Arden couldn’t remember talking that much in a long time. Or enjoying herself or her company quite so much. She tried to remember the last time she’d actually been out for an evening with someone she was genuinely interested in and attracted to and came up blank. The dating pool for senior Captains at any military base was depressingly dry. And if she were honest with herself, and she usually was, she just hadn’t been interested since her divorce had become final.
While Tom certainly hadn’t set her pulse to fluttering or left her trembling with passion, he’d filled a space that was achingly empty, and in doing so had made her feel special, treasured. To her utter mortification she discovered that he had that affect on many women, including their upstairs neighbor in base housing.
Well, she mused, snuggling deeper into the comfort of the chair, it was all water under the bridge. She could say that now, with the pain and distaste of the divorce nearly three years behind her. The only thing Tom had really damaged was her pride, but it had been a hell of a blow. No woman liked seeing the proof of her husband’s infidelity. No woman liked coming in second in her own marriage. So she’d tried to be the woman she thought he wanted, needed to stay faithful.
When it hadn’t worked and he continued in his old ways, she’d snapped.
In the last days of their marriage, the Arden Jones of today had surfaced. The tough, in-your-face woman who knew what she wanted, and got it.
The Arden Jones she was now had been about two steps away from castrating the bastard in those last hours.
How dare he humiliate her like that, especially within the small, incestuous confines of a military base? Worst of all, how could she, strong, sure Arden Jones, have sunk to the level of desperation she had? How could she have so totally changed herself for a man? She’d done everything but beg the man to stay.
Then, with a little time and lot of tequila, she’d accepted that she hated the idea of Tom’s infidelity much more than she hated the fact that he’d done it. She also found that she had been in love with being married, rather than being married to Tom. When it came to him, she found she really didn’t give a shit.
She’d known it was really over when she signed the papers with little more emotion than she’d show a monthly bill. The only thing she really missed, after all was said and done, was the one thing she’d been able to count on from Tom—good, sweaty sex.
Now she was a new, stronger woman. While she understood on a purely instinctive level that she would marry again, consciously she had decided that she would never again let a man have the upper hand. Never again would she be the one who hurt, who yearned for something more. Her next relationship would be exactly as she decreed it.
So with that on her mind, she sat in her ritzy bed and breakfast, sipping heaven and munching on biscotti, contemplating the man she had spent last evening with, not even touching on the real reason she had come to this quiet town.
* * * *
They discovered the anomaly at the Ross crime scene while trying to take a candle wax sample. In the southwest quadrant of the circle, right next to the victim’s head, they had unearthed a flat, oblong piece of granite that the candle appeared to be seated in before removal. The rock had not been noticeable initially because it had been almost completely covered by the brown, baked clay native to the area. After re-photographing the site carefully as a precaution, the agents had begun to remove the dirt surrounding the stone, assuming at the beginning that the candle had been placed in a convenient, natural hollow. As they delved deeper they discovered that the stone had a smooth, almost finished feel. Carved into the bottom portion was a mysterious symbol. Upon further excavation they found that the resting place for the candle had also been precisely carved.
With this obvious intent in mind, they looked to the other circles of death and encountered what they most feared. In each of the five cases an almost identical piece of granite was discovered. In each case, the rock looked like it had been there forever. And in each case the same enigmatic symbol was carved into the base of the stone.
Samples of the clay and surrounding compost were collected for age analysis. To a man, or woman, the technicians were puzzled and more than a little dismayed. The Ross crime scene showed no recent digging around the area, yet the body could not have been there for more than one week at the very most. There would almost certainly have been some sign of digging around the rock if it had been placed at the time of her death.
Bill shared the same thoughts as the technicians as he slowly surveyed the scene for the third time in four days. Other than the absence of Kimmie Ross’ body, nothing had changed from his initial viewing. Squatting down in front of the unearthed stone he was struck by something, something once again squirming at the back of his mind. Rather than try digging it out, he let his mind run free, staring blindly at the pattern the dried and crackly buck brush leaves made at his feet.
Drebin was standing under an ancient black oak, surveying the scene as a whole, looking for the bigger picture. He was sure the location of each body played a significant role in how and why each body was placed, he just hadn’t figured it out yet. He looked over at the Sheriff, wondering what was going on in that brain of his. He could tell by Bill’s posture that he was as relaxed as a cop can get, but there was a fine tension underlying that casual demeanor. He was working on something.
Pushing away from the shade of the tree, Drebin entered the full force of the morning sun and winced at the brightness. Pulling on the Ray Ban shades that were almost a uniform to government employees, he sauntered over to the Sheriff, his easy gait betraying none of the uneasiness he felt looking around this desolate, brushy wilderness. Even though he and Ashton had been over the crime scene yesterday afternoon, he still got a chill down the middle of his back when his peripheral vision caught sight of the sinuous, ghostly aura of heat waves that arose even at this early hour.
“What have you got, Bill?” Drebin hunkered down beside him, looking intently at the granite stone that had so transfixed the sheriff.
“It’s a goddamned altar. I was reading up on some of this stuff last night. See this marking here?” He used a stick to point to the arcane marking. “That’s a sigil. It means something to him, and only him. We’d never be able to translate it even if we tried. The fact that the earth around these stones, and this one in particular, hasn’t been disturbed means that he planned this. I’m almost afraid to poke around and see if he’s got anymore planted somewhere. This wasn’t a crime of passion. It wasn’t even a crime, at least not to him. It was a fucking offering. He sacrificed these girls.” Bill stood up suddenly, straightening his long body in a controlled rush, then stalked away into the underbrush.
Chapter Eleven
After fully perusing the aisles of the Prospector’s Market, Arden was positive the citizens of Mariposa County were primarily carnivores. The fruit and vegetable selection was meager at best, and the hub of the store seemed to revolve around the enormous meat section. As she stood there slightly stunned, gazing at what seemed like acres of bloody red beef, she unconsciously tuned into the conversation going on between the two middle-aged men in front of her.
“Well I heard that the whole trunk was full of it. And guns too. My cousin Mike works next door to the Chevron station and he said Tony was waving that cash around like there was no Sunday coming. Serves him right if they come looking for him. What did he think was gonna happen, those Compton crack dealers were just gonna say, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Take our money, take our guns.’ Shit no. And that car. Who in their right mind would run guns in a red convertible, for God’s sake? The Holsteins just look for those cars to pull over.”
At the balding man’s mention of a red sports car Arden’s interest peaked and she began to openly listen to their conversation.
“Well, I dunno Carl, that’s not what I heard.” said the other man dubiously. “I heard some woman took the FBI’s seed money and that’s why they’re here, not cause of those dead girls. I heard they
were closing in on her so she ditched the car and money and took to the hills. Nobody knows where she is, but the feds are beating the bushes looking for her.”
“Well, it don’t matter,” said Carl, stung by his companion’s disagreement, “’Cause that money is still here. I betcha don’t know where it went, do you? I didn’t think so. The Sheriff’s got it all nice and safe and sound in his office. I know that for sure, ‘cause Stumpy told me last night. Said he’d never seen so much money and that the Sheriff is being real secretive about it, like he don’t want anybody knowing about it. He should know better. Half the damn town is talking about it now.”
Carl shook his head sadly. “And what was he thinking, bringing that woman into one of our places last night. She’s a stranger.” He continued, totally oblivious to the fact that the woman in question was standing directly behind him. “Ashton was gone for too damn long. He forgot what it was like to live in a small town. And who is this woman? Stumpy said that’s her car they found, so you know she’s mixed up in this. It just ain’t right for the Sheriff to go mixing with criminal elements.”
The other man shifted uncomfortably, “Sheriff’s been back for five years. I don’t think he changed all that much. He was always a good boy. You always think the worst.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, paling when he saw the ‘criminal element’ glaring at them with her hands on her hips. Fumbling for an excuse to leave, he mumbled something under his breath to Carl and walked away quickly.
Snorting, Arden turned away, heading for the checkout counter. What did she expect? This was a small town and she had predicted that the rumor mill would be up and running first thing this morning. It was just disconcerting to hear herself referred to in that manner. A gun runner and criminal element. She stifled a laugh. She was the most respectable person she knew. What the hell had Samantha gotten her into?
Standing in line she reviewed the conversation in her head. What was this babble about money? And then it clicked. The ‘personal effects’ and ‘circumstances’ the Sheriff had referred to the first time she’d spoken with him. Clenching her jaw tightly, she paid the checkout clerk, then double-timed it back to her room to stow the groceries. With a grim smile of anticipation, she gathered up her notes, leaving word with the front desk to accept her Fed Ex package, then set out for the Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Bill Ashton had some explaining to do.
* * * *
When Arden returned to her room sixty minutes later the birth of a full-scale migraine was lurking directly beneath her left eyebrow. Massaging her temple, she picked up her laptop from the front desk and proceeded to her room for about twenty Motrin and some peace.
The press had found out about the money. Hell, if the town gossips had been talking about it, it just stood to reason that the media would also know. Apparently Stumpy, whoever he was, had been quite busy the night before, because cameras and microphones inundated her the minute she stepped out of her rental car.
They knew who she was. That was the most disturbing part of all. She had never even met this Stumpy person and couldn’t begin to imagine why he would give her description to the press. And now her face would be broadcast statewide by lunchtime, which was only a few minutes away.
The only good thing to come out of the morning was the fact that the press hadn’t connected Sam’s disappearance with the murdered women. They were more than happy to run two scandalous stories rather than one, and all from the relative quiet of a respectable small town.
Then again, Samantha’s connection to the dead girls was only her theory, but she knew Sam well enough to know that she never would have left money if she’d had the opportunity to run with it, pursuing feds or not. It also explained why she hadn’t come to see Arden. She had the money; she’d just needed a quick car. Why should she even go in to ask her sister for a loan or if she was doing all right, or even to say ‘to hell with you, bitch, I’m taking your car.’
Arden shook her head, then popped four Motrin. She supposed it was a fortuitous quirk of fate that she’d been unable to secure lodging in the same hotels as the media. At least here she would be safe from their prying eyes and cameras. The Turners had already assured her of that when she’d picked up her laptop. The gods had been smiling on her.
Snapping on the television, she sunk down into the comfortable armchair and waited for the worst. It wasn’t pretty. She looked harried and stressed and almost a little crazy as she battled the throng of reporters in her quest for the front doors to the Sheriff’s Department. A wall of flesh wearing the nameplate Brewster had come to her rescue, pulling her into the Sheriff’s office while holding the press at bay. Unfortunately, once she was inside no one could decide what to do with her.
The Sheriff was at the crime scene, looking over some new evidence, they said. No, they couldn’t tell her anything about the case, but she was welcome to sit and wait for Sheriff Ashton’s return if she wished.
Arden mulled it over for about thirty seconds before enlisting the aid of Deputy Brewster. While he wouldn’t tell her anything, or even confirm what she already knew, he was kind enough to offer to take her back to her accommodations. She gladly accepted, knowing full well that the members of the press were waiting for her.
She muted the television, then slumped back in the chair. This whole situation was getting too weird. She was almost ready to just take her car and head back to L.A., Samantha or no Samantha. But she wouldn’t. Her damned sense of duty and honor and family prevented her doing anything so irresponsible. So she would stick and just see what happened.
The jangling of the telephone right next to her head knocked her out of her reverie, startling her with its intensity. Wondering whom it could possibly be, she reached for the handset, wishing the quaint bed and breakfast had caller ID. Her hand hovered just above the receiver as visions of the press corps rippled across her mind. By the fourth ring she realized it was probably just her boss, Major Allen. He was the only person who knew she was at this number.
Plastering the receiver to her right ear as she massaged her left temple, she wearily stated, “Hello, Captain Jones here.”
The voice at the other end was quiet, almost breathy and totally sexless. “Hello Arden. I’m glad I caught you.” Arden continued to massage her forehead, trying to place the voice. She got nothing.
Just as she began to ask who the caller was, the voice spoke again, soft and cajoling. “I need your help, Arden. Carlos is very displeased, and we’re feeling the brunt of that temper. I need you to tell me where she is, and what did she did with our package.”
Arden bolted up, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Hello? I think you must have the wrong number.” Then, in a flash of insight, she knew. Oh shit. Carlos was the person Sam had stolen from.
“No Captain,” the voice turned, becoming cold and mocking. “We both know I have the right number. You looked very pretty on television today. Carlos was quite enamored of you. You look a lot like Samantha, but not so whorish. Where is she?”
Arden’s mind whirled, pulling in aimless thoughts like the funnel of a tornado. What should she say? Should she lie or tell the truth or just not answer at all? In the end the voice settled it for her. “Never mind Arden,” it sighed, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then we can talk about Carlos’ money and Samantha and how you can help me get both of them back.”
* * * *
I made a mistake. My first since I began my quest for perfection. The car. That damned car. It brought her here, and she shares the sister-bond with the Goddess. She is more dangerous than any of the nonbelievers. Through her blood connection to the Goddess she is my only threat. She must be silenced or made to see The Way.
Chapter Twelve
The radio squawked angrily as Ashton and Drebin navigated the treacherous, rutted road. Sighing quietly, Bill picked up the handset. “This is Unit 14. This transmission may be monitored. Come back.”
The mechanical voice of the dispatcher greeted him. “Unit 14, please return to base immedia
tely. We have a small situation here.”
“Dispatch, Unit 14 is at least thirty minutes out. Can’t Doug handle it? Out.”
“Unit 14, negative. We’ll be waiting for you Sheriff.”
“Shit. What now?” He turned to Drebin. “Hold on.”
Drebin would later tell fellow agents that it was like riding a mechanical bull strapped to the top of a roller coaster. They bounced and careened across the landscape like a pinball, but the Sheriff seemed to be in control at all times. When they finally hit the relative smoothness of the blacktop Drebin felt like each and every bone in his body had been jarred loose. Even his teeth were sore. Then the Sheriff hit his lights and began the speed run.
The twisty roads had been bad enough at the sedate pace set on their trip up the mountain. The Sheriff took the slick corners at angles that made him wish for the craggy road again. When they finally reached Mariposa and saw the swarm of reporters awaiting them, he wished he were almost anywhere but this hick town.
Even pulling around to the enclosed lot in the back of the Department didn’t help, they were in there too. Drebin shuddered as the pointing fingers of the microphones and the vacuous eyes of the cameras poked and prodded and violated them as they exited the Explorer and beat a path for the back door and relative safety. He hadn’t seen a feeding frenzy like this in a long, long time. Something new must have happened, and the press knew about it before they did.
Bill made a beeline for his office, motioning Doug Brewster over with his head. Two steps from the door Brewster intercepted him, stopping him cold. “She’s in there. The reporters know about the money. Someone, and your first three guesses don’t count, called in an anonymous tip. I don’t know what the hell happened to her, but there’s definitely something wrong. She called, asking me to come get her twenty minutes after I dropped her off. She won’t talk to anyone but you.”
The Summerland Page 8