Harry said, “The Nicasio Reservoir is up ahead. You’ll see this area is a real mix, with a few exclusive, expensive homes sitting next to farm country and to old hippie hangouts.”
Eve said, “Hard to believe we’re so close to the gazillion people living in San Francisco.”
They were all thinking, We’re talking about the ridiculous weather and the scenery because Mickey O’Rourke is dead.
Harry pulled in to what looked like a makeshift parking lot, climbed out of the Chevy, and opened a gate. “Here it is. Ranch Road.” And he got back into the SUV and drove through the gate. He followed the narrow, dirty road through trees and fancy horse pastures and hills dotted with cows. They came across a white Crown Vic with a green sheriff’s ID on the side, parked at the edge of the road.
Bud Hibbert, the Marin County sheriff, was tall and runner-lean, with a full head of iron-gray hair that glistened with a light film of rain. He had a craggy, weathered face that announced he sat squarely in his fifties, and dark, smart eyes that looked like they’d seen about everything.
“How’d the FBI get hold of a U.S. Marshals’ SUV?” he asked, nodding toward the big black Suburban.
“I’m Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri,” Eve said, and shook his hand. “I’m their procurer.” She introduced everyone, and Sheriff Hibbert introduced his three deputies, all from Civic Center Main Station.
Hibbert said to Cheney, “I got the particulars you sent out on Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke Friday afternoon. When we realized the body was O’Rourke, I pulled our guys back immediately to preserve the crime scene for you. You’ve got a forensic team coming?”
Cheney nodded.
Sheriff Hibbert said, “The two kids who saw the killer—we knew they weren’t blowing smoke because Rufino Ramirez’s dad is a deputy sheriff in our Point Reyes Substation.
“We haven’t seen this kind of thing around here, Agents, since the trailside murders. It’s already all over town.”
Hibbert raised his face. “It’s been raining on and off all morning. I’m afraid I can feel more coming. No choice, let’s do this,” he said, and turned toward his cruiser and said over his shoulder, “Deputy Sheriff Ramirez took his boy, Rufino, and his friend, Eleanor, back to his house; then he called the other parents over, so they’re all together, waiting for you. How far behind you is the forensic team?”
Cheney said, “They’re only a few minutes out. I called Joe Elder, the forensic team leader, told him you’d have a deputy waiting here for them at the same place where you met us.”
Sheriff Hibbert nodded, climbed into his Crown Vic, and led them slowly past a few more dirt tracks before turning left at the fourth, which threw them into a mess of thick oak and bay trees. Soon they saw half a dozen more cars pulled onto the grass along the dirt tracks, their passenger sides pressed up against the trees. The tracks narrowed to a dirt path.
The sheriff pulled over, got out of his Crown Vic, and waved them forward. He said, “We figure the killer parked some twenty feet down this trail; that’s where we found tire tracks, nice and clear before the rain picked up. Our guys are taking the tire casts now. He carried O’Rourke’s body about a hundred feet farther into the woods. This is private land, but you can’t see the house from here.”
They followed him along a narrow trail, the trees so thick overhead it looked like twilight in the woods. There was no wind to speak of, but the air was pregnant with rain, and a light drizzle continued to fall. When they reached a small clearing, Sherlock looked up, hoping to see a bit of sun, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hoped heavy rain would hold off for a while longer to give the forensic team time enough to set up some cover.
Marin County officers circled Mickey O’Rourke’s grave, talking, drinking coffee. Savich saw the hole was maybe three feet deep, deep enough to keep Mickey O’Rourke hidden in this desolate spot for decades, if it hadn’t been for those two kids. He wanted to meet them. He nodded to the deputy, then leaned down and pulled back a white tarp. They stared down into Mickey O’Rourke’s bone-white face and the obscene red slash across his neck. The deputies around the grave looked on with them.
Eve couldn’t bear it, just couldn’t. She swallowed, turned away. She said, “Ramsey is going to hate this. Why did he have to die?”
There was no answer to that.
They all turned around at the sound of footsteps coming up the trail.
“That’ll be our forensic team,” Cheney said, and waved when he saw Joe Elder.
“What are you standing in our way for!” Joe yelled, still from a distance. “Move your carcasses, let us through.”
Joe was nearing retirement now. He was impatient with fools, impatient with everyone, as a matter of fact, and would generally snort at anyone in his vicinity.
They listened to him bark out orders to his team of two men and two women, snarl at the deputies who happened to get into his space, and shout for some coffee for him and his people.
There was silence when they at last lifted Mickey O’Rourke out of his grave. Eve crossed herself, a habit ingrained from her childhood, and said a prayer. She looked over at Harry, whose face seemed to be carved from stone. His hands, though, were clenched at his sides.
Since there wasn’t anything more for them to do, Sheriff Hibbert led them to the Ramirez house. It was a mile away off another dirt road, a small clapboard house set pressed against a knot of bay trees.
They heard the two kids’ high, excited voices before they got through the front door. After introductions and their assurances no one would browbeat the kids, Julio Ramirez led them in from the kitchen.
They were eleven years old. Emma’s age, Sherlock thought, and skinny as skateboards. They looked both scared and excited, just like their parents. Eleanor looked a great deal like her mother, small and fine-boned, quite unlike her father, lucky for her.
Rufino was a good-looking kid, the image of his deputy father. A future heartbreaker, Eve thought.
It took about ten minutes before Deputy Ramirez convinced the other parents to adjourn back to the kitchen and wait. Finally they got the kids settled at the ancient mahogany dining room table, each with a soft drink and within easy reach of a plate of chocolate-chip cookies provided by Eleanor’s mother.
In another few minutes, they gently got Eleanor and Rufino to the point in their story where their explorations took them near the clearing.
Keep it light, Sherlock thought. “You two were smart not to call out to him.”
Rufino said, “We almost did, then Ellie grabbed my arm and pointed. We both saw the shovel and the big mound of earth. Ellie nearly peed her pants, she was so scared.”
Ellie punched him in the arm. “Yeah? Well you did, too, Ruf.”
Sherlock grinned at both of them. “I can sure understand that. Can you tell us what the man was wearing?”
Eleanor said, “A raincoat, it was brown, and he was wearing a Giants ball cap. It was drizzling.”
Rufino said, “We were trying to find a double rainbow, but we didn’t. We never saw his face because he had his back to us. He was pounding down a big pile of earth, then he pulled branches over the—”
“The grave,” Eleanor said, and squeezed Rufino’s fingers. “It was really gross.”
Rufino said, “And we knew right away it was a grave and we knew this man wasn’t good, so we were real quiet.”
Eve thought, You’re both alive because he never realized you were there. There was no doubt in Eve’s mind the man would have killed both children and buried them with Mickey O’Rourke. Her ponytail swung forward as she leaned toward the kids. “Did you see any part of his face? Like his profile?”
“No,” Rufino said. “We were always behind him. His boots were real dirty. His feet were small, like my dad’s.”
Harry asked, “Was your impression that he was tall? Short? Fat?”
“He was kinda tall,” Ellie said without hesitation, “and he wasn’t fat, but not as skinny as Ruf’s dad.”
“Was he about your dad’s height, Rufino?” Eve asked.
Rufino wasn’t sure; the guy was pretty far away. He knew the deputy marshal was disappointed, but he didn’t want to make anything up, and she smiled at him when she realized it. He smiled back. Yes, indeed, a girl slayer, Eve thought again.
She said, “Did he seem old to you? Young?”
“Old,” both kids said at once.
“Older than your parents?”
Neither child was sure about that. To these kids anyone over twenty was old.
Cheney said, “Then what happened?”
Rufino drank the last of his soda and wiped his hand across his mouth. “After he put some branches over the grave, he leaned down and picked up the shovel.”
Ellie said, “He said something, then he walked away.”
Harry felt his heart pick up. “Did you hear what he said?”
Ellie said, “Yes, sir, but it didn’t make any sense to Ruf or me. It was something like RIP and then a name—Mickey I think. We were afraid to move, so we sat there for another five minutes.”
Rufino said, “We heard a car motor start, it was a long ways away, but we heard it. We figured he was leaving so it was okay to move.”
Ellie said, her small voice trembling, “It was horrible. We sat there and stared at those branches and all that black earth and knew there was a dead body under the ground.”
Rufino leaned over and patted her back. “It’s okay, Ellie, it’s okay.”
Cheney said, “Let me tell you, kids, you’re both heroes. Without you, the man you saw buried would probably never be found. And you’ve really helped us.”
Rufino patted Ellie’s back again. “Since you’re a girl hero I guess it’s okay for you to be scared.” The little girl stopped shaking.
Another chocolate-chip cookie each, and everyone at the table knew the kids were tapped out. They were still excited but wrung out. They all went out into the kitchen to thank the parents and tell them how incredible and smart their kids were. Sherlock studied Rufino’s dad—maybe five feet ten inches, give or take, one hundred fifty pounds, give or take. Was Sue the taller of the two?
When they returned to the grave site with Sheriff Hibbert, they stared down into the empty hole. The rain had picked up, and the dirt was fast becoming mud and sliding into the hole. “RIP, Mickey, that’s what he said over Mickey’s grave.” The sheriff looked at each of them. “I really want you to nail this bastard.”
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock said, “The killer matches the general description of Ramsey’s shooter. More or less.”
Harry said, “If it is the same guy it’s got to tie in to the Cahills. But it could be a woman, this Sue, I suppose.” He pushed one of his fists into his palm.
Savich nodded. “Okay, we don’t know exactly when O’Rourke died yet, but my guess from seeing the body is he was murdered fairly recently. Did the killer head back from the hospital after his attempt to kill Ramsey on the elevator to where he’d stashed Mickey O’Rourke in order to kill him?”
Yes, he had, Harry thought, and nodded.
Eve turned to Sheriff Hibbert. “So he might have stashed Mickey O’Rourke somewhere near here. You have any ideas about that, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Hibbert nodded. “Deputy Ramirez told me there’s an old farm shack in the woods near here, on property that belongs to a new house a developer built some six years ago. As for the shack, it’s been deserted for years. Let’s go see.”
They fell in behind the sheriff’s car and soon turned off another dirt road onto a rutted path. They slowly made their way about fifty feet until they couldn’t go any farther.
Sheriff Hibbert leaned out the window. “We can’t see the new house from here because the dirt road—Mason’s Cross—is set at a ninety-degree angle in the middle of a bunch of oak and bay trees. We’ve got to walk the rest of the way to the shack.”
They climbed out of the Suburban into the drizzling cold rain and mud and trudged after the sheriff for about twenty yards.
Hibbert stopped. “There it is.”
They stared at a dilapidated wooden shack, probably older than Sheriff Hibbert’s parents.
Sheriff Hibbert motioned them back. He opened the creaking wooden door, his gun drawn. They heard him suck in his breath.
He stepped back, his face set and pale as death in the dim light. “You’re not going to like this.”
The shack was a single room, maybe twelve by twelve, the floorboards rotted through. Part of the roof had caved in, probably years before, and rain flooded in. A single metal cot was shoved against the back wall, beneath some remaining roof. There was a dirty blanket hanging off the bed, nothing else.
The blanket and the mattress were soaked with blood, dried black. There was blood splattered on the wooden floor planks, even on the walls.
Cheney pulled out his cell phone. “Joe? We found the kill site. I need you to bring a couple of your people over to us.” He handed Sheriff Hibbert his cell.
“Ask Deputy Millis to show you the way. The shack is off Mason’s Cross Road. You’ll have to walk a ways.” He handed the cell phone back to Cheney.
None of them said any more. They all knew Mickey O’Rourke had spent the last three days of his life tied down to that cot, alone, knowing in his gut he was going to die. And he had. He may have wanted to die at the end. By the look of the shack and the spattered bloodstains, he’d been beaten. For information?
It was difficult to step back, cut off the rage and sadness, to force their minds to focus on what was in front of them. Sherlock said, “There’s a chance he left fingerprints.”
Eve said, “He hasn’t missed a single trick so far, but he never expected anyone to find this shack. So maybe you’re right.”
Harry asked Sheriff Hibbert, “Do you have any idea how long this shack has stood vacant?”
“At least twenty years, maybe longer. I haven’t heard of anybody staying out here since I’ve been sheriff. We get some homeless people squatting in our abandoned buildings now and then, but not here, because it’s too remote.” He looked up at the boards sunk in on the crumbling ceiling. “It’d be safer to camp under a tree.” He looked toward the bed. “How I hate this smell, the smell of death.”
Cheney took one last look around the room, and said, more to himself than to the rest of them, “It’s up to me to tell Mrs. O’Rourke her husband’s dead. I’ll take a chaplain with me.” He sighed. “As if that will help.” He looked up. “This guy doesn’t deserve to walk the earth.” He paused for a moment. “I know a woman didn’t do this. If this was Sue, then Sue is a man.”
—
It was odd, Eve thought, looking out the Suburban window as Harry drove them back to the city, how the ride home always felt quicker.
She listened to the windshield wipers clapping steady as a metronome, the rain, now that they weren’t getting soaked standing in it, oddly soothing, somehow comforting.
She saw Cheney’s eyes were on his hands, clasped in his lap. He had to be thinking about Mrs. O’Rourke and the girls and what he would say to them—it couldn’t be the truth, at least not all of it.
Harry looked stiff, mechanical, as if he was afraid to express anything for fear he’d yell with it. Savich and Sherlock, too, were without expression, but Dillon was pressing his wife’s open palm against his thigh. She wondered how much horror they’d seen. Too much, she thought. What were they thinking?
Eve felt a wave of despair, not just because of the bloodbath they’d found in the shack but because it was the naked proof that some people were simply evil, some people were simply missing all compassion or any human feelings at all. How else could this monster have killed Mickey so brutally?
RIP Mickey. She wanted to kill him herself.
She met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock said, “How’s your back, Eve?”
She snapped back from the edge. “Thanks to Harry the Hands, I’m feeling fine.” She added, “Harry was at my condo this mor
ning, and let me tell you he’s got the greatest hands. I think he even got a moan out of me, it felt so good.”
No one said a word.
Where had that come from?
Eve cleared her throat. “What I meant to say was that he massaged my back with muscle cream and—”
“Let it go, Eve,” Harry said. “No one thinks there were any prurient thoughts in your head or mine. Your back is purple and green, and you were hobbling around like a crippled old deputy marshal retired lady.”
Insanely, Eve wanted to laugh.
When they arrived at the Federal Building, Cheney said, “I’m going to pick up the chaplain in my own car and drive over to see Mrs. O’Rourke. As for the rest of you, it’s Sunday. Take some time off, try to let go of all this. We need all your brains ready tomorrow morning. We can bank on hearing from forensics and the medical examiner first thing.” He paused for a moment. “Wish me luck.”
They did, all of them grateful they weren’t walking in his shoes today.
Eve said her good-byes and went walking in the rain. She realized her mistake a couple blocks later when every step made her back hurt. She saw a taxi, and, miracle of miracles, it stopped for her. She directed the Ukrainian driver to Saint Francis Church on Larkin, a fixture in her Russian Hill neighborhood for nearly a hundred years. The rain was coming down heavier when she opened the side door and slipped inside. It was warm and dim and ancient. She breathed in the soft air scented with incense. She always felt safe here. She sat awhile, absorbing the quiet and gazing at the many symbols of hope that surrounded her, hope she knew was embedded in the very walls. She eased forward on the pew and sent a prayer of gratitude that Eleanor and Rufino were alive. She prayed to find this man who’d wantonly killed Mickey O’Rourke, who’d tried to kill Ramsey. She didn’t pray that she would kill him; she didn’t think she should push God on things like that. And she prayed for Mickey O’Rourke’s soul.
When she walked back to the vestibule, she saw Father Gautier standing by the big closed double doors, arms crossed over his chest, an umbrella open at his feet to dry. He was St. Francis’s longtime pastor, always soft-spoken and patient. Father Gautier gave her a long look. “I hope you found what you needed, Eve. I noticed you weren’t in church today. Is something troubling you?”
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