by Gordon Ryan
“Earlier this morning, in a California Supreme Court-ordered special election, all that came to an end. As of 1:15 a.m. today,” he said, glancing at a clock on the wall, “when the vote tally was confirmed by the California elections office, using the results of the new Home Telephone Voting System, it became official. The people have spoken. In an overwhelming popular response, Californians turned out, or perhaps we should now say ‘dialed in,’ in record numbers to cast the largest vote ever on a state-wide issue. By a whopping majority of 76 percent, Californians voted to sever ties with the United States of America and, based on the legislature’s actions, to establish the Republic of California, a sovereign nation.
“United States Senator Malcolm Turner, for whom this issue was a central theme in his campaign for reelection eighteen months ago, is at his San Francisco election headquarters, and we have acquired a direct link with him.”
The screen filled with images of celebration in the Marriott hotel ballroom, where hundreds of “Yes on Secession” campaign workers were waving banners and tooting on party horns.
“Senator, can you hear us?”
“I can indeed, Paul,” he said, pressing the small receiver into his ear against the din of the celebration. “What a momentous occasion!”
“Senator Turner, in light of the vilification you have received from several segments of the press and the intellectual community, this vote must be a satisfying vindication of your position with regard to California’s future.”
“Paul, you have been one of the few voices of reason among the press in this whole affair. There is no cause for rejoicing here. We have found it necessary to sever our ties with our brothers and sisters in the other forty-nine states—a four-hundred-year family history, I might add. It’s a sad day when families cannot resolve their differences without breaking up. But there it is. The people have spoken once again, with even more resounding support. The judiciary can no longer ignore the will of the people. Now it’s time to get on with the task at hand—setting in place the machinery to run our new republic.”
“Senator, some have said that your support of this movement is nothing more than positioning yourself to become the first president or prime minister of the Republic of California.”
“Political sparring, Paul. Nothing more. We will need to develop our plans, however. Thirty months, just over two years, is not a long time to develop a control mechanism for a new nation. Governor Dewhirst and the state legislature have a lot of hard work ahead of them, if they intend to honor the will of the people.”
“Senator Turner, will you throw your hat in the ring for the leadership of the new nation?”
“Paul, I have admired your objectivity and fair reporting for years, and as you know, I have been candid with you on all occasions. However, it’s premature to speculate how this new nation will shake out. We’ll take it a step at a time. The world’s changing, and we have the unique opportunity to restructure our constitution to remove the heavy-handed and often insidiously intrusive nature that government assumes in people’s lives.”
Returning the picture to the studio, Paul Spackman continued to deliver the evening news, including reports on the street from individual citizens on how they could see this new event affecting their lives.
Chapter 18
Rumsey Valley, California
February, 2012
Nicole Bentley approached California State Highway 16, where she was to meet Dan Rawlings. The open farmland rolled by as she drove the remaining few miles, just over an hour’s drive from her home in Walnut Creek. The previous three months had flown by, highlighted by the overwhelming approval California voters had given the secession and the media frenzy about continued efforts to derail the process. Almost as an emotional break, she had taken two weeks vacation and returned to Connecticut for Christmas, meeting on several occasions in New York and Washington with Colonel Connor and FBI Director Granata. Now, back in California, she was once again pursuing both her career and her personal life, both of which coincidentally revolved around Dan Rawlings.
Dan had added a new and enjoyable element to her life, yet she found herself still moving cautiously, unable to determine whether it was because of her official duties or her reluctance to get involved in another serious relationship so close on the heels of the last one.
After their dinner date at the Empress of China, they’d had several additional dates, including a visit to Alcatraz, where Nicole had handcuffed Dan “to give you the full benefit of the experience,” she had said, laughing. She knew she had become very attracted to him. There was no denying that, without lying to herself. On their last date, she’d even considered that it might be time to advance their relationship and she had considered inviting him in to her apartment when he dropped her off. But she could sense that even though the physical attraction was mutual, he was still conflicted about his feelings for his deceased wife.
Her current field assignment, to investigate the local militia groups and the Shasta Brigade in particular, also gave her pause. There were no indications that Dan had any connections to that group—to the contrary. Dan had told her that the intimidation tactics of the brigade had created fear and succeeded in quelling any real vocal opposition, at least among the people he knew.
And “Logger,” the code name for the bureau’s man inside the Shasta Brigade, had made no mention of Rawlings in any of his reports. Yet both Nicole’s training and her self-preservation instincts told her to play her cards close to the vest for a while. The only complication to that philosophy was her increasing interest in this new person in her life, and her desire, when she acknowledged it to herself, to hold him close instead.
The exit ramp to State 16 approached, and she slowed, looking for Dan’s Chevy Blazer, which she found parked at the side of the off ramp. She lowered the passenger-side power window and pulled up next to his driver’s side. Strains of the Light Cavalry Overture came from his vehicle. Dan was settled back in his seat, eyes closed, unaware of her approach.
She honked her horn and laughed when he jerked upright, then lowered his window.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “is there a place a girl could find an escort to the local festivities?”
“Boy, are you in luck,” he replied. “It just so happens I’m available.”
“How fortunate.” She smiled.
“Follow me, my lady.” He gestured and drove off ahead, turning west toward the small Madison crossroads, where Nicole parked and locked her car after transferring her overnight bag and sweater into the back of the Blazer.
Seating herself on the passenger side and fastening her seat belt, Nicole started laughing again. “‘Into the valley rode the six hundred,’ or in this case—the two.”
“Aha. Classically literate as well as attractive. That’s a tough combination to beat. Do you like opera as well?” Dan asked.
“Sure,” she replied. “Got any Mick Jagger at the Met?”
Dan smiled, then leaned over and kissed her softly. “No, but if you’ll hum a few bars, I’ll try to pick it up.”
“Why don’t we just talk as we drive,” she said, “and you can fill me in on the history of this beautiful valley.”
“One of my favorite subjects.” Dan pulled out onto the road, again turning west toward Esparto and the beginning of the narrowing of Rumsey Valley. “Between here and Highway 20, you’ll see miles and miles of the reason for the Almond Festival, and, thanks to the weather, all in fabulous bloom at the moment.”
“Yes, I saw the fields as I began to approach the area. It’s beautiful.”
“And so are you,” he said, reaching for her hand as he drove.
Following the highway around the western edge of Esparto, Dan took a detour from the two-lane country road and pulled into a small, well-kept cemetery. He parked the Blazer and exited the car, coming around to open Nicole’s door.
He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Four generations of Rumseys are resting here. My older brother
, Tom, who died at birth, is two rows over, and there’s Jack’s plot,” he said, pointing, “next to my grandmother, Ellen. She’s been gone about eight years now. When she died, it took Jack several years to decide to continue living. They were married for over fifty years.”
Nicole walked slowly through the cemetery, stopping occasionally to read the headstones. Dan provided a running narrative, revealing his admiration for his ancestors and the lives they had lived, reciting the stories he had heard so many times from his grandfather. He pulled a few weeds from some of the plots and took one more look around. Then, taking Nicole’s hand, he headed back to the car. As he opened Nicole’s door, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.
“In case you were wondering, Susan’s not here,” he said. “Her family came from Sacramento.”
“It crossed my mind,” she said, touching his cheek. “Thank you for telling me.”
Forty-five minutes later, they were walking the almond orchards in the small, rural community of Rumsey as Dan pointed out the fifty acres Jack had given him as a young boy, and which Dan had cultivated over the years.
“You’re looking at the source of my college tuition here, Special Agent Bentley. From the age of ten, I was responsible for these trees and reaped the reward of the harvest. Jack helped me in the early years, but as I grew, he let me handle it myself to find out if I was a farmer or not.”
As they walked, Nicole looked up at the hills running down both sides of the valley, narrowing as they cut northwest toward the canyon, where they came together for the final twelve miles through the gap, following the flow of Rumsey Creek.
“I knew early on that I wasn’t a farmer at heart. But still, I gained a love for the orchards and the rural life Jack has chosen,” Dan said.
Coming to the last row of trees and a small line of brush, Dan took Nicole’s hand and led her down a rough path to a spot on a small bluff overlooking Rumsey Creek.
“I’ve been coming here since I was old enough to remember. My sister taught me to swim over there,” he pointed, “and Jack and I have fished this creek dry, it seems. Not much by way of fish for many years now, except in the upper lakes, back to the west toward Clear Lake.”
“Is your father still working?”
“He retired about a year ago. For much of his career, he was a public administrator, working mostly as a city manager. About fifteen years ago he began to write, publishing a few novels. That’s what he does now—plays golf and writes military and political suspense novels. He was thrilled when I told him about the acceptance of my first novel.”
“Aha. Two public administrators, two novelists—it really is in the blood. ” She smiled.
“I never thought of it that way, but I can see what you mean,” Dan replied.
* * *
For the next few minutes, Nicole and Dan sat quietly tossing pebbles into the smooth water below them and watching the river run silently though its course. “Nicole, I had something I wanted to tell you, something that—”
Dan hesitated, hearing sounds coming from the direction of the orchard. With a rustling of branches, Jack Rumsey popped his head through the brush, flashing a big grin when he noticed Nicole.
“So, young’un, up to your old tricks again?”
The mood instantly broken, Dan stood, and Nicole also got to her feet. Dan broke a big smile and put his arm around his grandfather. “Nicole, this venerable old coot is the patriarch of our valley, the scourge of Yolo County, and of course, my grandfather, Jack Rumsey.”
Jack looked at Nicole for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Dan, then back. Smiling, he said, “Young lady, you look like you’d have more sense than to let this ruffian take you out in the bushes without an escort. He’s not done anything untoward, has he?”
“No. I’m sorry to say he’s been a perfect gentleman. I’m Nicole Bentley, and I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rumsey,” Nicole said, reaching to shake his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Lies, all lies, I can assure you.”
“But it was very good, Mr. Rumsey, really.”
“Like I said, young lady: lies. And call me Jack, if you please. Mr. Rumsey is for old men. So, Daniel, me lad, what brings you to the valley other than the fragrance of love in the air?”
“Don’t skip any opportunity, do you, Jack?”
“Not if I can help it—not at my age, anyway.”
“Well,” Nicole interrupted, “Dan’s been touting the merits of Rumsey Valley during the Almond Festival and the beauty of the blossoms. I thought I’d come up from the Bay Area and take him up on the offer to see it for myself. With a local guide, of course.”
“Better watch him closely, Nicole. Many a young lass has been swept away by the fragrance of the blossoms, said yes to a proposal–decent or otherwise–and found herself married before she realized what hit her, all because these orchards were in full bloom.”
“Grandma included, eh, Granddad?” Dan quipped.
“That, my young grandson, is, as they say, another story for another time.”
“Actually, I was just about to tell Nicole a story of my own, and I’m glad you arrived to participate.”
“Well, don’t just stand there with your tongue in your mouth, lad. Let’s hear it.”
The three of them sat down on the bluff, Nicole seated between the two men.
“To cut to the heart of the matter, which, as I can tell you, Nicole, is not Jack’s style, I’ve decided to resign as county administrator and run for Arnold Fister’s state assembly seat in the Eighth District. Nicole, in case you didn’t know, Supervisor Fister has represented Yolo County in the California legislature for the past fifteen years. He died in late December after a long battle with cancer. They’ve set a special election in April to replace him. Jack, I registered to run a couple of weeks ago.”
Jack smiled and glanced at his grandson, who was watching for his reaction. “It’s about time you tried to make something of yourself,” he said, teasing. “Fister’s death was not unexpected, and we’ll miss him. But if you can fill his shoes, Dan, you’ll be doing all right.”
Dan turned his gaze to Nicole. “How do you feel about politicians?” Dan asked.
Without speaking, she replied by leaning close and applying a quick kiss and a hug.
“‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,’ or Sacramento, as the case may be. I think that’s wonderful, Dan. How can I help?”
Jack leaned past Nicole to shake Dan’s hand. “From that silly grin on his face, lass, I’d say you already have. Indeed, you already have.
“Well, I’ll be off, kids,” Jack said, various joints in his body creaking as he stood. “Nice to have met you, Nicole. In spite of my misgivings about your choice of companions, you could be in worse company,” he said.
“You’re right there, Jack,” Dan rejoined. “She could have met you, fifty or sixty years ago.”
“Only Ellen had that privilege, my boy. Enjoy the festival this evening, and I’ll catch up with you later. By the way, Dan,” Jack said, pausing as he turned to leave, “do you have an organization yet?”
“Rick Jordan is helping, but I’ve only got five weeks to campaign. Only one other person, Sally Hemmit, has filed, as a Democrat.”
“Well, count on your old granddad to tell some stories, if necessary.”
“Only if you clean ’em up, Jack. Got to protect my image, you know.”
“Humph,” Jack snorted as he made his way through the bushes again, stopping briefly and turning back. “Have you spoken to Matilda Westegaard?”
“Ms. Westegaard? The high school English teacher? What does she have to do with Yolo County politics?” Dan queried, a quizzical look on his face.
Jack laughed heartily. “In spite of all that high falutin’ education, you’ve still got a lot to learn, young Rawlings. For the past thirty years or so, no one has been elected to city, county, or state office from the Eighth District without tacit approval from our self-appointed county matriarch. Certainl
y not without at least seeking it. Best you pay the old gal a visit,” Jack said, leaving Dan surprised at the revelation of how large a part someone he had admired—a retired Woodland High School teacher—played in local politics.
After Jack was gone, Dan and Nicole climbed down the bluff and walked along the riverbank, stopping occasionally as Dan revealed memories and scenes from his childhood. Later, while they were returning to the orchard and making their way to the car, Nicole opened the election issue again.
“You know this decision to run will place you at the forefront of the secession issue. You’ll have to publicly declare your position.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s why I’ve decided to do it. My county position has been fulfilling, but the vacillation by the board has caused the entire staff some difficulty. I think this idea has been in the back of my head for some time, but truth be known, the royalty advance from Voices in My Blood has probably given me some options that wouldn’t have been available for a long time, if ever. I’ve been given choices, and it seems I’ve chosen to follow some of my forebears.”
“I admire your decision, Dan, but it’s a tough time to jump in. The usual issues—budget, welfare, unemployment—are going to take a backseat this time. Based upon the recent election, the state is quite in favor of secession. If you oppose it, you might lose.”
“I know, and the damned Shasta Brigade has got people so riled up, it’s hard for them to say where they stand for fear of being harassed. Still, I have other options if this doesn’t work out.”
Dan pulled the Blazer out onto Highway 16 and headed back for the evening’s festivities in Esparto. About ten miles down the road, a black pickup with overhead spotlights passed in the opposite direction, and, to Dan’s surprise, made a quick U-turn that Dan spotted in his rear view mirror. Slowing, Dan continued to watch as the pickup raced to catch up with the Blazer, eventually pulling in front of them and slowing until both vehicles pulled over to the side of the road. Despite the incident several months ago when Dan had been forced to engage in a shoot-out with the attempted kidnapping, he did not reach for his weapon in the glove box, preferring not to display concern with Nicole present.