A Triple Thriller Fest (11 page)

Chapter 8

Woodland, California

Captain Dan Rawlings left the Woodland Rotary luncheon and headed straight for his apartment in Davis, where he changed into his Class “A” dress greens. Driving over the Yolo County Causeway toward the funeral home, the image of Lieutenant McFarland’s bloated, purplish face kept recurring, and Dan’s mood turned somber.

Not since he’d buried his wife had he dredged up the courage to attend another funeral, but Lieutenant McFarland was a brother-in-arms—and more. Dan—in his incarnation as Captain Rawlings—had actually met with McFarland on several occasions and, under General Del Valle’s directive, had been the one to accept the young man’s reports on the status of the Shasta Brigade. To his sorrow, Dan had also been the one to recommend McFarland to General Del Valle as an officer with the suitable temperament to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade.

Dan crossed the Sacramento River and drove east along the northern boundary of Sacramento, beginning the gentle climb into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. He left the freeway at the Roseville exit and turned north toward a golf course he had played on many occasions. About a mile beyond the golf course, he came to the funeral home where McFarland’s service was to be held, pulled into the parking lot and shut off his engine. Seeing the lush, green grounds of the cemetery that surrounded the building, Dan broke into a light sweat, and memories flooded his mind. He had been a witness to Susan’s accident and had since dreamed about it often. Unable to alter its outcome, the scene always unfolded before him the same way, whether awake or asleep.

 They had been skiing high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near Susanville. Just before pushing off, his young wife smiled and winked at him. Then, racing ahead down the mountain through the flat light of an overcast day, Susan plunged into a steep field of tall moguls, her legs acting as powerful pistons, absorbing the impact as she worked her way down, down, down the steep slope. Nearly a world-class skier and fearless on the mountain, she combined both strength and grace in a way that amazed Dan. Not nearly her equal, he followed at a slower pace.

As she continued to work her way through the steep, bumpy run, he pulled to a stop at the top of the field of moguls, admiring his young wife’s fierce attack on the deep ruts and giant mounds.

He had watched helplessly as a teenaged, female skier suddenly skidded into Susan’s path. Out of control, the novice had dropped her poles and was flailing her arms wildly to maintain her balance while sliding laterally across the hill, directly toward Susan.

Still skiing hard, Susan made a sudden, powerful move to avoid the collision and veered sharply off the run, plunging into a copse of mature quaking aspens whose solid white trunks blended into the flat light of the mountain.

Unable to do anything but cry out, Dan watched in horror as Susan cart-wheeled and tumbled through the grove to slam headfirst into the trunk of a large, gnarled tree.

Fighting back his tears, his chest pounding with exertion and fear, Dan half-skied, half-tumbled down the mountain. He had wrenched off his skis, screaming over his shoulder for help and wading frantically through the soft snow to the place where Susan lay crumpled against the tree, an ever-widening patch of red snow staining the pristine powder. Her once-beautiful face was bloodied, contorted in death, framed by the fur-lined hood of her ski parka, and as he held her lifeless body in his arms—

This was usually the point at which he would wake up each morning, drenched in sweat. For months after her death, he had not gone to church. His bishop had visited and gently counseled with him, and still Dan resisted. Even Susan’s parents had pleaded with him to come to church with them, to no avail. Finally, several months later when his sister was home visiting with three of her five children, she asked Dan for help one morning, taking her kids to the mall, since her husband had not made the trip. Dan agreed, and as he sat in the food court area, his four-year-old niece, Rachel, climbed on his lap, whispering in his ear, “I wish Aunt Susan could be here with us.”

The rap on his car window startled him, and he turned his head, taking a second to recognize Sheriff Sanchez standing beside his car. Dan removed his keys and exited the vehicle, placing his garrison cap squarely on his head.

“You in a dreamland, Danny boy?” Tony asked, smiling. “Looks like you’re a bit overheated.”

“Just thinking,” Dan replied, wiping the perspiration from his brow and noticing that Tony was dressed in a business suit rather than his sheriff’s uniform.

“I can understand that. Looks like a big turnout,” Tony said as they began to walk across the parking lot toward the chapel.

Dan looked around as they neared the entrance, spotting several groups of green and blue uniforms among the civilians heading for the service. He saw General Del Valle at the door, greeting his officers and men as they arrived. Twenty yards before they reached the door, Tony slowed his pace and nudged Dan in the side. Dan followed Tony’s gaze and identified Kenny Bailey, Dan’s brother-in-law, heading toward the entrance in the company of three other men, all dressed casually in jeans or slacks and open-necked shirts.

Tony looked away from the building, scanning the cars in the parking lot. “I’ve got a cameraman out in the unmarked SWAT van filming the attendees,” he said.

“You don’t think they’d come
here
?” Dan asked.

“Stranger things have happened … and, well, there’s Kenny, right?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, again walking toward the entrance. “Good afternoon, General,” he said, snapping a salute.

“Afternoon, Captain Rawlings.”

“Sir, I’d like to introduce Tony Sanchez, Yolo County Sheriff.”

The two men shook hands. “Are you the investigating authority, Sheriff?” Del Valle asked.

“At present, sir. The FBI has been in contact with our office, but they’ve not assumed jurisdiction.”

“I see. Well, shall we go in, gentlemen?”

Dan had never met Mrs. McFarland until the previous Monday, when he and General Del Valle had gone to her home to inform her of her husband’s death. Del Valle had arranged for Mrs. McFarland’s mother to be escorted to the house as well, and several family members had arrived while Dan and General Del Valle were still present. Even though the general had handled most of the dialogue, it had been one of the hardest things Dan had ever done. Surprisingly, the young, very pretty woman had taken the news without breaking down, her silent tears the only outward sign of her shock and grief.

Inside the chapel, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Harman, Commander of the 324
^th
 Mechanized Battalion, stood several rows from the front, retaining seats for the general and his staff officers. Dan and Sheriff Sanchez slid into the pew, followed by Colonel Harman, with General Del Valle taking a seat on the aisle.

Dan could see through the gathering that Mrs. McFarland sat on the front row of the right section. Two women, whom he took to be her sisters, were seated on either side of her, with her mother and mother-in-law on either side of the sisters. The remaining men of the family filled the outer edges of the pew. Kenny and his associates took seats toward the back, and as far as Dan could tell, Kenny had not noticed Dan’s presence.

The front of the chapel contained a large floral arrangement. In the center, directly below the dais, sat the closed coffin, draped with an American flag. A large photograph of Lieutenant Richard McFarland, in Army dress blues, was displayed on a raised tripod next to the casket. Dan felt the blood rush to his head and neck, his face suddenly warm and flushed. He took several deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. Then the National Guard chaplain, Major Alexander Butterman, stood behind the pulpit and motioned for all to rise. He waited for the shuffling to die down and commenced with an opening prayer, then motioned for all to be seated.

“It has often been stated,” Chaplain Butterman began in a low, soft voice, “that in time of peace, sons bury their fathers, and in time of war, fathers bury their sons. But our world has become more complicated, and war is not always as we once knew it …”

Following the service, six platoon commanders, all young lieutenants, carried the casket with precision as the cortege followed them slowly across the soft, grassy field to the burial site. There, Lieutenant McFarland’s family sat next to the open grave, beneath a green canopy, on two rows of folding chairs. Surrounding the site was a large crowd of both civilians and uniformed men and women of the California National Guard. To one side, a hundred yards away and standing on a gentle rise beneath a small grove of trees, was an honor guard of seven soldiers, standing at parade rest, their rifles held at order arms, the stock grounded beside their right legs.

The graveside service was brief as General Del Valle spoke to the assembled crowd about duty, honor, and country. His remarks echoed those of Chaplain Butterman, who had reviled the cowardly act that had taken the life of a brave young American soldier. Concluding his remarks, General Del Valle stepped back into the throng, and the first volley of rifle fire rang out across the field. An involuntary shudder rippled through the crowd at the expected, but startling sound. Two additional volleys rang out, completing the twenty-one gun salute to a fallen soldier. Mrs. McFarland stifled a sob and laid her head on her father’s shoulder. The older man, proudly wearing his blue-and-gold VFW cap, wrapped his arm around his daughter and wiped at his own eyes with a handkerchief.

Finally, McFarland’s company commander, Captain Everton, accepted the folded, tri-cornered flag from the pallbearers, and, in a precise movement, stepped toward the young widow, coming to attention directly in front of her. Everton leaned down and presented the flag to the woman, mouthing a few words not heard beyond several feet. He returned to attention and rendered a slow, deliberate salute. Then he turned on his heel and resumed his position with the pallbearers.

Dan experienced a quick flash of himself sitting in the widower’s position at Susan’s funeral. His temples began to pound as his heart raced, sweat beads broke out on his forehead, and again he breathed deeply, willing himself to control his thoughts and emotions.

As the crowd began to disperse, Dan decided not to pass through the line and offer his condolences. Choosing instead the solitude of his vehicle, he walked alone across the lawn toward the parking lot. When someone fell into step alongside him, he wasn’t at first aware that it was Special Agent Nicole Bentley.

“Good afternoon, Captain Rawlings. Do you know the Chili’s restaurant on Madison and I-80?”

“I do,” he replied, startled by her unexpected appearance.

“Could you meet me there in twenty minutes? Please?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, nodding as she turned away, moving to where her car was parked.

Dan arrived first and was drinking a glass of lemonade when Agent Bentley entered the restaurant. She looked around and spotted Dan sitting in a booth at the rear. As she walked toward him, Dan felt a twinge of nostalgia, remembering several times when he had met Susan at this same restaurant. Nicole Bentley looked nothing like Susan, but still, here he was, sitting in a booth, waiting for a beautiful woman to join him.

Bentley was wearing something more feminine than the dark business suit he had seen her in before—perhaps, Dan thought, to blend in with the crowd of mourners at McFarland’s funeral. She wore a light-colored knit skirt and matching jacket over a light blue blouse—buttoned up the front—and sandals. Her dark hair, cut short, was slightly windblown, but as she neared the table, he noticed that she had freshened her lipstick.

He stood as Agent Bentley approached and smiled to himself, remembering how Susan had often surprised him by wearing a new outfit or a changed hairdo. Susan had told Dan early in their relationship that her father had never paid any attention to what her mother wore, nor complimented her on her appearance. Dan had picked up on that and had made it a point to notice whenever Susan got a haircut or bought new clothes. It became something of a game with them, spotting anything new before she closed the door to their apartment in Susanville. Susan loved his attentiveness and had relished the pride her husband took in her appearance.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Bentley said as she slid into the other side of the booth.

“My pleasure, Agent Bentley,” Dan replied. “Something to drink?”

She glanced at his glass. “The lemonade looks good,” she answered. Dan motioned to the waitress a few tables away and pointed to his glass, holding up two fingers, which she acknowledged with a wave of her hand.

“So, how can I be of assistance?” Dan asked, sitting down.

“I presume you noticed your brother-in-law at the funeral.”

Dan nodded. “I did, but we didn’t speak. How did you know … ?”

Nicole smiled and ran her fingers through her hair, teasing the windblown look. “I’ve done my homework, Captain Rawlings.”

“Would that I were as up-to-date.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, you know something about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“That’s the way I like it,” she smiled again. “When did you last speak to Kenny?”

“Wednesday.”

Nicole’s eyebrows raised, and Dan laughed.

“Yeah, I guess it’s peculiar for someone to know exactly when he last spoke with someone else—especially when I seldom meet with Kenny, but Sheriff Sanchez asked me to check with Kenny about an item that was found at the crime scene.”

“The silver toothpick?” she said as the waitress delivered a glass of lemonade.

“Yes,” Dan replied, not surprised that she knew about the evidence.

“And … ?” she asked, peeling the wrapping off a straw.

“And he said he lost it on a camping trip two weeks ago.”

“I see,” Nicole said. “Do you believe him?”

“What you mean is, do I think he participated in the killing of Lieutenant McFarland.”

“Perhaps that
is
what I mean. Do you?”