A Killing in the Valley

by JF Freedman

  She screamed and tried to kick him off as he pushed her down again, one hand on the back of her head, smashing her face into the blanket. She started bucking, and he grabbed her by the shoulders to control her. As his hand came away from her head, she screamed again.

  The explosion sounded like thunder clapping between her ears. Steven’s body slammed against hers, his face smashing into the back of her head. His teeth cracked against her skull as if he was trying to bite through to her brain.

  There was blood. She knew her anus was bleeding from his harsh penetration, but this was different blood, she could feel it on her back, it was spreading down her lower back, down her ass and legs, and then he wasn’t moving, and she could hear a heavy rattle coming from somewhere deep inside of him.

  He was like a set of weights on top of her. Unmoving, heavy, inanimate. Summoning all the strength she had left, she rolled over, forcing him off her. He fell in a heap on the floor.

  The bullet had entered his body below his left shoulder blade. The blood was oozing out, not pumping fast, but already he was covered in it.

  “Steven!” she screamed. She looked around wildly. “Steven!” she screamed again.

  She heard someone running. Hurriedly, she put her panties back on, and reached for her bra. Her panties began staining with her blood, but she had nothing to staunch it.

  She looked up as the footsteps approached. Juanita, her long hair streaming down her back, ran into the room. She stared in horror at Sophia, cowering on the narrow bed. Then her eyes went to Steven, naked and bloody on the floor.

  “Somebody shot him,” Sophia ghost-whispered. She was shaking uncontrollably. Juanita looked at her grandson. Her face was bloodless. She knelt down and put her fingers on Steven’s throat. She hovered there for a moment, as if in prayer.

  “Put your clothes back on, Sophia,” she told the hysterical girl.

  While Sophia fumbled into her clothes, Juanita laid a blanket over Steven. Then she took Sophia’s shaking hand and brought her back to the house. They went into the bathroom. Juanita drew Sophia a hot bath.

  “Wash yourself up thoroughly,” she ordered Sophia. “You aren’t bleeding too badly.”

  She eased Sophia into the steaming water. While Sophia collapsed in the tub, Juanita went into her kitchen, picked up the telephone, and dialed 911.

  “This is Mrs. McCoy, out at Rancho San Gennaro,” she told the dispatcher in a voice that was eerily disembodied. “An intruder has murdered my grandson.”

  36

  REBECK AND WATSON blew in as if propelled by a hurricane. Sophia was out of the bath, smothered in an old robe of Juanita’s. She was huddled into herself in a chair. Her face was blank, as if she was in a catatonic state.

  Rebeck crouched down next to her. She could see the girl was an emotional mess, but she had no time for civility. “Did you see anything?” she asked urgently. Every minute was critical.

  Sophia shook her head.

  “She didn’t see anything,” Juanita interjected. She hovered over Sophia. “Can’t you see she’s in shock? I don’t want you asking her any questions,” she told them with a fierce protectiveness. “I’ll answer whatever questions I can.”

  She led Sophia into her bedroom. “Stay here and don’t say anything. I’ve called your mother. She’ll be here shortly.”

  “But shouldn’t I…?”

  “Hush,” Juanita whispered. She put a finger to Sophia’s lips. “This has been a terrible time of suffering,” she said gravely. “Don’t you think we’ve all suffered enough?”

  Sophia stared at her, dumbstruck.

  “Steven’s gone now,” Juanita said in a quiet, authoritative voice. “He can’t defend himself. Just as that poor girl couldn’t defend herself.” She stared into Sophia’s eyes as if looking into her soul. “It’s time to let them go. We need to let them take their secrets to the grave.”

  She leaned in closer. “You saw nothing,” she repeated intensely. “I’m doing this to protect you, Sophia. Do you understand that?”

  Sophia nodded. “I didn’t see anything,” she repeated by rote.

  Juanita shut the bedroom door behind her and went back into her living room. She sat down on her couch.

  “I was about to go to sleep,” she told the detectives. “I was exhausted. We all were. We’d had a party this evening to celebrate the verdict, and to bid farewell to Steven, who was going home to Arizona tomorrow.” She stopped for a moment. “It was his last night here,” she said in a choked voice.

  Gathering herself, she continued. “Steven said good night to us and went to his room in the back of the stable. Sophia wanted to take a bath, and I got ready for bed. Just as I was about to get under the covers, I heard some voices outside.”

  “What kind of voices?” Watson asked. “How many were there?”

  “It sounded like there were two,” Juanita answered slowly. “I’m not positive. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not completely straight in my head right now.” Although her eyes were dry, she dabbed at them with a handkerchief.

  “Did you recognize them?” Watson pressed. “Both, or either?”

  “One of them sounded like Steven’s.”

  Watson huddled down right next to her. “What did he say?”

  She shivered. “I heard a voice cry out, ‘No! Don’t!’ Like that.”

  “And what did the other person say?” Watson continued. Both he and Rebeck were scribbling notes as fast as they could.

  Juanita closed her eyes in thought. “I didn’t hear it clearly. It might have been, ‘It’s your turn’ or ‘It’s your time.’”

  The detectives exchanged loaded glances. “Then what happened?” Watson asked.

  “I heard a gunshot.” She started to say more, then stopped.

  “Go on,” Rebeck prompted.

  “I ran to the front door and threw it open. I was afraid to run out, because I didn’t know who was out there.” She paused for a moment. “Then I thought I saw someone running away.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Rebeck asked feverishly.

  Juanita shook her head. “It was too dark, and the figure was too far away.” The handkerchief twisted in Juanita’s hands. “I ran to the stable…” She hesitated for a second, then went on. “I could see right away that Steven was dead.” She rubbed her dry eyes. “All that grief he went through. That we all went through.” She buried her head in her hands. “For nothing,”

  Kate, frantic with worry, pulled up in front of Juanita’s house in a cloud of dust. Half a dozen police cars were parked there, along with the coroner’s van. She ran inside, pushing past the clustered detectives.

  Juanita was in the living room, waiting for her. “She’s in my bedroom. It’s been a terrible ordeal, but she’s all right. She’s sleeping now.”

  Kate sagged. “My God. What about you? Is Steven…?” Her face registered shock and horror.

  Juanita nodded somberly. “Someone killed him.”

  Kate gathered Juanita in her arms. “Oh, Juanita,” she lamented. “I’m so sorry.”

  The tears finally came. “He almost made it,” Juanita said, in a voice as soft as a cloud. “He was so close to getting on with his life and putting this ugliness behind him.” She bowed her head as if in prayer. “It’s all such a tragedy,” she whispered. “Such a needless, wasteful tragedy.”

  Three weeks after Steven was buried in a quiet ceremony at the family’s ancestral graveyard, Rancho San Gennaro had its annual spring roundup. Cowboys from all over the valley came to help out. After a long and exhausting day, two hundred and thirty-seven calves were branded and inoculated. The males were castrated, and twenty prize heifers were culled out to be used as future breeding cows.

  In the evening, Juanita threw a barbeque to feed all her helpers. Sophia was right in the mix. During the day she helped move the six-month-old calves from the holding pasture to the pens, and then worked alongside Juanita and a dozen other women to prepare the meal. When it was all over and everyone h
ad departed, she and her surrogate grandmother collapsed in fatigue and satisfaction in a job well done. Sitting outside Juanita’s house, they toasted each other with apple cider.

  “You are now an official cowboy of the female gender,” Juanita anointed her. “How does it feel?”

  “Really good,” Sophia answered. “It really felt right to be here.”

  “The first of many, I hope,” Juanita told her. “That would make me very happy.”

  “That’s what I want, too.”

  Sophia had survived the physical part of being raped better than she and Juanita had feared. The morning after, Juanita had taken her to a private gynecologist. The doctor, a family friend and confidant, had cleaned her up and took cultures and blood samples to make sure she hadn’t contracted any disease. A few days later, the lab report came back—a clean bill of health. Although the penetration had been painful, and was still uncomfortable, she knew it would pass.

  The emotional and psychological scars would last longer. She couldn’t bury her rage at Steven for having violated her, but he was dead now, so there wasn’t a living presence she could vent against. And she knew that Juanita was suffering terrible pain for her part in what had happened, a pain she would always carry with her. So the two of them were bonded that way, too. She didn’t tell anyone, not even her mother, about Steven’s deathbed confession, and she still wasn’t completely willing to believe that it had been a true confession. Maria’s being anally raped was common knowledge, so he might have been referring to the circumstance, not that he was the direct cause of it. But that was trying to give the benefit of the doubt to a man she had fallen in love with, her first love. In her heart, she was sure she knew the truth.

  Kate and Luke had lunch on the patio of a new restaurant near the Art Museum. It was a glorious spring day. As usual, Luke’s caseload was larger than he wanted it to be, and as usual, he had a hard time turning down clients.

  “How’s school going?” he asked Kate.

  “Good,” she answered. She picked at her Cobb salad. “I’ve got a torts class and an environmental law seminar. I’m thinking of making that my specialty. You can do good without having to deal with killings and maimings and mourners. It seems more civilized than rubbing elbows with drug dealers and homicidal maniacs.” She broke off a chunk of focaccia and dipped it in olive oil. “I’m getting weary of blood.”

  “I hear you,” he answered. “The trouble is, it gets in your own blood. And sometimes you actually make an honest-to-God life-and-death difference.”

  “Like with Steven McCoy,” Kate said ironically.

  “Yes,” he answered heavily. “Like Steven.”

  Steven’s murder had been stunning. Everyone who had been involved in the case felt betrayed. Why go to all that trouble, all that time, all that anxiety, as well as money, to see it end like that? It was the ugliest example of vigilantism Luke had known, let alone been involved in. Even Alex Gordon, who had been convinced of Steven’s guilt, was enraged at the usurpation of the process.

  There were no suspects in Steven’s shooting. Hector Torres, the obvious candidate, had a firm alibi. The police found no footprints, no tire tracks. The bullet that killed Steven came from a 30-30 rifle, one of the most common in circulation.

  Rebeck and Watson weren’t getting anywhere. They had interviewed Sophia, but she stonewalled them. She insisted she had seen and heard nothing. It was as if the shooter was a ghost, or as Rebeck ghoulishly characterized it, an avenging phantom, a dark angel who for once had been on the right side. Kate had tried to question Sophia, but she had to go gingerly. Her daughter hadn’t been as traumatized by the experience as she had feared she could be, but it was clearly an open wound on her psyche. After Sophia had rebuffed her a few times, Kate left the subject alone. If she ever wanted to talk to her about anything, she’d be there.

  It would be hot later today, but now, just after sunrise, the temperature was mild and inviting. Sophia had spent the night at the ranch, so she and Juanita could get an early start. It would be their last ride of the summer. Tomorrow, Sophia and Kate were driving up to Palo Alto for the start of Sophia’s freshman year. Wanda, who was already deep into her second year of medical school, would come down from San Francisco to join them. Sophia was excited, nervous, apprehensive, jittery, eager—all the emotions Kate remembered Wanda had felt when she had started college.

  Sophia had invited Juanita to join them on the drive up, but Juanita had graciously declined. This should be a special occasion for the three Blanchard women to savor among themselves, she explained. She would come up in a couple of months, for Homecoming. They would spend the weekend together, when Juanita could also get reacquainted with whichever remaining classmates she had who were still alive and kicking. She didn’t expect there would be very many.

  On the night of Sophia’s high school graduation, when the three of them and Wanda had gone out to dinner, Juanita had pulled Kate aside. She was going to pay for Sophia’s college education, and she didn’t want any argument about it from Kate. She knew that Sophia had a generous financial aid package, so it wasn’t like she would have to pay full freight, but she insisted that she make up the difference.

  Kate had been stunned by Juanita’s offer, and had tried to dissuade her, but Juanita was adamant. Sophia was like a granddaughter to her now. They all knew that. She could easily afford it, and Kate couldn’t. She not only wanted to do this, she needed to, she implored Kate.

  It was a relief not to have to worry about the money, and Kate knew how important this was to Juanita. Sophia had replaced Steven in the old woman’s heart; they were as close as blood kin, except literally. As close as Sophia is to me, Kate thought with some ambiguity. But that was her own jealousy, her possessiveness—Juanita and Sophia truly loved each other. The building of their relationship had been a long and arduous journey, yet it was just beginning.

  As the sun was breaking over the low mountains to the southeast, they mounted up and rode out into the open range. The winter rains had brought an end to the drought, and there was an abundance of water in the springs. They followed a wide trail that passed by a grassy pasture. The cows, heavy in their pregnancies, grazed and drank and shooed flies away with their tails. In the next few months they would begin calving, and by Thanksgiving there would be the beginning of the new herd. Sophia would come down on the weekends when the cows started dropping their calves. Ranching was in her blood now, and she wanted to take part in all of the operations.

  A month earlier, Juanita had revised her will. She was leaving Rancho San Gennaro to Sophia Blanchard, to be held in trust with her mother, Kate Blanchard. She did attach a condition: it was to be Sophia’s as long as she was alive and actively worked it, once she had graduated from college and pursued whatever occupation she chose. If Sophia decided ranch life was not for her, it would revert to Juanita’s heirs. Juanita was certain the ranch would remain in Sophia’s hands for a long, long time.

  High above, a red-tailed hawk floated in the thermals. Sophia reached into her saddlebag and took out a digital camera, her graduation present from Luke and Riva. She sighted the bird and took a picture. Riding alongside Juanita, she showed her the image.

  “That’s a keeper,” Juanita told her approvingly.

  Sophia pointed the camera at Juanita. They looked at the picture on the screen. “This one’s a keeper, too,” Sophia said with a smile.

  The trail rose at a gentle slope, leading them toward a grove of pines, eucalyptus, and live oak. They could feel the sun warming their backs. The hawk drifted away with the wind.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Markus Wilhelm, Gail Hochman, Carole Baron, and Kathy Kiernan for their encouragement and support. I also wish to thank Michael Galvin, Joyce Dudley, Terrence Lammers, Dr. Robert Anthony of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff-Coroner’s Office, Lt. Chris Pappas of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department, and Rick Dodge of Dodge City Gun Shop, for their help.

  About the Author<
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  J. F. Freedman is the New York Times bestselling author of Against the Wind, The Disappearance, House of Smoke, and In My Dark Dreams, among other titles. He is also an award-winning film and television director, writer, and producer. He lives in California.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by J. F. Freedman

  Cover design by Angela Goddard

  978-1-4804-2414-2

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