by Gordon Ryan
“One of my favorite subjects.” Dan pulled out onto the road, again turning west toward Esparto and the beginning of the narrowing of Rumsey Valley. “Between here and Highway 20, you’ll see miles and miles of the reason for the Almond Festival, and, thanks to the weather, all in fabulous bloom at the moment.”
“Yes, I saw the fields as I began to approach the area. It’s beautiful.”
“And so are you,” he said, reaching for her hand as he drove.
Following the highway around the western edge of Esparto, Dan took a detour from the two-lane country road and pulled into a small, well-kept cemetery. He parked the Blazer and exited the car, coming around to open Nicole’s door.
He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Four generations of Rumseys are resting here. My older brother, Tom, who died at birth, is two rows over, and there’s Jack’s plot,” he said, pointing, “next to my grandmother, Ellen. She’s been gone about eight years now. When she died, it took Jack several years to decide to continue living. They were married for over fifty years.”
Nicole walked slowly through the cemetery, stopping occasionally to read the headstones. Dan provided a running narrative, revealing his admiration for his ancestors and the lives they had lived, reciting the stories he had heard so many times from his grandfather. He pulled a few weeds from some of the plots and took one more look around. Then, taking Nicole’s hand, he headed back to the car. As he opened Nicole’s door, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.
“In case you were wondering, Susan’s not here,” he said. “Her family came from Sacramento.”
“It crossed my mind,” she said, touching his cheek. “Thank you for telling me.”
Forty-five minutes later, they were walking the almond orchards in the small, rural community of Rumsey as Dan pointed out the fifty acres Jack had given him as a young boy, and which Dan had cultivated over the years.
“You’re looking at the source of my college tuition here, Special Agent Bentley. From the age of ten, I was responsible for these trees and reaped the reward of the harvest. Jack helped me in the early years, but as I grew, he let me handle it myself to find out if I was a farmer or not.”
As they walked, Nicole looked up at the hills running down both sides of the valley, narrowing as they cut northwest toward the canyon, where they came together for the final twelve miles through the gap, following the flow of Rumsey Creek.
“I knew early on that I wasn’t a farmer at heart. But still, I gained a love for the orchards and the rural life Jack has chosen,” Dan said.
Coming to the last row of trees and a small line of brush, Dan took Nicole’s hand and led her down a rough path to a spot on a small bluff overlooking Rumsey Creek.
“I’ve been coming here since I was old enough to remember. My sister taught me to swim over there,” he pointed, “and Jack and I have fished this creek dry, it seems. Not much by way of fish for many years now, except in the upper lakes, back to the west toward Clear Lake.”
“Is your father still working?”
“He retired about a year ago. For much of his career, he was a public administrator, working mostly as a city manager. About fifteen years ago he began to write, publishing a few novels. That’s what he does now-plays golf and writes military and political suspense novels. He was thrilled when I told him about the acceptance of my first novel.”
“Aha. Two public administrators, two novelists-it really is in the blood. ” She smiled.
“I never thought of it that way, but I can see what you mean,” Dan replied.
For the next few minutes, Nicole and Dan sat quietly tossing pebbles into the smooth water below them and watching the river run silently though its course. “Nicole, I had something I wanted to tell you, something that-”
Dan hesitated, hearing sounds coming from the direction of the orchard. With a rustling of branches, Jack Rumsey popped his head through the brush, flashing a big grin when he noticed Nicole.
“So, young’un, up to your old tricks again?”
The mood instantly broken, Dan stood, and Nicole also got to her feet. Dan broke a big smile and put his arm around his grandfather. “Nicole, this venerable old coot is the patriarch of our valley, the scourge of Yolo County, and of course, my grandfather, Jack Rumsey.”
Jack looked at Nicole for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Dan, then back. Smiling, he said, “Young lady, you look like you’d have more sense than to let this ruffian take you out in the bushes without an escort. He’s not done anything untoward, has he?”
“No. I’m sorry to say he’s been a perfect gentleman. I’m Nicole Bentley, and I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rumsey,” Nicole said, reaching to shake his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Lies, all lies, I can assure you.”
“But it was very good, Mr. Rumsey, really.”
“Like I said, young lady: lies. And call me Jack, if you please. Mr. Rumsey is for old men. So, Daniel, me lad, what brings you to the valley other than the fragrance of love in the air?”
“Don’t skip any opportunity, do you, Jack?”
“Not if I can help it-not at my age, anyway.”
“Well,” Nicole interrupted, “Dan’s been touting the merits of Rumsey Valley during the Almond Festival and the beauty of the blossoms. I thought I’d come up from the Bay Area and take him up on the offer to see it for myself. With a local guide, of course.”
“Better watch him closely, Nicole. Many a young lass has been swept away by the fragrance of the blossoms, said yes to a proposal-decent or otherwise-and found herself married before she realized what hit her, all because these orchards were in full bloom.”
“Grandma included, eh, Granddad?” Dan quipped.
“That, my young grandson, is, as they say, another story for another time.”
“Actually, I was just about to tell Nicole a story of my own, and I’m glad you arrived to participate.”
“Well, don’t just stand there with your tongue in your mouth, lad. Let’s hear it.”
The three of them sat down on the bluff, Nicole seated between the two men.
“To cut to the heart of the matter, which, as I can tell you, Nicole, is not Jack’s style, I’ve decided to resign as county administrator and run for Arnold Fister’s state assembly seat in the Eighth District. Nicole, in case you didn’t know, Supervisor Fister has represented Yolo County in the California legislature for the past fifteen years. He died in late December after a long battle with cancer. They’ve set a special election in April to replace him. Jack, I registered to run a couple of weeks ago.”
Jack smiled and glanced at his grandson, who was watching for his reaction. “It’s about time you tried to make something of yourself,” he said, teasing. “Fister’s death was not unexpected, and we’ll miss him. But if you can fill his shoes, Dan, you’ll be doing all right.”
Dan turned his gaze to Nicole. “How do you feel about politicians?” Dan asked.
Without speaking, she replied by leaning close and applying a quick kiss and a hug.
“‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,’ or Sacramento, as the case may be. I think that’s wonderful, Dan. How can I help?”
Jack leaned past Nicole to shake Dan’s hand. “From that silly grin on his face, lass, I’d say you already have. Indeed, you already have.
“Well, I’ll be off, kids,” Jack said, various joints in his body creaking as he stood. “Nice to have met you, Nicole. In spite of my misgivings about your choice of companions, you could be in worse company,” he said.
“You’re right there, Jack,” Dan rejoined. “She could have met you, fifty or sixty years ago.”
“Only Ellen had that privilege, my boy. Enjoy the festival this evening, and I’ll catch up with you later. By the way, Dan,” Jack said, pausing as he turned to leave, “do you have an organization yet?”
“Rick Jordan is helping, but I’ve only got five weeks to campaign. Only one other person, Sally Hemmit, has filed, as a Democrat.”<
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“Well, count on your old granddad to tell some stories, if necessary.”
“Only if you clean ’em up, Jack. Got to protect my image, you know.”
“Humph,” Jack snorted as he made his way through the bushes again, stopping briefly and turning back. “Have you spoken to Matilda Westegaard?”
“Ms. Westegaard? The high school English teacher? What does she have to do with Yolo County politics?” Dan queried, a quizzical look on his face.
Jack laughed heartily. “In spite of all that high falutin’ education, you’ve still got a lot to learn, young Rawlings. For the past thirty years or so, no one has been elected to city, county, or state office from the Eighth District without tacit approval from our self-appointed county matriarch. Certainly not without at least seeking it. Best you pay the old gal a visit,” Jack said, leaving Dan surprised at the revelation of how large a part someone he had admired-a retired Woodland High School teacher-played in local politics.
After Jack was gone, Dan and Nicole climbed down the bluff and walked along the riverbank, stopping occasionally as Dan revealed memories and scenes from his childhood. Later, while they were returning to the orchard and making their way to the car, Nicole opened the election issue again.
“You know this decision to run will place you at the forefront of the secession issue. You’ll have to publicly declare your position.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s why I’ve decided to do it. My county position has been fulfilling, but the vacillation by the board has caused the entire staff some difficulty. I think this idea has been in the back of my head for some time, but truth be known, the royalty advance from Voices in My Blood has probably given me some options that wouldn’t have been available for a long time, if ever. I’ve been given choices, and it seems I’ve chosen to follow some of my forebears.”
“I admire your decision, Dan, but it’s a tough time to jump in. The usual issues-budget, welfare, unemployment-are going to take a backseat this time. Based upon the recent election, the state is quite in favor of secession. If you oppose it, you might lose.”
“I know, and the damned Shasta Brigade has got people so riled up, it’s hard for them to say where they stand for fear of being harassed. Still, I have other options if this doesn’t work out.”
Dan pulled the Blazer out onto Highway 16 and headed back for the evening’s festivities in Esparto. About ten miles down the road, a black pickup with overhead spotlights passed in the opposite direction, and, to Dan’s surprise, made a quick U-turn that Dan spotted in his rear view mirror. Slowing, Dan continued to watch as the pickup raced to catch up with the Blazer, eventually pulling in front of them and slowing until both vehicles pulled over to the side of the road. Despite the incident several months ago when Dan had been forced to engage in a shoot-out with the attempted kidnapping, he did not reach for his weapon in the glove box, preferring not to display concern with Nicole present.
Roger Dahlgren, Woodland city manager, got out of the passenger side as they came to a stop. The man behind the wheel also got out to stand by his truck, a lump of chewing tobacco filling his cheek. Dan stayed behind the wheel of his Blazer as Roger approached his window. Nicole kept her eyes on the men and her hand on her purse, situated on the console between the bucket seats in the Blazer.
“Nice day for a drive, Dan. Out to see the almond blossoms?”
“Only a tour of the valley. What brings you out this far from town?”
“Oh, just a few of the guys up in the hills for the weekend.” He eyed Nicole, who held his gaze. “Charlie Paulson tells me you and he had a chat a few weeks ago.”
“I see Charlie all the time, Rog. He’s on the board, or had you forgotten?”
Roger smiled and looked back toward his truck. “Nah. I don’t forget too much. You should listen to Charlie, though. His voice on the board carries a lot of weight, and the city council is unanimous in their support for secession. True Californian’s are behind it also, as demonstrated in November. You’d be wise to step up to the plate and publicly declare your support-especially if you intend to enter the political arena.”
“There are still nearly half who are opposed, Roger, but I’m sure you and the brigade boys are willing to bring the recalcitrant ones around so they can see the light,” Dan replied.
Dahlgren nodded. “Only if they see it’s for the good of California. Of course, I can’t spout a lengthy family heritage in this valley like you do, but perhaps my roots and branches are growing in the right direction. You’d be wise to listen to your heart, Dan. California’s your home and your future, if you’re smart. If you get elected to the legislature, you could be a big help to us.”
“And if we remain on opposite sides of the issue?” Dan challenged.
“The train’s moving. Don’t get left standing around the station when it pulls out, or even worse,” he said slowly, glancing toward his pickup and the driver, “don’t fall under the wheels and get run over.”
“You mean like the ATF agents did?” Dan replied. “I’ll try to keep my wits about me, Rog. Now if you’ll excuse us, we better be moving on.”
“Sure thing.” Roger slapped the hood of the Blazer. “And nice to see you, too, pretty lady,” he said to Nicole, who remained silent. Roger climbed back into the pickup, and the driver made another U-turn, his tattooed arm hanging out the driver’s side window as he drove past. Spinning his tires, he heading back up the valley.
“That,” Dan said to Nicole as he pulled back onto the highway, “is our illustrious city manager, Roger Dahlgren. He used to be a fairly regular guy, but reputedly, he’s now a captain in the Shasta Brigade, and from what we just saw, enjoying his new bully pulpit.”
Nicole reached over and rubbed Dan’s shoulder and neck. “I thought only dogs and wild animals had the hair on the back of their necks stand up,” she said.
“Survival instinct, I suppose. He’s getting quite brazen in his approach. I didn’t recognize the tattooed gorilla driving,” Dan said.
“What say we finish the evening in style, Mr. Rawlings, and you take me for a bite to eat and to the world famous Rumsey Valley Almond Festival?”
Dan looked over at Nicole, reached for her hand, and kissed the back of it. “Anything m’lady wants this evening,” he replied, anxious to dispel the tension that hung in the air following Roger Dahlgren’s veiled threat.
“Well, how about a quiet fifteen-minute drive and the strains of the Light Cavalry Overture?” she suggested.
“I knew you were a smart cookie,” Dan said. “Your intelligence is equaled only by your good taste in men.”
Nicole smiled. “The jury’s still out on my judgment, Mr. Rawlings, but the polling has started.”
Chapter 19
California Desert
Ninety miles east of San Diego, California
March, 2012
I don’t care if it is four-thirty in the morning,” he hollered, “call him now! I want him to see this first-hand. And don’t touch a thing until he arrives.”
Winston Pierce, deputy director, United States Citizenship and Immigration Services, stood in an open-necked shirt and khaki pants, a handkerchief pressed against his nose and face to stifle the odor. The ghastly, overpowering smell, repressed only slightly by the fact that the temperature in the predawn hours had finally dropped, was nauseating. Pierce was surrounded by a dozen border patrol agents and local sheriff’s deputies. The only consolation was the fact that no news media had yet discovered the grisly find.
Parked before him, in an isolated desert warehouse six miles north of the Mexican border, stood a six-wheeled, box-shaped truck, unmarked, with both rear doors open. The interior of the box was illuminated by floodlights glaring from temporary stands, providing sufficient light for officials to go about their gruesome task of identifying-or at least separating-the cargo in the back of the truck. The flies, unaware of the hour, were busily engaged in their own investigation. Invited by their well-developed organoleptic sensors, the
insects outnumbered the agents by thousands.
The only ones unaffected by the appalling sight were the sixteen bodies in various states of decomposition, stacked inside the back of the truck. For them, neither the early hour, nor the overwhelming odor, nor the approaching heat of daylight mattered. They were at peace.
Particularly galling to the deputy director were the bodies of a young girl and a tiny, newborn infant, sprawled near the rear of the van. Thinking of his own precious teenaged daughter, Pierce fought to control tears. Many of the other equally experienced officers simply gave up and wept.
When the cellular call was connected to the five-star hotel in San Diego less than fifty miles away, Rodrigo Cordoba, Chief, Mexican Federal Police, was brusquely awakened by the insistent ringing of his bedside phone. In San Diego to attend the same immigration conference at which Deputy Director Pierce was to speak, he had been sleeping off the effects of a night of drinking and was slow to pick up the phone. But Pierce was not about to give up. Nothing he might say in his speech would provide more graphic evidence of the horror frequently associated with illegal border crossings, and Pierce wanted Cordoba to see the carnage firsthand.
“Yes?” Cordoba answered sleepily.
“General Cordoba?” Pierce addressed him, referring to his retired army rank.
“Yes.”
“This is Deputy Director Winston Pierce-from your BCI conference group.”
Awake now, Cordoba sat up, holding his head and looking through blurry eyes at the bedside clock radio. “Ah, yes, Director. What can I do for you this, uh, at this hour?”
“General, I offer my apologies for the early call, but we have come across something I believe you should see for yourself. If it would be convenient, I will have a car outside the hotel in twenty minutes.” Delivered somewhat as a directive, as opposed to a request, the invitation sounded urgent. It wasn’t until he was standing in the shower a few moments later that Cordoba identified the other emotion in Pierce’s voice. It was anger. Pierce was angry, and he was calling Cordoba on the carpet as he might a child, as if to say, “Now look what you’ve done.”
