by Peter Prasad
“This is more than generous, Doctor.”
Semper sipped from his glass. “Stanley, I have half a mind to keep you on. I’m sure I’ll find more for you to do. You’re an excellent chemist for special projects.”
Stanley picked up his glass of wine and clinked glasses with Semper. “Thank you, sir.” Stanley seemed to genuinely enjoy the praise.
He sipped from the poisoned glass, swirled the wine, swallowed and took two more gulps. Semper watched him closely and steadily drank from his own glass.
“You’ve done wonderful work for me, Stanley. I can’t thank you enough.” Semper looked at his wristwatch. He looked up and studied Stanley’s face.
“I’d like that,” Stanley gurgled, but his words were slurred. A look of confusion clouded his face.
“What have you given me?” Stanley tried to stand up, then slumped into his chair. He put his hands to his nose, which erupted in blood.
The blood spilled across his shirt and over the table, covering the check and signed agreement. Stanley let out an agonizing howl and fell forward, banging his head on the table. A pool of blood from his nose slowly spread across the table. His body convulsed as though hit with an electric jolt, then he went still. He was dead.
“As a man of science, Stanley, may I note that it took you less than one minute to die.” Semper chuckled. “Project completed. Results verified. Dosage true and correct. You greedy little dog.”
Semper punched a number on his cell phone. “Bill, we’re ready for you.”
Semper collected Stanley’s notebooks from the table top and put them inside his briefcase. He went to the sink and returned with plastic gloves, plastic bags, a squirt bottle of cleanser and a roll of paper towels. He slipped on the gloves, peeled off paper towels and used them to blot up the blood on the table.
Semper lifted Stanley’s face from the table. His face had turned blue. He covered Stanley’s face with paper towels and slipped a plastic bag over his head and shoulders, leaving his body to rest in the chair.
Semper mopped up the blood, careful not to let it touch his skin. He picked up the check and signed agreement, pulled a lighter from his pocket and burned them. He let the ashes litter the table top.
He wrapped the wad of bloody papers and the burned bits in another plastic bag. He cleaned the table surface with the squirt bottle and paper towels, which he deposited in the plastic bag.
He sat down and sipped his wine. He stood up, took Stanley’s glass to the sink and dumped the contents down the drain. He dropped the wine glass in a garbage can and smashed it with a hammer from a drawer. He removed his gloves and put them in the garbage can.
Wild Bill entered the room and walked to Stanley’s body. He felt for a pulse at Stanley’s wrist and shook his head. He looked at Semper.
“Road kill,” Wild Bill said and laughed out loud.
“Right you are. Now burn everything. Do a thorough job.” Semper picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door. Bill lifted Stanley’s body onto his shoulder and followed Semper out of the room.
Off camera, Jake heard Bill ask: “What about his car?”
“It’s a rental.” Semper said. “Return it in the morning. No loose ends. I have the receipt.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As he watched the murder, Wally’s face turned pale fast. He managed to say: “He’s head-first off the reservation. Now we have murder.”
Wally turned his head and vomited on the floor. Jake had seen men killed before, but this was a first for Wally. Instantly embarrassed, Wally ran to the sink to wash his mouth and face, and returned with a cloth to begin mopping the floor.
“Case closed. That wing-nut is going to fry. The driver is guilty of aiding and abetting.” Jake felt an adrenalin surge that brought crystal clarity to his mind—he could be back in Afghanistan. He smacked his open palm so hard on the tabletop that Wally jumped.
“I can do one better. Warm up the truck, Wal-bro. I know that burn pit. I’m going back to Fransec.”
“You’re crazy, Jake. Just go to the police. Or tell the Colonel.”
“The video is not enough. They’ll claim we doctored it. Belesto can wiggle out of anything. Or buy his way out. Semper and Bill deserve their own lethal injections. I want to slam-dunk the evidence so there’s no denying it.”
Jake grabbed some gear and shouldered his backpack. Wally waited for him.
In the red rust bucket, Jake rubbed the scar tissue on his thigh, through his black jeans. If he’d been a Miwok, a Sonoma first peoples, he’d have feathers in his hair and war-paint on his cheeks.
The adrenalin was pumping now. He savored the sweet rush. His time-for-battle blood was up. This wasn’t anger; it was better than that. He could hear his corner-man ringing the bell.
“Wal-bro, let’s be surgical about this. No loitering. Drop me close to the Fransec gate and go hide. Like last time. If I’m not back in two hours, drive by every thirty minutes.”
“And what if you don’t come back?”
“Then take the video to the police. Get a posse and come rescue me,” Jake replied. They bumped bro-fist.
He knew that Wally didn’t like it. Perhaps that’s what combat does for you; you’re not afraid of ugly any more.
How long did it take to burn a body? Two hours in a crematorium; three or four hours in an open pit, maybe longer. As Wally drove through the dark, Jake dialed Hap’s number.
He answered. “See the feed we just got?”
“Nope, at an antiques auction and dinner in Blackhawk. I’m on asphalt, not sky-high. I’ll look tomorrow.”
“Great. Call me when you do. We’ve got Semper now.” Jake returned his cell phone to his pocket.
Jake imagined Hap’s expression when he saw the lab tech die from drinking poisoned wine on the video-feed. That hits a person’s fear button; fury follows.
Jake shifted into operations mode: no confusion, no distraction, his mind focused on a single goal. He turned to Wally. “I’ll update you by text when I’m in position. We need hard evidence out of that pit.”
As they drove, Jake noticed a sliver of moon in the sky peering out from rows of gossamer clouds. The moon would light his way through the forest. Jake reviewed each step this mission required.
He wished he had a gun. He carried an axe handle instead. Up close in the dark of night in stealth-mode, it might be just as effective.
There was no traffic on the country road as Wally drove. They passed a few farmsteads, where night-owls were up in their living rooms watching TV.
“Drop me two hundred yards below the sign. Keep an eye out for Semper. He drives a grey Jaguar. Remember, no panic until dawn. If I’m not back by then, call nine-one-one. Report gunshots and screams at the winery address. Say a teen-aged girl is involved. The cop-squad will race over for that.”
Wally slowed to a crawl on the dark road and Jake jumped out, careful to click the door shut behind him. He leaped a drainage ditch and melted into the woods as Wally drove away.
The new Fransec sign was lit at night. It helped Jake navigate, as he darted under a fence and cut across rows of vineyard, approaching the Fransec security gate at the end of the gravel lane.
Jake hid in a drainage ditch, listening. He scanned the area with his night-vision goggles.
Almost an hour had passed since the poisoning. He assumed Semper had fled, leaving Bill to burn the body.
Jake stepped onto the road and sprinted to the Fransec gate, crunching through the gravel and dirt. This was safer than running down the drainage ditch, where he might catch his ankle or twist his knee. It was a chance he’d have to take.
He darted behind the gate post and continued up the road. The air was cooling but he sweated. Halfway up the road, he began to smell smoke.
Jake climbed higher through the woods, arcing around to the right and toward the burn pit. As he approached the crest of the forested hill he could see the glow of flames at the pit. He
slowed and moved quietly through the woods. He could hear the snap and crackle of flames.
Wild Bill stood at the edge of the pit. He poured fuel from a can on the contents below. It takes a lot of heat to burn a body in an open pit. Jake was confident that Bill would leave him evidence.
Bill stood with his back to Jake. A holstered-pistol was strapped to Bill’s hip. Jake gripped the handle of the axe. He didn’t like the odds. Stealth mode would be safer, but it would take longer.
After Wild Bill drained the can of fuel, he moved around the edge of the pit to avoid the billowing smoke, then walked several paces back and sat down.
If he turned his head sharply to the left, he might sense Jake’s presence behind a thatch of bushes. Jake calculated that Wild Bill would have no night vision after tending the fire.
Jake sank down to his belly, effectively hidden in the undergrowth twenty yards from the pit. He considered his next move. The handyman seemed to doze as the fire burned down to hot glowing coals. The smoke and flame had stopped. Bill picked up a forked tree limb and prodded the fire. Then he picked up the gas can, turned and walked back toward the winery buildings.
It was too dangerous for Jake to sneak down to the pit to look for evidence now, with Bill so close. Jake decided to outwait him and checked his watch. It was two in the morning. He turned on his cell phone and texted Wally a message: ‘Safe. In place. Three more hours.’
Jake waited until the message was sent and turned off his cell phone. He didn’t need a ring tone telling Bill that he had company.
Wild Bill returned to the pit with a fresh can of fuel. He drenched the pit again and stepped back from the burst of smoke and flame. He threw a few branches on the fire and drained the fuel can. The fire in the pit billowed and roared, sending ash and sparks upward into the night sky. Wild Bill stepped back from the blaze and returned to his seat with the empty can.
Jake closed his eyes. His night vision was torched. All he could see with his eyes closed were bright red and yellow spots on his eyelids. Jake kept his eyes closed, rolled over onto his back and purposely did not look at the fire.
In five minutes his night vision had returned. He lay there listening for the sounds of Bill moving into the woods. Slowly the crackle of the fire quieted.
Jake rolled over and shielded his eyes from the glow. He scanned the woods. Bill hadn’t moved. He stood up and poked at the fire with the tree branch. This time he seemed satisfied. He picked up the fuel can and walked back to the winery. Jake lay on the forest floor and waited.
To his relief, he heard a van engine start. He looked toward the winery and saw the tail lights of the black delivery van as it drove down the gravel road toward the gate.
Jake hoped that meant Bill had left and he’d get no bullet in the back tonight.
After Jake heard the sound of the gate close, he began to crawl toward the burn pit. The fire was reduced to a central core of hot coals, surrounded with spent ash. This was the moment to gather irrefutable evidence of the murder and cremation.
Jake lay next to the pit and peered into it. The heat was intense, but diminishing. His face and arms burst with new beads of sweat. He could see the melted soles of work boots and parts of human leg bone. The torso had burned away completely, leaving a spiny trail of vertebrae buried in the pile of ash.
Jake reached for the tree branch that Bill had used to prod the fire. He poked into the pile of ash, fishing for rib bones or anything that he could lift out of the pit. He spent a few minutes digging, crouched on his knees and leaning over the pit. He was sweating hard now.
A breath of fresh air stirred through the trees. Jake felt it pass, cool on his face.
His stick hit something hard. He tapped on bone. It felt solid. Jake fished at it with the stick. He slid the object toward the side of the pit, away for the core heat in the middle. He lifted the tip of the stick and used it to brush the ashes away.
Nestled in the ash beside a few glowing coals was Stanley’s skull. The jaw bone had burned away, lost in the fire. Jake hoped there was enough of a dental record remaining in the upper teeth to make a positive identification. He’d have to hope for the best. The skull was the most convincing evidence he could fish from the fire.
Jake wiped the sweat off his face. He had singed the hair off his hands and forearms. He pulled in three deep breaths and readied himself for his next move. He scanned the forest and the approach from the winery buildings. Nada.
He guided the charred end of the tree branch forward to spear the skull through its right eye hole. If the skull fell off the stick, he wanted it to fall away from the fire. Slowly he pushed the smoking skull to the side of the pit. He slid one hand down the stick for better leverage and lifted the skull while pushing it against the wall of the pit. If he lost his balance, he’d fall forward, face first into the fire.
The skull teetered on the stick. Jake knew he’d revisit the scene in his dreams. ‘Focus and lift’ he repeated slowly under his breath. He inched the skull upward. When it curled over the edge of the pit, he pushed it off the stick and watched it roll, smoking, across the dirt.
The skull cooled into shades of pink, brown and gray. The flesh and tissue were entirely burned off. Jake stared into the big eye sockets. All the brains had sizzled away. The front teeth remained intact.
While he watched his trophy cool, Jake wondered if Wild Bill would return to look for it. He decided not, unless the whack-job was involved in some kind of skull-fetish cult.
If Bill wanted to destroy all the evidence, he’d have to climb into the pit to collect and crush the bones that had not burned. He might find the jaw bone and wonder where the skull was. He might assume the skull had burned. He might cover up the ash pile and call it a day.
The skull had stopped smoking. Its empty eye sockets stared back at him. The dark of night began to tilt west with the first hint of dawn. Jake thought about urinating on the skull to cool it off. He realized he’d be covering it in his own DNA.
He bent forward on his knees and held his left palm toward the skull to feel for heat. As a kid, he’d pulled baked potatoes from a hot oven at 350-degrees. He pulled his backpack closer. He remembered a Miwok taboo about desecrating graves, and granted himself a dispensation.
‘Your Honor, I’d like to introduce you to people’s exhibit A. Meet Stanley’s skull, fished from the fire pit where Dr. Semper made poisons and had the gall to adulterate Sonoma wine. Yes, sir, I agree, guilty as charged.’ Jake was ready to run.
Constable Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow might remind Jake that this is how you make a legendary headless horsemen. Jake wrapped both hands around the skull, lifted it and placed it inside his backpack. Had he crossed the line to grave robber? No, this was a pit, not a grave. He zipped the skull inside without another thought.
He slipped the pack over his shoulder and used a leafy branch to rub out his shoe prints in the upturned dirt. He walked backward, wiping out his tracks as he worked his way to the edge of the forest. He turned and entered the woods on the run.
The skull was not heavy, about two pounds, but it was bulky. His fear was that the skull would be crushed in his backpack and he’d end up with a pile of bone fragments. He stopped, bent down on one knee, peeled off his sweaty work shirt and wrapped it around the skull. He moved in a steady, loping pace through the woods, down the winery road and across the vineyard toward the pink fingers of dawn.
He crouched in a drain ditch by the county road and texted Wally for a pick-up. Beams of light tumbled over the eastern edge of sky. Jake looked for telltale buzzards circling. Nada.
Within fifteen minutes, Wally rolled up in the truck and Jake jumped in. He set the backpack at his feet.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t look,” Jake said. He wanted a quart of whole milk. He’d settle for a double espresso or a Lagunitas IPA. He and Wally had pulled an all-nighter. Jake felt like he’d won the war, or in civilian terms he’d captured the flag.
Wally kept shoot
ing glances at the backpack. His face was half horror, half disgust and all fear. Jake broke the silence.
“Chill, Wal-bro. I have what we need. We’re good to go. Now let’s get out of here.”
Had he just created a ghost? A headless horseman from Fransec? Jake chuckled at his own joke.
He’d let Semper worry about that.
At the dairy, he left the backpack on the floor of the truck. No way he’d bring the skull into the cottage. It was the first time Jake Knight had ever stolen the bones of a dead man. He didn’t take trophies in Afghanistan.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jake peeled off his ninja garb and took a long, hot shower, pondering his next move. He discarded the idea of walking into the Santa Rosa police station with the skull. They’d lock him up. Mailing it to Sacramento didn’t make sense. He doubted he’d be able to get near the Governor with his story.
The problem was, what do you say to someone after you hand them a fresh skull?
He had no time to sleep. Wrapping himself in a damp towel, he walked to the coffee grinder and put the kettle on to boil. In four hours he’d be working the Taste of Sonoma event with Sandy and Marco. He’d been to these kinds of promotional events: high school fund–raisers, Dairymen Association barbecues, even a bingo game or two.
Jake poured the rich Kenya blend into a cup, strong and black. He sat at the table and began copying CDs of the surveillance videos. He made three sets, then opened the word processor to write letters to both the Sacramento Bee and the San Francisco Chronicle. He decided against the Santa Rosa paper; it was too close to home.
In the letters, he called for a full investigation of wine adulteration and murder. He outlined the chronology of events as he best remembered. He finished his cup of coffee, poured himself another, and deleted all the adjectives and adverbs.
