by Gordon Ryan
“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?”
“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.”
Dan quietly chuckled and braced himself, knowing he was due for another of Granddad’s stories about Rumsey Valley. Jack started to speak, but caught himself. Cocking his head and grinning at his grandson, he said, “I guess you’ve heard that one already.”
Standing up, Dan looked west, watching the fading rays of light create a kaleidoscope of color between the evening clouds and the tops of the mountains, their purple hue changing even as Jack began the family homily. Yes, he did know that one, and the one about the one-room schoolhouse off to the right a half-mile, where his great-grandmother and grandmother had completed their schooling. His mother had broken out of the mold and left for San Francisco and a college degree—the first in the family. He also knew the one about the steep mountain trail above them. At the close of the last century, his great, great-grandfather had followed it east on horseback, over into the Sacramento Valley every weekend to court the Morris girl until she agreed to marry him and move across the foothills to Rumsey Valley.
Dan’s head was full of Jack’s stories. He’d heard them all, and listening to them, he had learned to be patient with his grandfather. As Dan had matured, and he and his grandfather became peers more than mentor and pupil, Dan had been able to make something of a joke of his grandfather’s natural loquaciousness. Even Jack laughed when Dan introduced him by saying, “Granddad never met a man he couldn’t bore.”
Dan turned now toward Jack and held his eyes, as his grandfather had taught him to do, in order to take the measure of a man.
“I know most of it, Granddad, but what eluded me for so long was how I knew it, or rather how I felt it inside, like it was part of me.”
“It is, son. Not everyone in this family has that understanding, but I saw it in you early on.”
“That book Dad bought me, you know—the one I showed you about heritage, DNA, and our recollections of our ancestors? The genealogy book by G.G. Vandagriff. That’s where I figured it out. I’ve got their voices in my blood, Granddad, just like the author said.”
Looking back down the valley, Dan paused, as if expecting his ancestors to appear—to tell him how to handle his problems. “They all speak to me somehow, and from them, I’ve … well, I’ve inherited their feelings, not only for this valley but for the nation. And from you, Granddad,” he said, smiling at Jack. “All you’ve taught me; shooting my first buck, how to cast a fly, irrigating the almonds.” The memories flooded through him, and he knew Jack could sense his feelings.
Jack got to his feet and started down the hillside, turning to look back at his grandson.
“It’s a rare thing, to be connected that solidly to the land of your birth and to your forebears, Dan. These radicals, both conservative and liberal, just don’t get it. What they describe as patriotism has nothing to do with what’s best for this country. They don’t value the hard work, personal sacrifice, and blood that have made this country what it is. They only want to exploit the advantages for their own gain.” Jack resumed his downward path, and Dan followed. “You know that your father and I haven’t always …” Jack hesitated.
Dan had often felt like a pawn in the friction between his grandfather and his father. As a young boy, he had struggled to keep his balance in that storm—to continue loving them both.
Jack laughed out loud and continued his thoughts. “We haven’t always agreed since he and your mother split up. But your father was right about one thing—you needed to leave this valley and make your mark. It’s inside you now. You’ll always come back. You are the valley, and your children will be, too.”
Dan laughed. “Jack, I’m only forty miles down the road, in Woodland.”
Jack ignored Dan’s protest and continued his descent, looking over his shoulder at his grandson. “Time was, it was a full day’s trip, each way. It’s ‘outside’ … townies.”
“Well, I’ll try to keep some dirt on my shoes, if it’ll make you feel better.”
They made their way confidently through the darkened but familiar landscape.
“I know you’ll do right by us, Dan. I wish … if only your grandmother could’ve seen what’s become of you. She would have been as proud of you as I am.”
As they reached the bottom of the hill, Dan looked at his grandfather for a moment before speaking. “Jack, I know how much you miss Grandma. I got a bit more understanding of that after Susan died. I want you to know that everything you and Grandma taught me over the years is still with me, including a love for the land. But as important as the land is, it’s nothing without the people who love it. And we all serve this valley in different ways. I’m afraid the ‘townies,’ as you call ’em, have discovered that the Valley is more than just a road to Clear Lake. They’re coming, and we have to be prepared for that.”
“You, maybe, but not me. I’ve had my day. It’s your turn now, and I hope I’m not here to see it. That, and the success of this ridiculous separatist movement Turner’s promoting. Stand up to them, Dan. Our family and friends fought hard to make this land part of America. Don’t let Turner and his bunch throw that all away.”
“I feel the same way, but people are angry and frustrated at Washington. You know that. It’s damn near impossible to get the Feds to change or to get them to stop regulating everything we do—from building roads to doing business to even deciding what crops farmers can grow. Now that they have their new health legislation, they want to regulate our health check-ups and medical treatment. It’s becoming ‘Is Grandpa too old for a hip replacement?’ mentality. They’ve gone too far, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. “They’ve climbed on our back, that’s for sure, but life is change, Dan. I’ve watched it for eighty years.” He hesitated, a gr
in spreading across his face. “Most people favor progress—it’s the change they don’t like,” he said, laughing at his own joke.
“So I’ve heard you say,” Dan laughed also. “But it’s getting out of hand, and people are going to get hurt … have already been hurt, in the process.”
“If you’re talking about that young soldier they buried today, it’s an outrage.”
“I know. I went to his funeral this afternoon. Jack, have you ever heard of the Shasta Brigade—a militia group up north?”
“Sure. Are you thinking they’re involved in this?”
Dan looked west, to the last sliver of light clinging to life just over the crest of the mountain. “They could be. It’s a bold move if they are, but they’re acting pretty cocky lately, with all this hue and cry for secession.”
Jack put his hand on his grandson’s shoulder, darkness fully surrounding them now. “Cocky doesn’t cover it. They’ve already claimed responsibility for murdering the judges, haven’t they? If this is their work, they’ve got to be held accountable.”
“And what about California? Am I wrong in thinking that secession isn’t something we can abide?”
“Can the head function without the body? Or the land without the water? Or the man without the woman?” Jack paused. “We’re united, Dan. Sure, California could function as a separate nation and probably do quite well—maybe better than most—but our ancestors fought long and hard to become a nation of states, each connected to the others.”
“Maybe,” Dan replied, “but many of the original colonists thought we should remain aligned with England before they declared independence. Some of our complaints are nearly identical to the ones had by the early settlers. The federal government seems to have gotten too big for its britches, as I’ve heard you say often.”
“Oh, a change is necessary, all right. We’ve had well over a century of politicians promising entitlements to everybody. Cradle-to-grave largesse. Eventually it catches up, and somebody has to pay the bill. You remember the story I used to tell you about the farmers co-op hauling the sheep to market in the community wagon? One of them got sick and they put him in the wagon with the sheep and he rode the rest of the way. Pretty soon, the lead farmer got really tired and turned around to ask the others to pull harder. Everyone was in the wagon. He was the only one pulling. Our nation has gone down that road, Dan. We all can’t ride in the wagon.” Beginning to walk again, Jack said, “For my part, I’m going home to get some sleep. I’ll let you young’uns solve the world’s ills.”