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Blood Vines

Page 16

by Erica Spindler


  “I don’t care, I have to see them.”

  “I have photos,” Reed said. “If that will do, I’ll arrange it.”

  “Harlan,” Treven said, turning toward his brother, “I beg you to reconsider. Don’t put yourself through this. You won’t be able to tell if it’s Dylan, so what’s the point?”

  “I agree, Dad,” Rachel said. “You’re upset enough already.”

  Harlan didn’t waver. “And do you think burying my head in the sand will change that?”

  Treven looked at Reed. “Don’t let him do this, please.”

  Reed was torn between sympathy and duty. Times like these, he hated being a cop. “It’s his decision. I’m sorry.” He turned to Harlan. “I want you to be prepared. The remains aren’t pretty. In fact, they’re shocking.”

  “I have to do it.”

  Treven snorted, obviously frustrated. Harlan laid a hand on his brother’s arm. Interestingly, when he spoke his voice no longer shook. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but nothing I could see with my eyes could match the horror of my nightmares.”

  He shifted his gaze to Rachel. “Are you with me on this, honey?” She nodded and Harlan turned back to Reed, suddenly appearing the strong, confident man he had been all those years ago. “Let’s do this.”

  “All right. It’ll take me a few minutes to assemble the photographs. Drink machine and restrooms are down the hall.”

  He slipped out of the room. Rachel followed. “Dan, wait!”

  He stopped and she caught up with him. “Question?” he asked.

  “I wanted to… I just-” She looked away, then back. “It feels like the world’s splitting apart at the seams. Same as it felt back then, after Dylan disappeared.”

  “Your dad’s been through a lot, Rachel. He’ll get through this.”

  “It’s not just Dad. I heard about that altar, off Castle Road in Bartholomew Park. And about the doll in Hilldale’s vineyard.” She lowered her voice. “And I heard about that animal… how somebody planted it at Alex’s. What the hell’s going on?”

  “How did you hear?”

  “We hear everything that goes on in the valley, Dan, you know that.”

  He understood the first two, because the wine community was as close knit as it was competitive. Information, especially juicy rumors, spread faster than a wildfire in the High Sierras.

  But Alex was most certainly not hooked into the local grapevine.

  “But who’d you hear it from?” he pressed.

  “Clark.” She searched his gaze. “Why?”

  “How news spreads interests me, that’s all.”

  She didn’t believe him. He saw it by the speculative gleam in her eyes. He also knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t hesitate to throw her cousin under a bus if the opportunity presented itself.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, answering her original question. “But I will. I promise you that.”

  He watched her as she walked back to the interview room, thinking of his promise, wondering if he would be able to keep it.

  Reed gathered together the photographs. He instructed Harlan to take a seat, then laid them out.

  Harlan stared at them, throat working. He grasped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. Seconds ticked past. No one spoke. Harlan seemed not to even breathe as he gazed at the images, his expression twisted with pain.

  “It’s him,” he said finally, the sound broken. “It’s my baby. My Dylan.”

  “How can you be so certain, Harlan?” Reed asked as gently as possible.

  “A father knows his own son.”

  Reed glanced at Treven’s stunned expression, then at Rachel’s horrified one, before turning back to Harlan. “I hate to do this to you, but look again. It’s been years, these remains are-”

  “I know my own son! My Dylan… my sweet, sweet boy.”

  He broke down sobbing. Rachel put her arms around him, her own tears flowing.

  Reed collected the photographs. “We’re trying to establish if there’s any viable DNA-”

  “We’ll pay for any tests,” Treven offered, “if that will give us the proof-”

  Harlan turned on him. “What more proof do you need? I was his father. I know my son!”

  “This is too important to make a mistake on. What if you’re wrong and he’s not dead? What if he’s-”

  “Uncle Treven,” Rachel said sharply, “that’s enough! I’m taking Dad home.”

  He went with her without resistance. As soon as the interview room door had shut behind them, Treven turned to Reed. “I don’t care what it costs, we need proof that’s Dylan.”

  “I understand completely, Treven. But it simply may not be possible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. That’s been my lifelong credo. There must be something you can do.”

  Reed thought a moment. “We could turn the skull over to a forensic sculptor. The re-creations can be uncanny. However-”

  “Yes, let’s do it.”

  “However,” he continued, “the best reconstructions are still generalized, and baby skulls are exceptionally difficult because the facial features aren’t fully formed yet. Our best bet is still DNA, if we’re able.”

  “I want it all, every test. We’ll pay.”

  “I appreciate that. But at this point, it’s not about money.”

  “It’s always about money,” he said. “My brother needs closure. If this will give it to him, I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”

  “Harlan expressed conviction,” Reed said softly. “It seems to me that it’s you who needs the closure, Treven.”

  “My brother’s an emotional mess. I think we can agree on that. An hour from now, he’ll be doubting himself. You wait and see.”

  Reed thought of Rachel, her pain. And then of Alex. Her mother. The entire community. Closure, he thought. A funeral. A way for the family to move completely past this.

  “I’ll see what I can do. There are procedures that need to be followed.”

  “Harlan ID’d him. So the remains are ours now. Isn’t that the way it works?”

  “It’s not that simple. Or that immediate.”

  “I’m Treven Sommer. I can make it simple.”

  Reed held on to his temper by reminding himself of what this family had endured. “The remains cannot be released to you or anybody else until forensic testing is complete. When that’s happened, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Reed could see Treven wasn’t happy with his answer. Obviously, when you were Treven Sommer, you weren’t accustomed to waiting.

  “All right, Dan. But just so you know, I’m prepared to sue the department if it comes to it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, March 9

  4:00 P.M.

  The jewelry designer Alex had been pointed toward lived in a California-style cottage on Brockman Lane right here in Sonoma. He had agreed to meet her and take a look at her mother’s ring.

  He came to the door, a charming gnome of a man in a red plaid flannel shirt and pants held up by suspenders. “Max?” she asked.

  He broke into a broad smile. “You must be Alexandra. Come in… come in.”

  She followed him into the cottage. She found it as charming and unique as the man, filled with all sorts of art, from traditional to contemporary. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Max. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  “Nonsense. I have lots of time. Too much.” He motioned her to follow him. “I don’t get many visitors. And certainly not ones wanting to talk about my designs. That was a lifetime ago. Come, I’ve made us some tea.”

  In the kitchen, Alex watched as he set about pouring. She noticed that his hands shook badly.

  “Would you mind?” he asked, indicating the full cups.

  “Not at all.” She carried them both to the small kitchen table, then went back for the milk and sugar. They both sat.

  While she doctored her tea, he talked. “When my friend
Janice called me about you, I was delighted. As you can see, I can’t design anymore.” He looked at his shaking hands. “I used to do such delicate work.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be very distressing for you.”

  “You would think.” He chuckled. “But God has surely blessed me. Talent and success as a young man and an old age surrounded by love. May I show you something?”

  He was obviously not in a hurry to get to the reason for her visit, which suited her fine. She stood and let him lead her to the center hallway, which was decorated with framed photographs. She smiled as he pointed out himself as a young man and commented on a picture of his late wife, calling her the love of his life.

  He stopped on a family portrait. “My daughter, Angie, and her three girls. How could I complain?”

  “They’re a lovely family.”

  He gazed at it. “In the end, it’s all about family. That’s all we have that means anything.”

  His words hit her hard. She struggled to keep it from showing, but lost the battle.

  “I’ve upset you,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I lost my mother recently. And she was… it’s been difficult.”

  He patted her hand. “Tell me about the piece you brought me.”

  “It was my mother’s.” Alex slid it off her finger and handed it to him. “I found it in her things after she died. It’s so unusual, I wondered-”

  “It’s not mine,” he said curtly.

  “Excuse me?”

  He handed it back. “It’s not one of my designs.”

  “Oh.” Confused by his change in tone, she wasn’t certain how to respond. “Is there anything you can tell me about the design or materials?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  Alex frowned and held it out again. “The inscription, BOV, I wondered if that could have been a local organization or-”

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t tell you anything about it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and she noticed he wouldn’t even look at the ring. “But I wish you luck.”

  Disappointed, Alex slipped the ring back onto her finger. “Any suggestions where I might look or who I might contact?”

  “No. I’ve never seen… I would remember. It’s an unusual design.”

  He knew more than he was letting on, she felt certain. But why keep information from her?

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Max. It was my mother’s and now she’s gone. I’m just trying to learn more about her. About her life here. She was my only family.”

  His expression softened. “Some stories aren’t meant to be known. Maybe this is one of them.”

  “Please. Her name was Patsy Sommer. You may have known her.” He looked as if she had struck him. “You did know her,” she said.

  “Everyone did after that horrible thing with her baby. Sweet little boy. How anyone could…” He let out a heavy-sounding breath. “I’m tired now. You have to go.”

  He herded her toward the door. When they’d reached it, she opened her mouth to ask him one more time if he was certain he knew nothing of the ring’s design or inscription. He stopped her by gripping her hands tightly.

  “Be careful, Alexandra,” he said. “And remember what I said. Some stories are meant to be left untold.”

  A moment later she was outside, the door snapping shut behind her. He hadn’t given her a chance to do more than mumble another “Thank you.” He had wanted her out of his house, and as quickly as possible.

  Why? She walked slowly to her car, thoughts whirling. What did he know that he wasn’t telling her? And how could she get him to change his mind?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, March 9

  9:03 P.M.

  Turned out, Alex didn’t have to do a thing. Max called her as she was putting on her PJs. “Max,” she said, surprised.

  “I apologize for calling so late.”

  “No problem. Not at all.”

  He cleared his throat, but didn’t speak. She waited. When he still didn’t speak, she prodded him. “Max, what is it? Have you remembered something about my ring?”

  “I think so, yes.” He spoke so softly she had to strain to hear. “But not on the phone. I can show you-”

  In the background she heard a doorbell chime. “That’s probably my Angie. She stops by some nights with a treat.”

  “That’s so sweet. When should I come by?”

  The bell chimed again. “Anytime. I’ve got to go-”

  “I’ll be by first thing in the morning. Will that be all right?”

  “That’d be good. But Alexandra, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Tell anyone?” she repeated. “That we’re meeting?”

  “Yes. Or even that we spoke.” He let out a breath and she could tell that he was anxious to go. “And what I share with you is for your ears only. You have to promise me.”

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “Max, you’re scaring me.”

  “I’ve got to go. Remember, not a word to anyone. See you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Wednesday, March 10

  8:20 A.M.

  Max didn’t answer his bell. Alex stood at the front door, shivering, bag of muffins clutched in her gloved hand. She tried knocking. “Max,” she called, “it’s Alex Clarkson.”

  When he still didn’t answer, she peered through the sidelight. A big gray cat sat in the foyer, blinking up at her. A light spilled through from the open kitchen door.

  Frowning, she checked her watch-8:25. She’d told him she would be by first thing. Surely, it wasn’t too early? From her experience, the elderly weren’t late sleepers.

  Besides, he’d been expecting her.

  Even as Alex told herself he was in the shower or out for a walk, she began to worry. It didn’t feel right. If he’d had a change of heart, he would tell her so, face-to-face.

  He could have hurt himself and be unable to answer. Or have fallen ill and need help.

  Don’t tell anyone. Why had he been so insistent on secrecy?

  Alex shook her head, fighting the sense that something was wrong. Just a lonely old man. Any excuse for a bit of drama.

  She knocked again, loudly. When she didn’t get an answer, she tried the door. Finding it locked, she went around back. She crossed the small deck to the rear entrance and peeked through the windows. Neat as a pin, she saw, save for the teacup and saucer on the counter, carton of milk and sugar bowl beside it.

  Clearly, he was up. He had been making his tea.

  Where was he now?

  She rapped on the door, once, then twice. When he didn’t answer, she tried the knob. It turned.

  She stepped inside. “Max,” she called, “it’s Alex. Are you all right?”

  The absolute quality of the silence panicked her. Even as she told herself she was overreacting, that she appeared to be the one in need of drama, urgency pushed her on.

  “Max,” she called as she moved through the small cottage, first the living room, then the single bathroom, followed by the first, then second bedroom.

  The master, judging by its size. And by the slippers beside the bed, the clock, Bible and photographs on the night table. Max’s room.

  She gazed at the neatly made bed. The waiting slippers.

  “Remember, Alex, not a word to anyone.”

  He hadn’t slept in the bed. He’d called her, then disappeared.

  Get a grip, Alexandra. Just because you let hours-or even days-pass without making your own bed doesn’t mean everyone’s such a mess.

  Any moment he was going to arrive home and ask what the hell she thought she was doing in his house. Besides, he’d been making tea.

  Arrive home. Of course. He’d run to the grocery. Or to see his grandchildren. He’d forgotten she was coming. There could have been an emergency.

  She laughed to herself, though even to her own ears the sound rang false. She quickly headed back to the kitchen. As she
started out the door, she stopped and looked back at the tea.

  Telling herself she had rocketed past overreaction and into the territory of obsession, Alex turned and crossed to it. She touched the kettle. It was cold. The milk carton warm. The tea had never been brewed.

  Sleepy Time tea, she saw.

  A bed that hadn’t been slept in. Tea that hadn’t been brewed. And a meeting that hadn’t been met.

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  She turned and ran. Out the back door and around to the front of the house. The garage door stood halfway up. She ducked under it, blinking at the sudden darkness. She looked frantically around for the light switch. Instead she found a pull cord attached to a single bulb.

  She pulled it; a dim glow illuminated the space. An ancient-looking, convertible VW Beetle sat squarely in the center of the garage. An equally outdated push mower. Gardening tools.

  What looked to be a work or storage room in back. A sliver of light shone from beneath the closed door.

  Heart thundering, she approached. “Max?” she said. “It’s Alex.”

  What the hell was she doing? she wondered, as she grasped the doorknob and twisted it. The door eased open, knocking against something heavy, pushing it.

  As she stepped through, she saw what. Max, hanging by the neck, eyes bulging, face swollen and purple. A stepladder on its side under him.

  A cry flew to her lips. She stumbled backward, hand to her mouth, unable to tear her eyes away from the gruesome sight.

  She bumped into the door, turned and ran. Reaching her car, she clawed open the door and fell inside, slamming it shut behind her. Pressing down the lock. She sat, shaking, teeth chattering. Wishing she could force the image from her head.

  Alex hugged herself. He’d been such a sweet man… Why had he… he’d seemed so content… this didn’t make any-

 

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