she pulled into traffic. Her hands shook for the next fifteen miles, and she did not fully relax even when she reached the gravel turnoff to Devil's Den Ranch—and left the cop behind—about thirty miles east of Palmdale.
The terrain had gradually changed from green hills to desert plains. The wind had kicked up, and dust devils raced across the road. The map of California was open on the seat beside her as she guided the Taurus under the welded metal arch. Seconds later the car rattled over a wide cattleguard, past a dingy FOR SALE sign. The vegetation was scrub, the road was rough, and the four miles it took to reach the ranch headquarters seemed to take forever. Finally, three wide oak trees rose out of the ground like fanning beacons. The squat buildings were dwarfed beneath the trees. When she looked in her rearview mirror, she saw the Taurus was kicking up a long tail of dust. California had been as dry as New Mexico—inland, the drought was easily apparent.
She pulled into a clearing shaded by the oak trees and parked directly in front of a small white farmhouse. A large and faded red barn was situated a few hundred feet farther back. On the opposite side of the clearing was a second, much larger, rambling ranch-style house. Additional outbuildings were scattered around the property. But Sylvia saw no trace of people or animals. She got out of her car, shielded her face from the sun with one hand, and searched for signs of life.
Almost instantly she saw one. A large bulldog raced around the corner of the barn. It was charging her, massive head down, spit flying.
Sylvia clambered back inside the Taurus and slammed the door just as the dog hurled its body at metal. There was a thud. And then awful scraping sounds as the bulldog scrambled onto the hood of the car. He growled through the windshield and thick globules of drool smeared the glass.
"Boomer, git the fuck off the car!"
Sylvia flinched as a rock slammed into the Taurus and ricocheted off her door. Boomer yelped and jumped from the rental car's hood. He slunk off toward the barn. Before Sylvia could breathe any relief, she saw the dog's master.
He was wiry, mid-fifties, minus most of his teeth, and quite handy with his pitchfork.
Sylvia forced a smile.
He said, "You can git yourself outa there."
She studied the plain, unpolished man and saw a rancher who'd fallen on hard times. When she caught sight of his hook nose, she thought instantly of Cole Lynch, the penitentiary's Counselor; from this vantage point, Cole's Ivy League legalese seemed preposterous and poignant. This had to be his father, Fuller Lynch—caretaker of Devil's Den Ranch.
She climbed slowly from the Taurus, introduced herself, and said, "Roxanne White said you could show me around the place."
Fuller Lynch's eyes disappeared in a squint. "Why should I do that?"
"It's for sale, isn't it?"
Fuller Lynch spat in the dirt and raised a tiny puff of dust. "Yeah, but today's not a good day." He started to walk away.
Sylvia tried again, letting her speech roughen. "Last week, I visited your son Cole at the penitentiary. He was working in the law library, and he looks real good. Talks smart as a lawyer."
There was a long silence while Fuller weighed that information. His calculations were visible on his changing countenance. Finally, he grumbled, "And Cole's a whole lot more honest than most." His eyes softened up one notch. "Why'd you visit my son?"
"I'm a doctor, and I'm doing some research on Dupont White."
The corner of Fuller's mouth turned up derisively. He shrugged. "Go ahead and look around. There's nothing to find no more. Main house is all locked up." He jerked his head toward the ramblin
g structure, and Sylvia followed his gaze. The sky caught her eye. Wispy clouds soothed a hard blue heaven. The sun had baked away any moisture in the air. The ranch house stood against the horizon like a false front on a movie set.
Sylvia's eyes followed a gliding buzzard or hawk. It circled lazily, cresting strong currents. And then it dove toward the earth. This was the place where Dupont White and his cousin had spent their childhood summers.
Fuller had been watching her. He said, "F.B.I. been all through the house, then they went and put a padlock on the door. See for yourself." He narrowed his eyes, looked down his beakish nose at Sylvia, then turned to walk away. Over his shoulder he said, "Watch your step. It's dangerous footing."
Sylvia waited until Fuller Lynch disappeared inside the barn, but she wasn't alone. Two children had appeared. They were playing hide-and-seek. The high notes of their voices carried easily on the dry air. Sylvia watched them for a moment before she turned and covered the distance to the trees and the ranch house.
Concrete steps still led up to the front stoop; they were cracked and overgrown with weeds, and she walked carefully. The front door was intact, but someone—presumably federal agents—had locked it with a heavy hasp and padlock.
She walked around to the rear of the house. The back door was locked, but the entrance to the basement gaped open. Sylvia stared at the cellar steps—they were clear and looked navigable—and she followed them down to the darkened doorway.
The basement was large, and it rambled like the house. Pipes ran through the foundation. Spiders had spun their webs in corners. Dead, dry leaves were thick underfoot. She thought she saw a rodent scuttling past her legs.
She wandered along a central hallway past various small rooms. She entered one that was as close and dark as a tomb. She wished she had a flashlight; it took minutes for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally she began to discern shapes: a bench, a stool, pots and pans—no, they were trays. She was standing in a home darkroom.
She could hear a child's voice very faintly coming from outside. It was soft and high and plaintive. The sounds and the dark space spooked Sylvia, and she stumbled back along the hallway and up the steps, eager to reach open air.
