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?”
“I hope not, Agent Bentley. His parents are two very fine people who have suffered enough grief, what with their daughter-my wife-dying two years ago. Can you imagine how his mother would feel if her son turned out to be a murderer?”
“Captain Rawlings, everyone on death row has, or had, a mother.”
“I guess so,” he said, continuing to stir the ice in his drink. “So, how can I help you today?”
“I was wondering if you could come into our San Francisco office and look over some mug shots.”
“Today?”
“No, early next week, if possible.”
“What are we looking for?”
“You’ve lived in Yolo County most of your life. I thought you might recognize someone in the photos we’ve taken of the members of the militia and could help us with background.”
“Yeah. I could do that, I suppose. Any particular day?”
“How about Tuesday?”
“Fine. Tuesday would suit me. Late morning?”
“Good,” Nicole replied, finishing her drink and standing. She took a dollar from her purse and left it on the table. “Until Tuesday, then.”
“Agent Bentley,” Dan said, also rising and picking up the check, “will I find my picture in those mug shots?” He smiled.
“Not likely, Captain Rawlings, and I can advise that you are not considered a ‘person of interest,’ either.”
“Well, I am to the other side, it seems,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He reached into his uniform pocket, retrieved a small piece of paper, and handed it to her. “This was under my windshield wiper in the cemetery parking lot just now.”
She unfolded and read the note.
Captain Rawlings:
Treason is a hanging offense.
Patriots unite!
She quickly refolded the note and looked up at Dan. “May I keep this?”
“It certainly isn’t going in my scrapbook,” he said, smiling.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday, Captain Rawlings.”
“I’ll be there.”
Just before sunset, Dan and his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, took a half-mile walk up to a favorite vantage point on the mountain above the older man’s farmhouse, located some thirty-five miles from Woodland, up State Highway 16, in Rumsey Canyon. There, the two men sat quietly on their haunches, watching twilight dissolve and darkness begin to envelop the valley and tree-lined creek bed below them. The steep hills, covered at that time of year with a stand of tall, dry grass and the scattered groves of oak trees, provided rich pasture for grazing cattle. Below, on the flatter ground, they could see the orchards of nut trees, laid out in neat rows. It was a scene they both loved, and they sat watching without speaking, enjoying the nightly procession of shadows deepening in the arroyos carved into the hillsides by centuries of winter rains.
“How are you finding your work, Dan?”
Dan smiled at his grandfather, wondering how the old man was always able to tell when something was wrong-from Dan’s skipping school in the early years to the dreadful months after Susan’s death-even when Dan thought he was carrying on quite normally.
“The world is changing, Jack. You read the papers and watch the news. Between the clamor for California’s independence and the planning commission’s movement to break up the large farm holdings in Rumsey Valley, well, it’s a tumultuous time. I don’t know that I want to preside over the demise of this valley.”
“We’ve got nearly eight thousand acres of prime land in our family, down considerably from the fifteen thousand we once had, but still a nice holding. Almonds and walnuts have been this family’s life. You’ve got the land in your soul, even if you did opt to be a lawyer and a county administrator instead of a farmer.”
Rawlings smiled at his grandfather, who was now eighty-one. “I don’t farm the land, Jack, but you’re right, I care about it a lot.”
Jack shifted his position. “Our family has always cared about this land. It’s been like that since your fourth great-grandfather, Colonel Howard Rumsey, settled this valley right after the Civil War.”